My mum passed away when I was only eight, and the world suddenly became fuzzy and strange around me. Dad stumbled through life in a haze, too often drowned in ale, and there were days when our cupboards sounded empty as a church bell in winter. I started rummaging for leftovers at school, my uniform always looked rumpled, and my grades slipped like sand through my fingersuntil people began to notice.
Those grey-suited welfare officers drifted in and out of our terraced house in Nottingham, like clouds overhead, and soon there were rules for Dad: strict as the Queens Guard, threatening to take me away if he couldnt shape up. Thank heavens, Dad woke from his fog and poured out the bottles, and next time the inspectors came, it all felt calm and tidy.
After a spell, Dad told me he wanted me to meet someone special. We went to Aunt Marys, a gentle woman in Cambridge whose presence soothed me, although my heart still ached for Mum and I wasnt sure whether Dad was right to seek someone new. The room felt weird, like the walls were breathing, but as we spoke, a warmth curled around me like a woolly jumper. Her son, Henry, was a year older; we became mates and started football practices together. Dad beamed, as if the sun shone specially for him.
It didnt take long before we settled in with Aunt Mary, letting out our flat for extra pounds. Life felt unfamiliar but not unfriendly, like a house full of clocks ticking backwards.
Dad never managed to marry Aunt Mary. One night, a drunk drivers car ate him whole, and he vanished from my life. Officially, I was nothing to Aunt Mary, so the authorities whisked me away to an orphanage in the outskirts of Manchester. As I left, Aunt Mary promised shed bring me home, and I clung to her words like a lifeboat in fog.
She was true: after two moons, I returned. Those orphanage weeks were sharp, cold, echoing with strange voices, and I was all the more grateful to Aunt Mary for pulling me back. She became my true second mother. Whenever I called her mum, Id see tears shimmer in her eyes, a strange shining. Aunt Mary is a marvel, and Henry feels like a brother born straight from my own heart.
Now weve grown, each with families dotted around the countryside. Mother Mary, as we all call her, remains the most cherished person to me and Henry. Twice a mother-in-law, shes never even raised her voice with our wives, and neither of them use that old-fashioned term, mother-in-lawto them, shes Mother Mary, beloved for her warmth and wisdom. And every time shes called out as Mother Mary, her eyes glow with joy, as if the whole world were a gentle, surreal dream.
