Youre irresponsible, Mum. Go have your babies somewhere else.
Claire was only seventeen when she married Paul. Straight from secondary school, and not a month later she had a wedding ring on her finger and a bump growing so quickly the neighbours gossipedShes knocked up, oh, shes definitely knocked up.
She gave birth to a daughternamed her Sophieand moved into her mother-in-laws flat. Even though her mother-in-law, Margaret, actually lived only a couple of bus stops away, she treated it as her sworn duty to watch over every move of the young couple. The flat was spaciousthree bedrooms, high ceilings, old furniture Margaret had bought back in her heydayand Claire always felt like a guest whod overstayed her welcome for years.
Claire adored looking after Sophie. Nappies, babygrows, sleepless nights, the first tooth, first steps, the first Mummywhich always made Claires heart ache with love. But Sophie wasnt just raised by her mumMargaret arrived almost daily, and so did Pauls sister, Linda, who lived in the flat too, in a tiny room next to the kitchen. Linda, five years older than Paul, was dry, always with her hair scraped back in a bun and a facial expression like shed just smelt something foul. Both Margaret and Linda were proper womenprincipled, convinced of the correct way to live, raise children, do the washing, cook Sunday roast and treat husbands.
Claire, why do you let Paul go to the pub with his mates? Margaret would lecture, pursing her lips. My Bob, God rest his soul, always came straight home after work. I laid down the lawfamily comes first.
Claire never argued; standing up to Margaret was pointless. She could kill off any argument with a single look. Linda would chip in too:
Just keep an eye on Sophie, Claire, make sure her developments proper. Ive brought some books suited to her age. Kids these days are unruly, and its all down to their mothers.
So Claire ensured Sophie read the recommended books, visited museums with her gran, and took English lessons with a tutor Margaret had found. Sophie grew into a well-mannered, studious, earnest girlspitting image of Margaret as a young woman, according to the neighbours.
Paul, Claires husband, was quiet, unremarkablean engineer at a local factory. He liked a pint with his mates and the football on the telly. Claire loved him in the solid way that forms after a decade togetherwhen all the rows are behind you, all the grudges spent, and theres no need for pretence. Paul loved Claire too, but clumsily, in small acts: bringing her tea in bed, getting up early on a Saturday to make her a fry-up.
Margaret was coolly protective of her son, as if hed never grown up. Often, in Claires presence, shed say:
Paul, stand up for yourself a bit, love. You drift about like a shadow. Your wife looks at you and cant tell if youre a man or a boy.
Paul never replied, just slouched his shoulders further. Afterwards, at night, Claire would comfort him, stroke his head in the dark and whisper, Dont listen to them; youre good, lovemy absolute best. Hed just sigh and drift off. Claire stared at the ceiling, wondering how you could love a person so much, yet be powerless to protect him from his own mumtoo afraid, because the flat wasnt hers, because she was a guest there, not truly at home.
When Sophie turned thirteen, Margaret got seriously ill. Pancreatic cancer. She didnt cry when she found out, just pursed her lips tighter than ever and arranged her will with a solicitor. She divided her possessions fairlyher two-bedroom flat in the centre for Linda, the three-bedroom where Claire, Paul, and Sophie lived for Paul. Fair, in her mindone home for each, no arguments.
But life throws curveballs. Three weeks after signing the will, as Paul left the factory and walked to the bus stop, he was hit by a car. The young woman driving was distracted, or so it said in the report. Claire found out from Linda, who rang in tears, voice shaking:
Claire, Pauls gone. Car crash, ambulance arrived, but it was too late. Youll have to go to the morgue, identify him.
Claire didnt remember how she got there, how she looked at his face, how she signed the forms or got home; just the blur of streets outside the window. Sophie was with her gran that nightClaire returned to an empty flat. She sank onto the sofa and didnt move till morning.
Margaret outlived her son by two months. The doctors said the illness advanced too quicklythat the treatment didnt work, that her body was too frail. But Claire thought Margaret simply didnt want to live without Paul. For all her criticisms, he was her boy. When he died, something within that iron woman broke; she faded fast, from a formidable matron to a withered shadow lying in a hospital bed, staring into space. Before she passed, she summoned her solicitor and changed her will. The three-bedroom flatmeant for Paulnow would go to Sophie, her granddaughter.
Sophie gets the flat, she told Linda at her bedside. Youll get yours as we agreed. Watch over Sophiemake sure she doesnt go off the rails like her mother. Claires good, but soft. Sophie needs a firmer hand.
Linda nodded; her face didnt flickerher mothers daughter through and through.
Claire was left alone with Sophie in a flat that, on paper, belonged to her daughter. Sophie was only fourteen, so Claire was guardian, and the flat was still theirs practically speaking. The first years, Claire barely thought about thislife was a constant rush of work, raising Sophie, doing all the things she and Paul had once done together.
Five years went by, all rush and routinemaking sure Sophie had nice clothes, a proper phone, tutoring. Claire never complainedshe just kept going, and the day Sophie earned a place in a top university on a full grant, Claire wept for joy. All those efforts werent wastedher daughter was clever, educated, her future secure. Sophie even started earning herself midway through her coursetranslating, thanks to all those English lessons with the tutor Margaret and Linda insisted on.
And then, when life was finally on the up and Claire dared to consider herself, she met John. A chance meeting on the bus; he offered to help with a heavy bag and they struck up a conversation. He worked nearby, was thirteen years older than Claire; he had two grown children, and his wifeafter a strokehad been in a wheelchair for five years. John cared for her.
Im no hero, John told Claire at their third meeting, sitting on a bench in the park, his hand over hers. I simply cant leave her. After all those years together, after she gave me two kids But Id forgotten what it was to look forward to anything, to smile. With you, I remember.
Claire understood. She was thirty-eight, old enough not to expect fairy talesshe took what happiness she could.
She didnt tell Sophie straight away. At first she made excuses, said she was working late or seeing a friend, but Sophie was clever, observant. She noticed the changessofter gaze, more frequent smileand one day, when Claire pulled a new dress from the wardrobe, Sophie asked directly:
Mum, is there someone? A new dress, new perfume, spending money on yourself. Tell me.
Claire flushed like a schoolgirl and admitted everythingabout John, his wife, and that she truly loved him.
Sophie became frosty and serious, much like Margaret had in life. When Claire finished, Sophie answered with that stern, adult tone Claire had heard only from Margaret:
Mum, do you hear yourself? My mother, whos always taught me right from wrong, is telling me about a married man. Are you listening to yourself?
Sophie, its not like that Claire began, but Sophie cut her off.
I understand. Youre alone, youre lonely, you want comfort. Im not stupid. But there are limits, Mum. Married men are off-limits. Youre too old for all this drama.
Claire was hurt, even cried, but wrote it off as youthful black-and-white thinking. Sophie sees life in sharp linesright and wrong, no shades in between.
Claire and John met in secretat a friends place when he was out on business, or in a rented flat John got through an acquaintance. Claire knew it wasnt a youthful romance but cherished every minute with him.
I sometimes think, John would say, lying beside her in an unfamiliar bed, I have no right to this. I sit by her bed, yet Im here with you. Its cowardly, isnt it?
It is, Claire would agreeno point lying, but I still wait. I cant judge you.
Youre good, hed whisper, kissing her shoulder, the best Ive known. I wont leave you. Whatever happens, Ill be there.
And Claire believed, because after five years alone, working endlessly, she needed to believe that someone would say, Youre good. Im here for you.
When Claire found out she was pregnant, it was as if the ground disappeared from beneath her feet. She didnt believe it at firstbought three tests, then went to the GP, had a blood test. The doctor confirmed: Youre pregnant, early dayssix weeksheartbeats fine. Claire left the surgery and sat on the bench outside, crying with a muddle of fear, hope, dread, and joy.
She didnt know how to tell John; she fretted for days, imagined every outcomewould he be happy? Scared? Would he say he wasnt readyhis wife is ill, his children are grown, its too late? Claire knew John wouldnt runhe was responsiblebut hed likely oppose it out of fear: fear of upheaval, obligation, the impact on his frail wife and their tangled lives.
But most of all, Claire dreaded telling Sophie. She put it off for ages, waiting for the right moment. It never came. Eventually, one evening as Sophie returned home from Lindas, Claire sat opposite her at the table and said:
Sophie, theres something you need to know. Im pregnant.
Sophie froze, mug halfway to her lips.
By a married man? she whispered.
By John, yes. Hes the father.
Knew it. Sophie gave a small, joyless laugh. Are you mad, Mum? Youre thirty-eight, working two jobs; Ive just got into uniand suddenly you decide to have another baby? With a man who cant leave his invalid wife, who offers you nothing?
Sophie, please, its my life, my child. Im not asking your permission, Claires voice shook.
Dont bother, Sophie stood, her face pale, eyes narrowed. But lets get one thing straight, Mum. In this flatmy flatI wont let you start a new family. Alright? This is mine, Gran left it to me, not you.
Claire felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her daughterthe same girl she raised, walked to nursery, brought to dance and music classes, whose homework she stayed up late to check, all so Sophie had everything. Now she was a stranger, with Margarets face and Lindas voice, calling the shots.
Sophie, what are you saying? Claire rose, her hands shaking, needing to lean on the table.
You were here because Dad was alive, Sophie shot back. Gran couldve kicked you out after he died, but she let you stayfor my sake, for me. But this place was always mine, Mum. Minedo you get it? I wont throw you out, Im not a monster. Youre my mother, youve always a roof here. But having more kids, bringing your married boyfriends aroundthats not happening in my home. If you want a family, go to your babys father and sort your living arrangements with him.
How can you, Sophie? Claire cried, unable to hold back tears. I had you so young”
You had me at seventeen because you werent thinking straight, Sophie said, arms folded tight. And now youre repeating your mistake. With a man whose wife cant care for herself. If he runs awaywhat then? Its just you, but youre not seventeen nowyoure nearly forty. I wont help, Mummy own life, my course comes first.
You wont help me? Claires voice was raw, her eyes glistening, but for a moment Sophie looked away. Youre my daughter, my only child I thought we were a family, together. I thought youd understand; be happy, having a little brother or sister
Happy? Sophies laugh was sharp. A new sibling? Youre working two jobs, this baby would be in nursery at eighteen months, left to fend while you hustle. Then Id be expected to step in because youd be working again? No, thanks. I wont indulge your irresponsibility. Your body, your decisionbut dont talk to me about family. Youre not thinking about family; youre preoccupied with your man. Why should I clean up after you?
Youre just like Linda now, Claire exhaled. And Margaret. Both so proper, so principled. Im nothing to all of you, am I? A guest in your flat.
Mum, please Sophie winced, wounded, dont make me out to be a monster. I love you, youre my mum, youll never be homeless, but youll live here alone. No men, no more kids. This is my home, I decide who lives here. If you want a familyfine, but not in my house. I choose my own life.
Strangers, is it? Claire clutched her chest. How can my own child be a stranger? This baby, your siblingits your blood, Sophie, wake up!
No, Sophie shook her head, and tears welled in her eyesthe first time during their row, but Claire couldnt tell if they were real. No, Mum. This is your child, not mine. I wont babysit, I wont have nappies everywhere, I wont let my flat become a nursery. Im starting my lifeuni, work, all of it.
Claire slumped into a chair, limbs wiped out. Through tears she saw Sophiestanding, arms crossed, lips pressed into Margarets all-too-familiar line, the stance of every proper woman whod ever reminded Claire she was a guest.
If only Dad had lived another two months, half this place would be mine by law, Claire whispered, bitterness in her tone. You forget thatif Gran hadnt changed her will
But he didnt, and Gran did, Sophie said hard. She left it to me, not you. Dont drag her memory through the mud. She knew what she was doingshe knew youre reckless, you cant manage money or your life. Seventeen you got knocked up, now again at thirty-eight. If youd inherited, youd have wasted the flat. Gran trusted me, and I wont let her down.
Youve become Margaret already, Claire murmured. Youre right, in your flat Im nobody; Im just a lodger tolerable by your good will.
Mum, stop being dramatic. Sophie sighed like a world-weary adult. Im not saying youre a lodger. But you need to understandits my life. Im not obliged to adapt to your choices; I wont babysit, I wont split the flat. Youre an adultdeal with it. Go to your John, ask him to provide. Hes the father; let him be responsible.
He cant, Claire admitted, immediately wishing she hadnt.
There you go, Sophie snapped, her smile coldly familiarMargarets to the bone. Claire closed her eyes not to see it. He cant offer you anythingno home, no support. You want me to share my flat, to take care of your baby from a married man, so you can have your secret trysts? No, Mum. Thanks, but no.
Im not asking you to babysit, Claire whispered. I just want you to understand, to support, not to make me homeless with a baby.
Im not throwing you out, Sophie repeated. You can stay herealone. If you have this baby, youd need to find somewhere else to live. Ill give you until the birthtime to prepare, to plan. But once the babys here, it cant live here. I wont let your mistakes ruin my education, my life.
Claire dragged herself to her own room, shut the door, and curled up tight on the bed, just like a child. Something in her chest snapped, that invisible cord that, shed thought, never breaksnot when your own childs grown, not ever. But it had, and in its place was a void, swallowing all her memoriesSophies first steps, first toothless grins, her first Mummy, the cartoons cuddled together, the little five-year-old arms round her neck, whispering, Mummy, I love you most in the whole world.
Im not a mistake, she whispered into the pillow, her voice so faint she could barely hear it herself. Im your mum. Im not a mistake.
But beyond the door, the TV blaredSophie had switched it on loud, and Claire understoodthe conversation was over. Sophie had said her piece and moved on, untroubled.
Lying in the dark, Claire reached for her phone, unthinking. She dialled John. He answered on the second ring; hed been awake, sitting by his wifes bed.
John, Claire said, her voice completely flat. “Im pregnant. I need a place, some support. Can you provide for usa flat, enough money so I dont work the first year? Be honest.
Claire heard his breathing hitch. Then, quickly, stumbling, he answered like a boy caught out:
Claire what? Im not ready for this, you know my circumstances. My wife relies on memeds, a carer; Im stretched to the limit. The kids help, but you know what its like these days. I want to help, but I cant leave her, I cant. Renting costs so muchbills, everything. You couldnt work I cant manage, Claire, honestly. I wont leave you stranded, Ill do what I canlittle bits, but
Little bits, Claire whispered. Understood.
Claire, waitlets meet, talk this through, find an answer, there must be a way
She hung up, didnt say goodbye. She set the phone down, closed her eyes, listening, unmoving, as the fridge hummed in the kitchen and somewhere a dog barked below. When the dawn finally crept in, she rose, dressed in silence, picked up her ID and health card, and left the flat quietly. She spent nearly two hours in the waiting room at the GP surgery, staring into space. When the doctorthe same one from beforeasked, So, shall we get you booked in? Claire answered, voice even and calm:
No, Id like an abortion.
The doctor just sighed, shook her head, but booked it in for the next available slot. Claire stepped out into the cold airso sharp it stung her lungsand, right there on the steps, she broke down, face in her hands, while pregnant women and mums with prams passed by, none giving her a second glance.
