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I will always remember that day when I was 7 for as long as I live. It was the day I became a grown-up.
I remember lying in bed, my baby sister asleep in her cot in the next room. I was reading a book by torchlight, hiding it under my covers so that my mother wouldn’t see and come and tell to get to sleep. I loved reading, and would stay up all night if I could.
I heard her voice, normal at first. She was talking on the phone. I ignored the background noise and fell into my story completely. It took a while for me to realise her voice was raised, her tone had changed, she was yelling…screaming…
My sister woke up and started to cry. I rushed into the next room and calmed her back down to sleep, but as her sobs subsided my mothers became louder.
I wasn’t allowed downstairs once I had been sent to bed for the night, so I sneaked down…shuffling down each step on my bottom until I could see into the living room through the banisters. I held onto them and watching. I could see the back of my mother, she was kneeling on the floor with one hand on the phone. She was crying so hard, rocking herself. I had never seen my mother cry before that day.
I stood up and tiptoed down the stairs quietly. She was shouting again, shouting to whoever was on the phone. Finally, she slammed it down and her whole body convulsed in sobs. I wanted to reach out to her, but was still scared of getting in trouble for being out of bed. Finally I swallowed hard and reached out - I touched her shoulder, whispered “Mummy…?”
She turned to look at me, her eyes red and swollen, her face looked like pure agony. I put my hand gently on her shoulder and she put her arms around my small skinny frame and sobbed into my stomach. I stood there motionless. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about what my mother did whenever I cried, and I stroked her hair with my hand.
After a long time my mother lifted up her head and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She stood herself up, wobbling a little as she did so, and took my hand. Quietly, she led me back to bed and tucked me in with a kiss on the forehead. She was the grown-up again.
It was never mentioned until quite a few years later when I told my mother I could remember everything. As she took my hand she told me about what had happened…she had found a letter from my fathers lover in his pocket while she was doing the laundry. He had gone to Ireland, so she rang him to confront him with his behaviour. This wasn’t a shock – my father had been long gone and I already knew about his affairs.
My mum continued to tell me that after she had put the phone down she felt lost and helpless, that there was nothing to keep her carrying on. All life had lost meaning for her.
Then I put my hand on her shoulder, and called her “Mummy”.
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