“Do you remember me?”
“Mum, you won’t be upset if I go home tomorrow, will you?” asked Emily as Valerie returned from the hospital.
“Couldn’t you stay just one more day?”
“I’ve already stayed three days instead of two. Paul and little Matthew are on their own back home—they’re waiting.”
“Alright, darling. Go ahead. Thank you for coming. I shouldn’t have dragged you here. What time’s your train? I could see you off.”
“Don’t bother, Mum. You should rest. Dad drained you of every bit of energy, and here you are, running back and forth to the hospital caring for him.”
“What kind of talk is that? He’s your father. How could I not look after him?” Valerie bristled.
“He never cared about me—my schoolwork, my grades, whether I’d done my homework. He was there, but I can’t remember a single meaningful thing. Tell me, honestly, if you fell ill, would he do the same for you?” Emily snapped.
“Unlikely. But I’m not doing it just for him—I’m doing it for myself. We all have to answer for our choices eventually. He’s sick, he needs help, he needs me.”
“You mean on Judgment Day? Feed the hungry, visit the sick…”
“That too.”
“He’s always been selfish. Never valued you. You carried this family on your back—worked, cooked, shopped, cleaned. I never once saw him lift a finger. The moment he sneezed, he’d take sick leave. Have *you* ever taken a sick day? Pushed through everything on your feet. But him? One sniffle, and he’s off work.”
“Where’s all this anger coming from? Women are built tougher—we endure pain and work without complaint. Running a home is our duty. If a husband helps, great; if not, oh well. Isn’t it the same with you and Paul?” Valerie frowned—this conversation wasn’t sitting right. Geoffrey hadn’t been the best husband or father, but really, Emily had no right to complain.
“Have you really forgotten? Have you forgiven him?”
Valerie studied her daughter carefully.
“Emily, that was a lifetime ago. Enough water’s passed under the bridge. It took time, but yes, I forgave.”
“Oh sure, passed under the bridge. Right. He didn’t forget *her*, did he? Ran back to *her*.”
“It’s his illness—he forgets yesterday but remembers decades ago. He didn’t go back to *her*; he wandered off chasing his youth. Saw her and didn’t recognise a thing. Got flustered, panicked, forgot his own address. She thought he’d lost his mind. Lucky she didn’t call the men in white coats—just brought him home to me.”
“You’re too soft, Mum. She took one look at him—shaky, confused—and dumped him back on you. A sick man’s no use to her. *She* should’ve nursed him, boiled his broth, spoon-fed him. Then she’d know the price of trouble. Back when he was fit, she nearly stole him from us,” Emily huffed.
Valerie sighed.
“But she didn’t, did she? Why dredge up the past? It’s easy to judge. Do you think I shouldn’t have forgiven him? Who’d have been better off? Your father? Me? *You*?”
“I’ve had those thoughts too. Imagine if I hadn’t taken him back—just you and me, scraping by on a teacher’s pittance. You’d have been twelve, full of attitude, telling me you’d drawn the short straw with me as a mother. ‘Other mums are fun—mine’s just a teacher.’”
“You say your father didn’t care, but you were scared of him. Admit it—you were. Without him, I’d never have managed you.”
“Times were hard then—empty shelves, nothing in the shops. Yet you wanted new dresses, new boots. Your father worked, didn’t drink himself to death like others. You had music lessons, dance classes—costumes for every recital. That didn’t come cheap. If I hadn’t forgiven him, would you have had any of it? *I* couldn’t have given it to you alone. And don’t forget—he bragged about your competition wins. No, listen—” She cut off Emily’s attempt to interrupt.
“I’m not excusing him. I just want you to see it differently. Do you really think Paul’s any different? Most men’s eyes wander. Affairs come in many forms. Some men cheat in their minds a hundred times. Wait—I thought you didn’t remember any of this. We’ve never spoken about it.”
Emily looked away.
“You said yourself I was twelve. I didn’t understand it all, but I heard things, saw things. I didn’t dare tell you—didn’t want to upset you.”
“You know, love, my parents raised me strictly. My father was the opposite of yours—neither Mum nor I could breathe without his say-so. She accounted for every penny spent. No flowers, no gifts—‘waste of money,’ he’d say. Only the essentials.”
“He checked my schoolbook, scolded me for bad marks. No evening outings—or if he relented, it was girls only, home before dark. Once, a boy from class came to our door—Dad shoved him down the stairs. I’d never even held hands before I met your father.”
“We snuck off to daytime films so Dad wouldn’t find out. When he proposed, I said yes straight away. I didn’t love him—mistook attention for love. But it was my ticket out, my freedom. I’d never have been ‘allowed’ to marry if not for Mum.”
“And you say he didn’t care about you? You had *freedom*—unlike me.”
“I asked Mum once why she put up with Dad. Know what she said? ‘He doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit me, doesn’t stray—I can live with his temper.’ So I endured. If we’d divorced—then what? Marry someone worse? No one’s perfect. Dreams never match reality.”
“Then there was you. I feared a stepfather might treat you worse than your own dad.”
“You never told me any of this,” Emily murmured, her voice softening.
“And *her*—well, she was beautiful. Men swarmed like bees to honey. Your father wasn’t unique. He’s gone to seed now, but back then? Quite the looker. She latched onto him like a limpet. He left, lived with her two weeks. I was beside myself—and then he came back.”
“She’d had too many abortions—couldn’t have children. Not just that, though. Even with him, men still flocked to her. He told me later he’d have gone mad with jealousy—or killed her.”
“Remember my friend Tessa? Her husband wasn’t much—got into a brawl or hurt at work, can’t recall. Ended up disabled, stuck at home while she worked. He minded the kids, cooked. She used to moan he wasn’t ‘manly,’ envied *me*.”
“Funny how things look in comparison,” Emily mused.
“Exactly.”
“Sorry, Mum—I never thought of it that way.”
“The doctor said his wandering off was stress, shock—sped up his decline. Said we must shield him from upset. But how? I never know what he’ll remember next. Anyway, it’s late. You’ve an early start, and I’m worn out. Let’s have tea and turn in.” Valerie heaved herself off the sofa.
At dawn, Emily left. Mother and daughter hugged goodbye—Valerie couldn’t remember the last time they’d felt so close. Emily promised they’d all visit in summer and urged her to call if needed.
After the hospital, Geoffrey changed—shuffling in slippers, vacant-eyed, glued to the telly. Valerie sometimes wondered if he even recognised her. At first, she locked him in when shopping, but when no more escapes came, she relaxed. His moments of clarity grew rarer.
One day, with a gas bill came notice to renew their contract. Valerie queued for hours, stopped at the shops, and on her return, met a neighbour on the stairs.
“Where’s Geoff? Didn’t you see him?”
“No—you *saw* him? When?” Valerie’s pulse spiked.
“Half an hour ago. Asked where he was off to—just blanked me, didn’t even say hello.”
Valerie dumped her bags and ran. He couldn’t have gone far—his shuffle was painfully slow. She cursed herself for getting careless, leaving the door unlocked.
She found him in the next estate, perched on a bench in his coat and slippers. He didn’t know her. At home, she soaked his feet in scalding water, plied him with honeyed tea. That night, his ragged cough kept her awake. By morning, he was feverish—hospital-bound.Two days later, Geoffrey passed away from pneumonia, and as Valerie placed fresh flowers on his grave weeks after the funeral, she whispered, “You might not have been perfect, but you were mine, and I suppose that’s love in its own messy way.”