Dear Diary,
Today the whole affair came crashing down at the entrance of the Tesco in Leeds. Aunt Helen, my mothers cousin, hurled a bag at the young woman Id just run into, shouting, Emily? I was just thinking of you! Before she could finish, a hurried shopper scolded them both for blocking the aisle, then turned, eyes wide, and exclaimed, Emily? Helen? You two are shameless!
Helen stared at me, bewildered. Why are you calling me shameless? she snapped. Emily, of course, you saw her and wanted to give her a piece of your mind. And you, why have you spoken to me like that, Sarah?
Sarah, a friend of mine, fired back, Because you dont know. Lottie borrowed forty thousand pounds from Lerka and still hasnt paid it back, even though six months have slipped by after promising it would be settled before her next paycheck.
I interrupted, Hold ondid I ever borrow money? My husband earns well, I earn more than the minimum wage, and my son has been living on his own for two years. I dont need anyones cash. I then clarified, Lerka only asked me for fifteen thousand, not forty, and it was barely two weeks ago when she broke her arm. The reason is, I gestured at Emily, who let out a quiet giggle.
Let me guess: shes been you know using mum as a pawn? I said, bitterness licking my throat.
The sour taste wasnt just because mother had taken up old tricks again; it was that Emily had believed her two weeks prior.
Shed taken my mothers call from a hospital ward, where shed been rushed in after a ambulancetype emergency. Between sobs she explained that a clumsy tumble down the stairs had left her with a broken arm and a cast full of pins, meaning shed be immobilised for at least two months. She claimed she could no longer eat, drink or sleep without my sole, beloved assistance.
The social workers, as usual, gave her the bare minimum of attention and then charged the highest rates for their services.
Emily ignored that outright lie, but everything else turned out to be true. Mother really had broken her arm and was in hospital. She truly needed someone to look after her. Who else but her only daughter could fill that role? After all, Mother had never harmed Emily.
All her life shed painted herself as a perpetual victimabandoned, forgotten, unlucky. Yet no one is perfect, are they?
Despite her flaws, Mother fed me, clothed me, took me to parentteacher meetings and even bought oranges and medication when I fell ill. So, it seemed reasonable that Emily should take an unpaid months leave, move back to my hometown of York, and help with household chores and the daily hygiene routine.
She planned to find a livein cleaner who could also act as a carer, or, failing that, persuade Mother to travel with her. After all, she couldnt simply quit work because of the mishap; they would have nothing to live on otherwise.
From the first day back in the old family house, Emily began recalling why shed fled that very home ten years earlier. After finishing school at nine, shed enrolled in the nearest college in a different city, then bolted to a hall of residence in a nearby town, where she stayed on to work. Even sharing a room with three flatmates gave her more privacy than living under the same roof as Mother ever could.
Emily, what on earth is that? Decent women dont wear such things, her mother, now almost thirty, scolded, shaking a piece of lingerie clutched in a strong hand. Do you even know where the people who wear those things work?
The people who wear those things have lives of their own, Emily replied, slipping a comment into Sarahs pocket. You, on the other hand, seem unfamiliar with the notion. Have a look in the desk draweryoull find plenty to amuse yourself with.
Emily was no longer a teenager; she was independent both physically and psychologically, and could firmly defend her boundaries. She also reminded Mother that she was there to help around the house, not to be a sounding board for Mothers endless dramas.
Mother, however, didnt stop there. The next peaceful move she made was to interrupt Emily whenever she sought a moment of solitude. As soon as Emily tried to settle down, the front door would burst open with shouts about urgently needing a cleaning product, an air freshener, or something from the bathroom. Waiting a few minutes for Emily to step out was simply not an option.
The most maddening, yet oddly amusing, part was the earlymorning singing. While Emily slept soundly, Mother would switch on a music channel and launch into a fullblown performance. When Emily once asked why, Mother snapped, Im just singing. This is my housedont I have the right to sing? If you want to sleep, you can, and just ignore me.
Nearly losing my temper, I suggested Emily get earplugs. She didnt need them, though, because a neighbour from upstairs finally rang the doorbell and, in a rather theatrical lecture, explained to Motheran avid opera fanexactly where and how loudly she should be screaming if she dared wake the family two hours before sunrise.
Mother stopped singing after that, but the other nuisances persisted. Emily mustered the strength to rise above Mothers antics, reminding herself that Mother was just an elderly, ailing woman who needed help.
Whether she eventually found a suitable aide or endured Mothers presence until recovery, she knew she would later forget this whole episode for years.
The thought that Mothers twilight years were fast approaching, and that the burden of care would once again fall on Emily, nagged at the young woman. She pushed these worries away as best she could.
It hurt to hear from Sarah and Helenfriends of Motherthat Emily supposedly wasnt helping at all, had been dismissed from work, couldnt even afford a meal, and was living off a pensioners meagre allowance. They painted her as either a devil or the devils most trusted aide, citing receipts from her bank card to prove the costly purchases shed made for Mother over the past fortnight.
When Sarah recounted how Helen had borrowed forty thousand pounds from a sick, poor Lottiewho never saw Helens face and would never have asked for money, knowing Lottie earned far less than her own familyEmily realized how tangled the stories had become.
Mother, we need to talk, Emily said, stepping over the threshold of the parental flat with Sarah and Helen at her side, an hour and a half later.
During the heated hour that followed, Mother confessed that, in order to garner sympathy, she regularly smeared Emilys name among acquaintances. Emily could have forgiven many of Mothers quirks, habits, and subconscious need for drama, but not this level of betrayal.
The next day she said goodbye, left for home, and suggested Mother rely entirely on social services, delivery services, and any other support without involving Emily any further.
If Mother wanted to be a bad daughter, better to be genuinely bad than merely appear so. The most she could expect now was a modest monetary token of gratitude for the life shed given, perhaps a MasterCard or a small pension topup.
And so, dear diary, Ive learned that caring for those we love does not mean losing ourselves in their tangled webs. The price of compassion should never be the loss of ones own dignity.