Mina's Story
The ‘For Sale’ sign had only just gone up and the family down the street were in there like a flash, wanting to have a look around. They had outgrown their more modest dwelling and needed the upgrade to our slightly larger one. At just 7, he was entirely competent doing the tour, pointing out rooms, giving a little detail, here or there, including, at one point, that his parents were getting divorced, which, he explained, was why the house was being sold. The import of those words falling amidst the awkward silence of the adults in the room…, that will stay with me forever.
We had decided he was too young to know what was going on in the time leading up to the divorce, and so when we told him, there was suddenly little time for him to come to terms with it before we prepared to move. I don’t know if there is a right or a wrong time. Years later he told me he resented us both for telling him so late. We had destroyed his security, de-stabilised his life, and he had no say in any of it.
Ten years on and this is so hard to write. Our shattered dreams are the pain of a million shards. We have survived them, but only just. We have moved on, and grown, and changed, are settled happier, and yet… it all remains – those moments suspended in time – just there – within our reach – joy, love, suffering, anger, blame, tears, lawyers, alcohol, shouting, fighting, deep deep depressions. Gouges in our souls. And the light that we created and loved and wanted – so precious – so so precious – caught up in the storm.
We can’t protect our children. We aren’t meant to. We can’t protect them from our failings. We can’t protect them from Life.
Single mom removed from the familiar, in a foreign land. The support structure was not here. It was miles and miles, and oceans away, in different time zones. Just as well they could not see. Their age and ailments and realities could not be burdened upon. It would not have been right. So sucking it up, with lipstick painted on, boarding trains for stretching hours, you stared out windows and willed yourself to keep the thoughts at bay. Because it would not do to come unravelled – not for the weary fellow commuters who would flounder at the awkwardness. Nor the little arms waiting back at home.
There were other moments too. After the divorce. That first 20 minute walk across the field where the kids played football, past the kids play area that was to be just at our doorstep, and the cosy pub with the real fire place with a real fire. That first walk to collect keys to the first piece of real estate that was to be my own (well.., and the bank’s). And when I showed him where we would both now live, and what would be his room, and he gave me the two thumbs up and my heart soared to the skies…, that moment will stay with me forever.
Half a family is double the stretch at the purse strings. My commute was longer, and the funds would go no further than the basic bills, and his father and I could not agree visiting arrangements without an argument, and the blame and anger were close companions at each pick up. The strain was immense. Long day after long day, journey after journey, 10 years of commute culminated my fatigue. And there was no light ahead. It was all untenable. I was falling. “Untenable” – the word pounded my brains. Alarm bells ringing in my head left me for days in bed – a position we could ill afford.
So, I packed up our bags and moved us again. Too soon. We destabilised again. New schools in quick succession. We moved just far enough of a drive where the accents were different but he could still see his dad. But it felt so different for him that it may as well have been a different language. My salvation, though unconnected, became his fire. He didn’t belong. Didn’t fit. Was bullied. Everything changed for him. He suffered. And the memory of that, for him, lingers on.
Forgiving myself will take time. The options were limited. Right or Wrong – these aren’t signs on the roads we take. There are just different roads.
In Black and White, the images – the judgements – they are stark.
But today… today I looked at the photographs. Six years since our move and I have collected many photographs. The occasions, the holidays, the celebrations, the random. Few reflect back the woefulness I feel in the recounting. I would say we hide it well to pose for the lens, but the eyes in the photographs don’t lie. Today I looked at the photographs and thought ‘he’ll be alright’. I feel, I did alright. I sensed, ‘we are alright’. If I have one thing to say, it is this: ” Take photographs! They add colour to your memories which, in the judgement, are in Black and White”.