Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who’d Had Enough - A laugh out loud romantic comedy perfect for fans of Why Mummy Drinks

‘She’s left you? You mean, she’s just walked out on you – and Flynn?’

‘No, not on Flynn, it’s not like that …’

‘She’s gone and left her own son, with everything he has to deal with in life?’

I jab a finger at the kitchen ceiling. ‘Shhh! He’s upstairs in bed. He’ll hear you …’

My mother shakes her head and looks pointedly around the room, as if it has fallen into terrible disrepair since Sinead’s departure. In fact, it is gleaming. I was up two hours ago, at 7 a.m., scrubbing and shining, eager to get started on working my way through the list.

You leave too much to me, she’d written. Perhaps I did. But not anymore. The bathroom dazzles; the kitchen bin smells like a summer rose; even the fridge has been wiped out and reorganised, with Sinead’s wilting spinach disposed of and all the jar labels facing the right way. It’s just a pity my wife isn’t here to see it.

Mindful, too, of Sinead’s YOUR MOTHER!!! point, I also decided to tell Mum precisely what had happened as soon as she arrived, rather than staggering through some terrible, ‘Oh, Sinead’s just popped out’ kind of charade.

‘I have to say, you seem remarkably … calm,’ she acknowledges now.

‘Well, I can’t just fall to pieces,’ I say, as if I have been the epitome of composure since my wife left me.

‘This must be terribly tough for you, though. Humiliating, too …’ Mum perches on a kitchen chair, and I hand her a coffee. Sunshine streams in through the newly-cleaned kitchen window on this bright Sunday morning.

‘Hmmm,’ I reply non-committally.

She sips her coffee. ‘This is very milky, Nate.’

Yes, because I have sloshed in extra cold milk so it’s drinkable right away. ‘Is it? I’ll make you another …’

‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Her mouth curls into a frown, and I am aware of her gaze following me as I potter about the kitchen. ‘So, where is she then?’

‘Just staying at a friend’s for the moment.’

Mum sniffs. ‘So, she thinks that’s okay? To just leave Flynn, at this crucial stage—’

‘Please stop this,’ I cut in. ‘That’s not what this is about …’

‘Well, what am I supposed to say?’ she asks.

‘You’re not supposed to say anything, actually.’

‘But I think I’m entitled, when it affects my grandchild …’

‘Mum, Flynn’s fine ,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into all the details about this now. I’m only just trying to figure out things for myself.’ I inhale deeply and lean against the fridge.

‘Is there someone else?’ she asks, arching a brow.

‘No, of course not.’ I stare at her, aghast.

A wash of sanctimoniousness settles over her face. ‘I don’t mean with you. God knows, Nate, with that job of yours and everything else you have on your plate, I can’t imagine you’d have the time …’

‘Mum, please —’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ she points out, as if she’s the one who’s been wronged. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, and makes a great show of searching around the kitchen for Bella’s feeding bowl, lead and plastic poo bag dispenser, sighing in irritation that I haven’t had everything packed and ready in her oilskin bag.

‘Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it,’ she remarks coolly. ‘So, any idea where Bella’s pigs’ ears might be?’

Ah, those gnarly treats – ‘They’re actual ears of pig!’ Flynn once announced with fascination – that Sinead always hides away at the bottom of our veg rack. I unearth the packet and hand them to Mum. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you.’ She packs them into the bag and makes a point of wiping out Bella’s bowl with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘So, where do you and Sinead go from here, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I really have no idea,’ I reply, even keener for her to leave, now that she’s raised the possibility of my wife seeing someone else. Could she have met someone? I’m wondering now. Have I been an idiot to not even consider that this is the real reason, as opposed to my apparent incompetence with a spirit level and drill?

Flynn appears in the doorway, rubbing at his face. ‘Hey, Grandma,’ he drawls with a bleary smile.

‘Oh, Flynn,’ she exclaims, instantly adopting a ‘darling baby, abandoned by his mother!’ voice. ‘How are you, love?’

‘I’m okay.’ He hugs her briefly before grabbing a loaf from the bread bin and shoving a slice into his mouth.

Mum peers at him and scowls in concern. ‘Couldn’t you toast that, darling?’ she suggests.

‘Nah, s’okay …’ He shrugs.

‘Or at least put butter or jam on it?’ I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

He grimaces at me. ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m aware of the options regarding toppings, but it’s fine.’ He crams another slice into his mouth, fills a half-pint glass to the brim with milk and takes a hearty swig.

‘Well, Flynn, Bella and I are off now,’ Mum announces.

‘Okay. See you soon, Grandma.’ He gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.

We leave him alternating between chomping on bread and swigging milk as I carry out Bella’s basket and see Mum to her car.

She frowns at me as Bella jumps obligingly into the boot. ‘Oh, Nate. That poor, poor boy, with a broken home now …’

‘He’s all right, Mum. Really …’

‘He didn’t look all right, stuffing dry bread into his mouth!’

Despite everything, I can’t help laughing. ‘That’s not because of Sinead leaving.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ She bangs the boot shut.

‘Because,’ I say, in an overly patient voice, ‘he has dry bread all the time. It’s not a broken-home thing – it’s a teenage thing. Toasting or buttering it is just too much effort—’

‘That’s because of his condition—’

‘No, it’s not,’ I exclaim. ‘You know Flynn, what he’s capable of. Of course he can make toast. He can cook an entire dinner, actually. Peel spuds, roast a chicken, make one of those terrible microwave cakes—’

‘If you say so …’

Christ, is she always as maddening as this? Probably, I decide as she climbs into her car. Until now, I’ve allowed her to breeze in and say pretty much whatever she likes without challenging her. On and on she went, about Sinead’s non-existent massage, and all I said in her defence was, ‘A massage isn’t that big a deal’, effectively putting my mother’s feelings before my wife’s. It wasn’t just that, either. There was the, ‘Your turkey’s always quite dry, isn’t it?’ comment last Christmas, when Sinead had been up at 6 a.m. to cram the damned bird into the oven, and then that remark about the shimmery red dress my wife chose – and looked sensational in – for Flynn’s solo guitar performance at the school concert. ‘It looks quite nice,’ Mum had remarked tersely, ‘ from the back .’ Years and years of spiky comments, which Sinead has remarked upon now and again, only for me to try and placate her with an, Oh, you know what Mum’s like …

She winds down her driver’s side window and peers at me. ‘Well, you take care, Nate.’

‘Thanks, Mum. You too.’

She pauses, her lips set in a thin line, her hands gripping the steering wheel unnecessarily, seeing as she hasn’t even turned on the engine yet. And then out it comes: ‘You know, I don’t think Sinead has ever appreciated all you’ve done for this family.’

I gawp at her, unable to respond for a moment.

‘All those years,’ she continues, ‘not having to go out to work while you gave up your career in music—’