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

I look down at Scout, who is staring up at me with unblinking brown eyes. ‘Is that what she pays all that money for?’ I ask him, at which he tilts his head. As far as I’m concerned, Sinead is pretty much all-round-brilliant just as she is. I have always believed this, from the night I first spotted her at the All Saints gig in Leeds (we often joke that we wish we could say it was Oasis or Blur) and she was dancing in her vest top and combats, long blonde hair swooshing around her finely boned face. My belief in her wondrousness has only increased over the years.

I look back at the list, suspecting now that I probably shouldn’t even read it, if it’s meant to be part of her therapy …

Unable to resist, I start to read:

You don’t listen to me.

You take me for granted.

You don’t consider my needs …

I frown. Who is this ‘you’ she’s talking about? Surely, it’s not me. Could it be Flynn? No, of course not. The most she ever complains about is the state of his room and his lackadaisical attitude towards homework. So who else could she mean?

I continue to read:

No effort made re us as a couple …

Christ, so it is me! I glance around, half-expecting her to be standing there in the doorway with her arms folded and a bemused look on her face. It’s just a joke, Nate! Can’t you take a joke? Of course she’s not there. I can’t even start to wonder where she is right now. On a walk, probably, although that would be weird at this time in the morning – and doubly weird that she hasn’t taken the dogs with her. She probably just needed to clear her head, I decide. Maybe she had a restless night.

Okay, so this is far from ideal, this list of my apparent shortcomings – but perhaps there’s a positive side to it. At least now I can start to understand why she’s been unhappy lately, and what made her start seeing that Rachel woman in the first place. If it’s about me making more of an effort – well, that’s something I can easily put right.

Trying to ignore the tight ball of anxiety that’s growing inside me, I read on:

You leave too much to me.

You belittle my job and show no interest in it.

No spontaneity in our lives …

Well, this seems a pretty spontaneous gesture, this summary of my crapness, but perhaps she’s been planning to write it for weeks?

Your bloody record collection …

What the hell!? Okay, I have a lot , probably something like a thousand or more, I don’t know – I haven’t counted them since about 1992 – with a definite bias towards Bruce Springsteen, his influencers and contemporaries. However, they are neatly stored in alphabetical order. Is that it? Is she sick of being married to ‘the kind of man who alphabetises his albums’ (as I once heard her remark to her friend Michelle in a somewhat scathing tone, followed by gales of derisive laughter)? No – it can’t be that. No one could object to a superb collection housed on custom-built shelves …

Your terrible attempts at DIY …

… If I say so myself, I’m pretty handy with my Black and Decker Combi cordless drill!

… and your blank refusal to get the professionals in.

Yes, to save us a fortune!

Handing me a wodge of tenners to buy my own Christmas present …

… I had no idea she was mad about that. I’d just assumed it was the most practical solution, given that I’d apparently ballsed it up on her last birthday with what she termed ‘that terrible skirt’ (i.e., the leopard print one I’d thought she’d look wonderful in).

Woolly boundaries re Flynn …

Ah, so now we’re getting to the nub of things: my ineffectiveness as a father. Clearly, I am a disaster as a human being—

‘Dad.’

I mean, what kind of boundaries is she talking about?

‘DAD!’

My head flicks round. ‘Flynn! Hi.’ I scrunch the note in my fist, like a teenager caught in class with an obscene drawing of his naked French teacher.

‘What’s that?’ Flynn peers at me through uncombed, wavy light brown hair. He is wearing the baggy grey T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms he insists on for bed (proper PJs having long been deemed unacceptable).

‘What’s what?’ I ask in a weirdly high voice.

‘That thing there.’

‘Oh, just a bit of scrap paper …’ I sense myself sweating and tighten my grip.

‘Can I see it?’ His gaze seems to bore into my skull.

‘No!’ I shout, cheeks blazing.

‘All right! God, Dad …’ He blows out air and shakes his head in bafflement.

‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry, Flynn. I’m just a bit, um …’ I tail off as he opens the fridge.

‘Something smells bad in here,’ he observes, taking out the orange juice carton and swigging from it.

I clear my throat, deciding I must dispose of Sinead’s note while our son’s back is turned, which probably gives me about three seconds. My immediate options appear to be a) eat it or b) conceal it. I opt for stuffing it into my pyjama pocket.

‘Dad, I said something smells.’ He bangs the fridge door shut and glowers at me, as if I might be the source.

‘I think it’s Scout,’ I say quickly. ‘If that’s the smell you mean, it’s been happening more often since we bought the liver-flavoured food. I think we should go back to chicken …’

Flynn nods, and for a brief moment I think, well, I can’t be a complete disaster as, somehow, I have managed to resume an air of relative normality despite Sinead’s note and apparent disappearance.

‘Where’s Mum?’ he asks, pulling the lid off the cookie jar and grabbing a fistful of biscuits.

‘Er …’ I look around, as if it has only just occurred to me to ponder her whereabouts. ‘She must’ve popped out.’

‘Popped out? Popped out where ?’

‘Er, to the shop, probably. Maybe for bread.’

Flynn eyes me suspiciously. I have always been a terribly unconvincing liar. ‘So, is she taking me to school?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure, but don’t worry. If she’s not back in time, I’ll do it.’

He frowns. ‘Aren’t you going to work?’

‘It doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late,’ I fib. In fact, I’m due to start at 8.30 a.m., and my timekeeping is normally impeccable – because no one wants to be kept waiting for their driving test. That’s my job. I am a driving examiner, possibly one of the most derided professions on earth, which requires me to be on high alert for the minor and major faults of the general public. Right now, my alleged faults are causing a curious bulge in the breast pocket of my pyjamas.

‘I’ll just get the bus,’ Flynn remarks, posting an entire Oreo into his mouth.

‘No, no, I’ll drive you.’

He munches his substandard breakfast, his attention caught by my lumpy pocket. I clamp a hand over it. ‘Dad … are you … all right ?’

‘Of course I am. Why?’

‘Have you got, like, a pain or something?’

‘No …’

‘It’s just, you’re clutching at your heart like that …’

I whip my hand away. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Anyway, we’d better get ready,’ I add briskly, establishing a firm boundary right there, ‘or we’re going to be late. You have a shower first …’

‘Yeah, okay, Dad,’ Flynn says carefully, addressing me now as if I am a confused and vulnerable adult he’s found wandering about in his nightwear.

With Sinead missing, and her bizarre note stuffed in my pocket, it feels like a pretty accurate description right now.

The trouble with being left a note like that is that you need time to figure out what the hell’s going on. Ideally, you also want access to the person who wrote it to see if they really meant it, or just lost their mind temporarily.