I Will Live a Better Life Than You

How do you possibly live in such poverty? I remember the words so clearly, the disgusted wrinkle of my nose as I looked around Mum and Dads kitchen. Youve not even managed to do any decorating in twenty years! And you try to teach me about life!

Mum just slumped her shoulders, looking older than usual. Dad took a silent sip of his tea, not meeting my gaze. I stood there, flushed with anger, anticipating any reactionand their silence only made my fury worse, more so than any scolding would have.

Charlies a good man, I pressed on, my voice sharp. You just dont understand anything about real life!

Mum gave me that looktired, sad, but still loving.

We dont have anything against Charlie, darling, she said, shaking her head gently. We just want you to finish your education first, have a bit of stability.

What stability? I snapped, rolling my eyes. Like yours? Two decades in this same flat, never changing a thing!

Youre only nineteen, she tried, speaking softly. Its too soon for marriage, you must see that.

Finally Dad looked up at me. His eyes didnt judge but held a deep sorrowa pain I never understood in that moment.

You can sort out your personal life later, Mum continued. Were not trying to stop you, honestly. Just take your time, dont rush into everything.

You just want to ruin my happiness! I just about stamped my footthe way I used to as a little girl. Thats the truth!

With that, I spun round, grabbing my bag from the hallway. Mum rose and made a tentative step after me.

Daisy, wait, she pleadedher hand reaching out.

But I was already fighting with my coat, too angry even to get my arms into the sleeves properly.

Charlie and I will be happy! I shouted from the hallway. Just to spite you!

Dad heaved himself up and, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, tried once more.

Youre not thinking straight, Daisyhe began, but I cut him off.

Ill have a proper life! Well have money and everything! Far better than you ever did!

With that, I wrenched open the front door and stormed down the communal stairs. The last things I heard were my mums muffled sigh and the heavy thud of something dropping inside the flat.

I didnt look back. Every step downstairs, I told myself I was right, that my life would be different. Better.

***

Four years passed before I found myself standing outside that familiar, battered door in Croydon. The paint was peeling even more now, the wood splintered. In my right hand, I held the warm little hand of my three-year-old son, Oliver, who eyed the door with bright curiosity.

My left hand hovered just above the cracked paint. For a moment, I simply couldnt move. How strangeit had been so easy to slam that door years ago, and now I could hardly bring myself to knock.

Mummy? Ollie asked, fidgeting beside me.

Looking at him, and then the battered suitcase at our feet (one wheel broken, the handle frayed), I felt a wave of defeat wash over me. All that was left from my previous life, from those grand promises and dreams.

Four years without seeing them. Four years without calls or birthday cards. Id thought myself superiorsmarter, more ambitiousthan my parents with their little home and modest lives.

And now here I was, face streaked with tears, dreams in ruins.

Finally, I rapped gently on the door. Three timid knocksa far cry from the dramatic slamming when I left.

Footsteps came quickly, as though Mum had been waiting. The lock clicked, and then she stood there, surprise written across her face. She looked so much older; her hair flecked with grey, fine new lines by her eyes.

She took in my tear-stained face, her gaze drifting to the little boy glued to my side. She noticed the battered suitcase and seemed to understand immediately. She didnt ask a thing about those awful words I’d hurled years ago. She simply stepped aside, letting us in.

Crossing that threshold, I saw almost nothing had changedsame faded wallpaper, same old wardrobe in the hallway, the same comforting smell of home Id once ridiculed. Oliver, curious, began peering about.

Ollie, darling, why dont you go play in the other room? There are toys in there. I tried my best to steady my voice.

He scurried down the hall, and I straightened, turning to face Mum. She just watched me, silently.

I wanted to explain, to justify everything, but no words came. Only the sour truth clung to me, and the remnants of broken fantasies. I took a shaky step forward. Then another. Then I threw myself into her arms, sobbing so hard my whole body trembled.

Mum, I choked, unable to hold back the tears. Mum, Im so sorry.

She stroked my back, as she had when I was a child, holding me as I let go of all my pride and illusions.

You were right, I managed to gasp at last, lifting my blotchy face. You were right about everything.

She just hugged me tighter.

Come on, she murmured. Lets get the kettle on.

I nodded, wiping at my eyes. I sat at my old spot by the kitchen window. She filled the kettle, fetched out the mugs. It struck me how much Id missed in those four years.

Wheres Dad? I asked anxiously.

Work, she replied, setting the mug before me. Hell be home soon.

A lump caught in my throat.

I said such terrible things to you, I admitted quietly. About the flat, about your lives.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

The important thing is youve come home, she said gently. The rest doesnt matter.

He cheated on me, Mum. Just put us out like we meant nothing at all.

She stroked my hair the way she always had.

And I believed him, I nearly laugheda little, hopeless laugh. How will I ever finish my studies now? How am I meant to start again, with a child on my hip?

She pulled me into another hug, rocking me like she used to.

Well manage, she said. Together, we can get through anything. Maybe not straight away, but we will.

***

Months went by after returning to my parents flat. My old aspirations seemed to have vanished like smoke. One afternoon, I found myself sitting in a shabby café with my two friends, Emma and Rachel. Emma idly twisted her empty coffee cup, her face set in a frown. Her boyfriend, Tom, had left her in the lurch with credit card debts.

The collectors ring every day, Emma grumbled. And hes buggered off to Manchester.

I nodded and glanced at Rachel. She was raising her daughter alonethe father had never made it to the registry office.

At least mine left without debts, Rachel said with a sad smile. He just couldnt handle the responsibility.

Mine was, Daisy smirked bitterly, his type of responsibility was with another woman.

Emma snorted, sharing the same jaded humour that now seemed to shape our lives.

We were so naïve, Emma reclined against her chair. Honestly thought wed found our Prince Charmings.

Turned out they were just jokers with empty wallets, Rachel added.

I listened to my friends and saw how similar our stories had become. Three women, nursing broken dreams, huddled in a cheap café.

Right, thats enough of the pity party, Emma declared, smacking her hand on the table. Lets at least order dessert.

I managed a laugh, beckoning the waitress overgrateful, just for a moment, to forget my troubles.

***

That evening, I walked the familiar streets home, keys in hand. Pushing the door open, sounds drifted from the loungeOlivers laughter, my parents gentle voices.

I tiptoed along the hall and peeked in. Dad sat on the carpet, helping Oliver stack wooden blocks. Each time the tower wobbled, Ollie gleefully clapped his hands. Mum, knitting in her armchair, watched them with quiet, contented eyes.

I stood there, unable to look away. For years Id scorned this tiny, dated flat and their humble comforts. Storming out, convinced I was destined for greater things.

Now, I saw whatd been invisible to me before, obscured by my pride. Thirty years together, Mum and Dad had weathered redundancy, illness, recession. This was their homeworn, but theirs. Stable jobs, a roof over their heads.

Theyd never managed holidays abroad, or flash cars, or designer clothes. But theyd stayed together, built a family, made a home.

And here I wassingle, broke, a child in tow, a heart in tatters. My pride still whined that this was temporary; that Id bounce back. At last, though, I understood the harsh truth.

The failure, in the end, wasnt my mum in her modest home, nor my dad in his shabby old blazer. The failure was mechasing after the shiny lie and losing everything that truly mattered.