Further Mordue developments “Dinner time!” Cynthia called, impressed by how steady she had managed to keep her voice. She liked tasks like making dinner. They were finite and simple. They were elements of being a parent that had not, in the last month, been turned on their head. They had spent two useless weeks at Nicky’s family’s, which she felt was more for their sake, so that they could feel they were doing something, were helping and compensating for what he had done. It had meant she didn’t have to look after the boys every second. She could have headaches, or bad days. She could send them to bother their aunt instead, except of course she felt guilty and inadequate every time that she did, and she felt she was letting everyone down by not being fine, when it was so clearly what everyone wanted in return for their kindness. And it hadn’t helped her to know how to explain to the boys what had happened, or to answer their more difficult and demanding questions. It didn’t help her know how she was supposed to go about being a parent all by herself - not that Nicky had ever been much use as a father, but he was better than nothing, especially in a world like hers, where single parent families simply did not exist. But dinner, she could do. It was ready. One single and complete unit of parenting… check.
The boys took their seats and she began serving.
“What is it?” Jeremy asked moodily - his default state at present. He had been good when Uncle Alexander was around, because he had never seen anyone do anything except exactly what Uncle Alexander said, except maybe Sylvia and she was special because she was daddy’s little princess, and it had simply never occurred to him that there might be any other options. His mother, however, was a different story. He had always been prone to pushing her boundaries, and she to giving in.
“Chicken and broccoli,” his mother replied, loading up his plate. Jeremy looked at it. It wasn’t that he definitely didn’t like broccoli… He just wasn’t sure. Popular opinion said that broccoli was yucky, and as he looked down at it, imagining how all the bumpy, fuzzy bits would feel in his mouth, he could see why. Usually, whenever they had broccoli, his dad would say ‘Wow! Broccoli! Makes you feel like a great big dragon, eating up trees!’ and then would pop a whole bit of broccoli in his mouth and make yummy noises, and then broccoli didn’t seem bumpy and weird, it seemed cool, and Jeremy would do the same. Only now there was no daddy. He made up his mind.
“I don’t like broccoli,” he declared.
“Yes you do,” his mother replied wearily. He always ate broccoli. He’d eaten it two weeks ago, and every other single meal in his life before this one, and she was tired, and fed up and did not need stubbornness over something so small and stupid. And, subconsciously, there was more to it than that; she did not need- no, could not have this - this one, tiny thing that had been within her capability - suddenly unravel alongside everything else.
Jeremy’s frown deepened. Daddy was gone. And no one had properly explained it to him. And now there was broccoli for dinner, which he now knew for certain that he did not like. These were enough wounds to bear without the added insult of being told, on top of it all, what he thought.
“No. I Don’t,” Jeremy insisted, with the indignant fury that only a child could muster when no one was listening to them, channeling every bit of anger he’d felt over the last few weeks, over the abandonment, over the lack of adequate answers as to what was happening, into those three small words.
“Jeremy, stop being difficult and just eat.”
“No! Stop being mean! You’re always being mean!. Is this why daddy left?” If he was a grown up, Jeremy thought, he wouldn’t choose to live with mother. Mother was the one who always nagged them. She nagged them to tidy up their toys, and to stop making a ruckus, and to eat yucky things like broccoli. Daddy was fun. He brought treats, and made dragon noises. Jeremy had heard mother snapping at him too though. She nagged daddy like she nagged them - ‘Be more responsible,’ ‘Stop spoiling the boys,’ ‘Who were you with?’ And now daddy was gone. He’d left. “Did you make him run away?”
“No, Jeremy!” she snapped. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t tell him that his father would rather sleep with his secretary than see his own children. But the lack of an adequate answer kept coming back again and again. And his accusation hit a nerve.. She wanted to blame Nicky. Nicky and his wild temperament. He had always been impulsive. But he had loved her once, or at least said so. And then he hadn’t any more.. Was that her fault? Had she failed? Had he got bored, because he was Nicky, and that was what happened with him, or had she driven him to this… Become snappish, become boring.. Said ‘no’ to him one too many times...
“I want daddy! I want daddy,” he screamed, tears of mingled upset and fury bursting out. He sobbed. He slammed his cutlery. “I WANT DADDY!”
“Just stop-” she searched for the words, what was it she wanted him to stop doing? “-stop being horrible!”
“I’m not horrible! You’re horrible! I hate broccoli. I hate it and I hate you!” The plate hit the back wall with a smash.
“That’s it! Go to your room!” Cynthia knew she shouldn’t get mad. Jeremy’s hands hadn’t been anywhere near the plate. It had been accidental… But he couldn’t behave like this. He just… couldn’t. She had no capacity to deal with this.
“Fine! I don’t want to be here anyway! I’m going to run away, just like daddy!”
She managed to let the kitchen door slam before her anger dissolved into tears. She sat deflated at the table, crying into her arms. She couldn’t give him adequate answers… She had lost her temper… She was such a horrible parent. Doubly so, she realised, when she felt a small hand on her shoulder. She had been so focussed on Jeremy that she’d all but tuned out the fact that Nathaniel was even in the room. How was that possible? How was she losing the plot so much that she could just forget that he was there, and to behave like this in front of him?
“He doesn’t mean it,” Nathaniel said, attempting to be reassuring although he sounded anxious. “It’ll be ok,” he added, patting her hair gently. He stretched across the table to retrieve a tissue, dabbing at her eyes. “Cheer up chicken,” he added solemnly. It was always what she said to them when they cried. “Blow,” he added, holding the tissue to her nose, because that was also procedure. It was such a perfect imitation - like her in every way, in tone, in manner, but all coming, with absolute sincerity, from a small child - that Cynthia had to smile, almost laugh. Nathaniel wasn’t quite sure what he’d said that was so amusing - he had just done the things that one did when a person cried - but he was relieved that it seemed to have helped.
“No, of course he doesn’t,” she responded, in that slightly too bright voice that she had been using a lot lately, which pretty much meant that she either knew what she was saying wasn’t true or, at best, that she had no idea. She put an arm round Nathaniel. “You’re such a good boy. What would I do without you?”