I held on to the surge of pride, mentally pinning it to my jumper as a reminder that this was not about me. It was Joey’s time, his story, his future. His choice.
And, oh my goodness, he certainly made the most of it.
‘Is it completely different, being a spectator?’ Sean asked, after we’d watched Joey take another first place, slicing through the water with stunning power and grace. ‘Or are the emotions the same?’
‘I was too focused to feel this nervous when it was me. It’s definitely different having no control over the outcome. But internal self-criticism was like a playlist on repeat. I never took enough time to enjoy the victories.’
Who cares that I won every race – was it by enough? Was it my best time? Had I got the angle of the turn perfect? Could I have pushed my muscles that one-hundredth of a second harder?
‘With Joey, it’s all good. Nerve-wracking, but good.’
And being there, being able to witness it first-hand? That was beyond amazing.
Sean leant closer. ‘Imagine how nervous you’d be if you were a different kid’s parent.’
‘Nervous, or resigned to hoping for a silver?’
We grinned at each other, bumping elbows before making a joint embarrassing mum/dad wave to Joey, taking his place with his team. He acknowledged a fist-bump from Ben, ducking his head to speak to a girl before engaging in a brief jokey jostle as he sat down. I thought he hadn’t seen us, or at least had decided to ignore our manic gestures, for which I couldn’t have blamed him. But then he looked up into the spectator seats, pressed one hand to where his beautiful heart beat behind his still-dripping chest, and nodded, his smile so gentle I could just about find it through my tears.
* * *
I don’t remember anyone having a conversation about it, but Sean ended up joining us for dinner, sitting round the table with ‘healthy’ home-made pizza and salad. Joey replayed the day while we ate, Sean tiptoeing on the edge of encouragement, constantly glancing at me to check whether he’d crossed the line.
The evening felt… okay. Over the past few weeks, I’d been gradually replacing the horrible mix of memories about Sean with the man who was here now. I didn’t trust him an inch – he was still the person who’d abandoned me – but he was trying, and Joey loved having him around.
At least, he did until suddenly remembering he had homework to finish, coincidentally the moment he’d made us all a coffee. As if doing homework on a Saturday evening, following a competition, was something he’d EVER done before.
‘You might as well stay and finish your drink, though, Dad. Maybe Mum’ll show you my baby photos or something.’
He galloped upstairs before either of us had time to cry, ‘set-up!’
With no better idea of how to push through the resulting awkwardness, I dug the photo album out. Before we knew it, two hours had gone by. Sean had wanted to know everything, carefully examining each captured moment as if it was a prehistoric butterfly specimen.
‘I missed out on so much,’ Sean could barely speak. He swiped his face with one jumper cuff, not wanting to drip tears on the pictures.
I nodded, no words of consolation to offer.
‘Will I ever be able to make it up to him?’ He shook his head. ‘Part of me wants to stop feeling so damn guilty all the time, because it’ll spoil what we have now, but the other part… how dare I forgive myself for this?’
And without planning it, or meaning to, I let another chunk of anger and bitterness crumble away. For who was I to judge not being there for Joey, not sharing the parties and the holidays and the competitions with him? At least Sean was an ocean away. I was right here, and I simply hadn’t found the guts to face them.
It was an ugly truth, one that had anyone else even hinted at, I’d have thrown them out the window, but if Sean Mansfield and I had one thing in common, it was that we had both abandoned our child.
Would we ever be able to make it up to him?
Only time would tell, I guess.
But I have to confess, when Sean gently and gingerly hugged me goodbye, I wondered for the splittiest of seconds whether one way to make things up to Joey was to consider very carefully whether or not I could live with some more of those hugs.
I know. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, either.
50
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day One Hundred and Forty-Six
Another email from the delightful Moira Vanderbeek. So charming! Such flattery!! So many exclamation marks needed to describe howthrilledshe was that I would be at the grand opening!!! She was very much hoping to meet me (!), and to snatch a morsel of my time to ask a couple of questions (!!), snippets the wider community would bedyingto hear (!!!). Any chance of a teensy interview before then, to boost the PoolPal campaign? A couple of photos with herenchantingphotographer, Howard, to give the article some pop, draw the right kind of attention?
