‘My first grandchild,’ she announced. ‘Welcome, Robin. Welcome to the Whittington family. I am your grandmother. But you can call me… Veronica.’
‘Seriously?’ I asked, rolling my eyes a little. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Mrs Whittington?’
Mum squirmed. ‘Grandma Veronica, then.’
She lasted about three minutes then passed him on to Dad, who looked as if he were holding a sleeping alligator.
‘Now, I’d ask how you’re coping, but I think that’s all too apparent,’ Mum said.
‘I’m coping fine,’ I said, more defensively than I intended, considering they’d traversed the Atlantic Ocean to visit us, no doubt cancelling numerous good works to be here. ‘I had a busy week, so was taking things easy today. Bob had a restless night.’
Bob woke up once in the night for a feed and went straight back to sleep. His mother, on the other hand…
‘Busy doing what, hosting a party for pre-schoolers?’ Dad scanned the food wrappers and other debris.
‘Shay and Kieran came down for a couple of days.’
‘Of course they did,’ Mum said grimly, as if that explained everything.
‘I also designed and created eighteen costumes for a community carol concert,’ I ploughed on, ignoring her. ‘The show was last night, but it was pretty hectic the week before, so I was planning on catching up with cleaning and everything today.’
At least, I’d planned on putting all the sewing equipment away at some point, because the sight of it made my chest ache.
‘A community venture?’ Dad asked, raising his eyebrows.
I showed them a few photos of the cast in costume.
‘Well, I’m pleased to see you using your talents to bless other people, for once,’ Mum said, handing me the phone back after a cursory glance.
I swallowed back all the comments about bursaries, scholarships, fair trade, sustainability, apprenticeships… then changed the subject quick before I vomited them up again.
‘What happened to your plans with the charity? The beach house?’
‘We told them they could do without us for a couple of days,’ Dad replied. ‘Cameron is doing a live podcast on “Why it’s your fault Christmas is a catastrophe”, so couldn’t take the time off to visit.’
‘You know that staying somewhere so huge by ourselves doesn’t align with our values,’ Mum added.
‘Besides, we wanted to meet our grandson,’ Dad said, voice gruff. ‘And check how you are. We interpreted your comment about the care package as a request for help. Sometimes it’s our own family in need, and we know you don’t find it easy to admit when you’re struggling.’
I had made a point of ensuring I would never need to admit that, under any circumstances.
‘Having a baby isn’t easy. Especially if doing it on your own…’ Mum glanced around, as if expecting a father to waltz in at that precise moment.
There was a long silence, interrupted by Bob’s alarmingly vigorous hiccups. I gently lifted him out of Dad’s arms and cuddled him against my chest, a mini human shield to deflect their reaction to what I was about to say.
And then I told them everything.
Well, the bits not including lies, betrayal, broken friendships, secret office romances and eight months drowning in despair, anyway.
‘Please come home for Christmas,’ Mum asked, for the fourth time, after I’d opened the presents they’d bought for Bob, all ethical, natural fibre, educational gifts. They gave me a pair of wool socks knitted by men enrolled in one of Dad’s programmes, which went perfectly with the boots Shay and Kieran had got me, and was one pair of socks more than I’d bought them.
We were now eating the organic Christmas fruit cake they’d brought accompanied by chunks of extra-strong cheddar cheese, as dictated by Yorkshire tradition.
‘This is my home,’ I repeated, as I had the previous three times.
‘Oh, you know what I mean. Our new tenants don’t move in until the end of January, so you could linger on once we’ve headed back to Chicago.’
Her eyes swept up from the shabby carpet to the patch of damp in one corner of the ceiling, via the cracked fireplace, and I took the hint.
