Dad wraps an arm around me, and I sink further into his warm embrace.
“I’m sorry your Mum thought it was a good idea to invite him for lunch. For such a smart woman, she can really be so daft sometimes,” Dad replies, but his voice is soft withobvious affection for Mum. I’m glad he isn’t upset with her. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of a disagreement between my parents.
“She only did what she thought was best for me. I know that, even though it’s sometimes a hard pill to swallow. I just wish she would ask me what I want instead of deciding for herself what she thinks I need.”
And as much as I want to be angry with Mum, I can’t blame her for her actions today. She doesn’t believe my marriage is over, and I can’t even fault her for that. Daniel cheating was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back for me. But for everyone on the outside looking in, the cheating was thefirst and onlyoffence, and Mum comes from a generation where an infidelity can be forgiven. Which is why I really have only myself to blame for Mum inviting Daniel to today’s lunch. As far as my family is concerned, before the affair Daniel was the perfect husband in our perfect marriage. They have no idea about the verbal, emotional and financial abuse that I suffered since the day I said ‘I do’. And to some extent, neither did I. I was living in denial about the reality of my relationship.
But was I, really?
The ugly thought fills my chest with shame. If I was so unaware, why was I lying to my best friend and family about what was going on? On some level, I knew it was wrong. Leaving Daniel lifted the veil from my eyes to how bad it really was, though. Not to mention what happened when I caught him cheating. But I don’t think about that.
When I told my parents I was leaving Daniel because he slept with someone else, Mum went through the stages of grief. Denial (‘Is this a joke, Gianna? It’s not very funny’), anger (‘Why would he do this?Testa Di Cazzo!’) and is now firmly in the bargaining stage (‘Just hear him out, Gianna.See what he has to say!’). Dad, bless his soul, didn’t even ask what happened. He just asked if I was okay and if I needed anything. Now, I wonder if he was hurt by Daniel’s actions, too. He had welcomed him into his home like a son, after all.
“You know,” Dad starts, leaning forward and gathering a handful of soil from his precious garden, “planting seeds in the ground is not the beginning and end of growing vegetables.”
Despite my anguish, I can’t help but grin to myself. Hugging my knees into my chest, I settle in for Dad’s words of wisdom.
“You can’t just chuck seeds around and hope for the best. First, you have to start with the right conditions,” he says, rubbing the soil between his fingers. “You can’t plant seeds in darkness. They need light to grow. They also need a lot of love and attention. You need to water them, tend to the soil, and be patient.”
I wait for the punch line, and it doesn’t take long for Dad to deliver.
“You need to start planting some seeds in your life, Darling. I’ve watched you live someone else’s life for a long time now,” he says gently. “You should think about what you want to do with your precious life, and start moving towards that. Plant your own seeds, water your own garden, nourish your life with your own desires. I want to see you happy and fulfilled. It’s my greatest wish for both my children.”
Tears pool in my eyes. It’s not that Dad isn’t right, I just didn’t realise he was so observant. Has he wanted to say this to me since I dropped out of uni? I can’t believe it took me so much longer than that to realise I was living for someone else. I wipe a tear from my cheek at the same time Dad reaches for a weed.
“Whether or not that is with Daniel is only for you todecide. But remember, weeds are no good in a happy garden. They steal precious nutrients and stop other plants from flourishing,” he continues, yanking the weed clean from the root. “They need to be pulled as early as possible.”
I can’t help the watery laugh that bursts from my lips at Dad’s subtlety.
He looks over his shoulder at me, eyes wide and brows raised. “What? I’m just telling you about my garden,” he says innocently.
I give him a shaky smile and reach forward, grabbing another stray weed hiding behind a cucumber. “No weeds allowed in this garden,” I say, tearing it out and chucking it in the bin.Not in this garden or mine.
7
Thursdays are my favourite day of the week. Not because it’s the day that my current favourite work-in-progress Dramione fan-fiction chapters get released (although this is a definite highlight), but because I get to spend the day at Hope House with some of my favourite people in the world.
I started volunteering at Hope House two weeks after I left Daniel. As fate would have it, I was seated at a cafe with my face buried in my kindle, when I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation the man at the table next to me was having on his phone. He was running his fingers through his wild mess of orange curls, complaining to someone on the other end that they just didn’t have enough volunteers to help at the women’s shelter and they would need to do something about it or risk having to limit their intake numbers further. My interest was immediately piqued. There I was feeling overwhelmed by the drastic turn my life had taken, standing on a figurative precipice looking out toward endless days with nothing to fill them, when the opportunity to do something meaningful with my time fellstraight into my lap. I approached the man and offered my services (not even knowing what it would entail, but keen all the same). I didn’t realise then that Hope House would become my own little safe haven, where the women there would inadvertently be helping me as much as I was helping them.
The Thursday after my run-in with Daniel at family lunch, I breeze inside the front door of the nondescript, suburban white cottage bright and early, carrying freshly baked scones for Emma under my arm and a pink rose I snagged from someone’s front garden in my other hand for Alice.
The house carries the constant quiet murmur that comes with roughly seven women and at times a handful of children living together at once. You think it would be louder, but the women here are always respectful, and more often than not, carrying significant trauma that usually diminishes any overly boisterous activity. This morning is no different. Sometimes I’ll arrive to an unnatural silence settled over the house, and that’s always the first tell that there’s been a new arrival at Hope House. It’s hard to know what to expect every Thursday morning, and since I started volunteering I have truly seen the worst that society has to offer. What some of these women have gone through at the hands of a man is terrifying. One time I spent the whole day just cradling and rocking a young woman who had fled her house with her kids after her husband had used her as his punching bag. Thankfully that’s not the case this morning, however, as I can hear the familiar sounds of Lily humming away in the laundry and the squeals of delight coming from Beth’s toddlers in the living room as I head towards Sam’s study to dump my belongings.
When I emerge, Sam’s the first one to spot me from thekitchen where he’s making what’s probably his third coffee of the day even thought it’s barely eight a.m.
“Ah, Gianna, you’re here. I got your message that you have to leave early today and I was hoping while you were here this morning you could have a chat with Olivia then watch Beth’s little squirts while she attends her psychiatric appointment.”
Sam always greets me with a list of things to do the second I walk in the door, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. His passion for Hope House and the women sheltering here is his number one priority, and I absolutely love that about him. He’s only a few years older than me, but he started Hope House five years ago after working as a social worker for years and feeling like he could never make a real difference to the lives of women who needed it most. I’m sure he has a personal story, like most of us do, that really drives his passion for this place. I’ve never been game enough to ask him about it, though.
“Sure thing,” I reply, joining him at the coffee machine.
“Here, have this one.” He passes me the cup he just made and starts on another. I nod in thanks.
“Where’s Olivia?”
“In her room. She’s upset after a phone call with her mum.” He sighs while spooning in his sugar. “I think her mum told her to go home again.”
My heart sinks. Olivia’s husband is emotionally and financially abusive, but her mum is a devout Christian who won’t take her in because she doesn’t believe in divorce, essentially leaving Olivia homeless and with no access to funds. Her situation hits a little too close to home for me, if I’m being perfectly honest.
