Ryan told me little about the AA meeting. But he stopped drinking and the following week, he went to the next meeting. They were fragile days; each of them a small, tentative step forward. But I was aware also that each day held the potential for a relapse; that we were walking on what felt like the thinnest of ice.
But as days turned to a couple of weeks, my sense of optimism was quietly growing.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ I said to Ryan one night. There had been times when sobriety was something I wouldn’t have believed possible.
He put his arms around me. ‘You’re the reason I’m doing this. And the kids,’ he added. But his eyes, the flatness of his voice, revealed the battle he was having with himself.
I was under no illusions that there was a quick fix; about the long road that lay ahead of us. But I tried to take each day. And amidst this newfound aura of calm in our family, we held Ollie’s birthday party. Such was the change in his father, Ollie was more than happy to have his friends round. We spend the day decorating – Ryan joining in, too. A first in yours and Ollie’s memories: your delight in Daddy carving pumpkins and hanging up the scariest spiders’ webs.
Not one word of complaint came from Ryan. He drank tea, and kept the spooky music playing. Sang happy birthday with the rest of us when I produced Ollie’s ghost cake.
The party passed without a hitch. And that night, after his friends left, there was a light in my son’s eyes that was a joy to behold.
‘It was the best party.’ He hugged me. Then he went to Ryan and in an unfamiliar gesture, awkwardly hugged him, too. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Leaning down, Ryan kissed the top of Ollie’s head. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
Some of my best memories came from that time. And so we went on. More weeks passed, then Christmas came and went, our transient calm growing more solid. The breaking of old, established habits wasn’t easy for Ryan, nor was life through the window of sobriety. I knew he missed his nights in the pub with his mates, but there was the unexpected upside that he lost weight and his energy came back.
Another six months passed as summer arrived, then the school term ended and we booked a family holiday in France.
It was wonderful, wasn’t it, Lexie? Ollie was eleven, you were nine – and a half: nearly ten, you reminded everyone proudly. It was a holiday that was memorable for all the best reasons – for being together, for the most perfect weather, for the gite that had its own private swimming pool that you and Ollie loved.
For ten days, we lazed in the sun, taking the occasional drive out to explore the local villages and towns. Ollie’s confidence in the water grew; in himself, too. I watched your hair lighten, your skin become golden.
You delighted in the darting lizards and tiny hummingbird moths, the swallows nesting under the eaves, the occasional hare that ran across the fields, while gratitude filled me, for every minute of those days together. For Ryan’s commitment to changing what was so damaging to all of us. Only now and then did I notice a flicker of hesitation in the children; the fallout of Ryan’s drinking years. But time was a wonderful healer. So was love.
‘Mummy?’ you asked one night as I was tucking you into bed. ‘Why is Daddy so different?’
‘He feels better than he used to.’ I kissed your forehead. ‘For a long time, I don’t think Daddy felt at all well.’
A frown wrinkled your brow. ‘What if it comes back?’ You paused. ‘I mean, if he isn’t well again?’
As you often did, you voiced what I preferred not to think about. I tried to ignore the alarm bells going off in my head. ‘There’s no reason to think that will happen.’ It’s what I wanted to, had to, keep telling myself. ‘Now, where’s Eeyore?’
After finding your beloved Eeyore, I went downstairs, then out through the double doors that were open onto the pool area. In the darkness, the lights were magical, the air still warm, the rasping of cicadas starting to wind down. Going to the kitchen, I found Ryan standing there, leaning against the worktop.
‘Hey,’ I said softly. ‘Are you OK?’
For a moment, he didn’t speak. ‘Can I talk to you about something?’ His eyes had a haunted look.
‘Of course you can.’ A sense of unease came over me. ‘What is it?’
He folded his arms. ‘I’m finding this really hard,’ he said at last. ‘I found a bottle of wine in one of the cupboards. A really nice Provencal rosé. I can imagine how it would taste – and it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to open it.’ There was desperation in his eyes as he looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Edie. Really sorry. I don’t want to let you down, but I need you to know I’m really struggling with this.’
I watched his face, shock hitting me, followed by an overwhelming sense of how fragile everything was. And I should have been prepared, but at the thought of things going back to how they used to be, fear filled me. Stepping forward, I put my arms around him. ‘It’s OK,’ I whispered. ‘You’re doing so well. You can do this. I know you can.’
But he peeled my arms away. ‘What if I can’t?’
I faltered. Then it was like the bottom had fallen out of my world. ‘Don’t give up, Ryan. You’ve come so far. We’ll find you some help.’ I desperately tried to think. ‘Is there someone you can call? At your AA group?’
He looked at me uncertainly. ‘I suppose I can try them in the morning.’ Frowning, he sighed. ‘How do you do it? I mean, back in the day, we both used to enjoy a drink. I’ve never understood how now, you can just take it or leave it.’
I suppose for me, it changed when I thought of our children looking at me and seeing what I saw when I looked at Ryan. But I couldn’t tell him that. ‘I suppose it affects different people in different ways,’ I said quietly. But since drinking started to take over Ryan’s life, as you and Ollie have grown older, I’ve increasingly tried to see it through your eyes. I take his hand. ‘Let’s go outside.’
Going out to the pool, we lay side by side on sun beds. In the darkness, the sky glittered with stars. Beside me, I heard Ryan breathe out slowly.
But maybe it would help if Ryan knew how I really felt. Maybe he might see things the same way. ‘The real reason that stopped me,’ I said slowly, ‘was that I didn’t want our kids to see me as the drunk mother – or for their friends to, for that matter. I don’t want to forget what they tell me, or not to be focused when I’m with them. Like you, I used to enjoy a glass of wine. But I guess other things are more important now.’
