When I confronted Ryan, he admitted to having had one drink, but no more than that. When I explained what you and Ollie had told me, Ryan said he was being rude to him.
‘Even if he was, it doesn’t give you the right to hit him.’ I stared at him, shocked at how unapologetic he was about it.
‘Didn’t do me any harm,’ Ryan said.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked him. ‘Because the way I see it, it hasn’t done you any good, either.’ I paused. ‘How much are you drinking?’
‘Not much,’ he said offhandedly. ‘And I don’t see what the problem is. It isn’t like it affects anyone else.’
‘How can you say that?’ I was sad, disappointed, angry, all at the same time. And I was sorry for him. But I was also worried more about what this was doing to our children. ‘I thought you understood that this affects all of us. Oh, Ryan.’ I sighed.
‘Oh Ryan what?’ he said rudely.
Maybe this was it. The point at which I summoned my courage, told Ryan this was the end. And maybe I would have if the following day, he hadn’t apologised unreservedly.
‘It’ll never happen again, Edie.’ There was desperation in his voice. ‘Give me another chance. Please.’
I challenged him. ‘How many more chances? This can’t happen, Ryan. It’s wrong.’
‘Please,’ he kept saying. ‘If you left, I couldn’t live with myself.’
I relented. Rightly or wrongly.
You shouldn’t have, Mum. None of us knows he won’t do it again.
You were right; I wasn’t. The Ryan I had started to reconnect with over those months he was sober was slipping away from me. There was nothing you or Ollie or I could do about that. Ryan was the only person who could change his life.
Instead, we watched his slow downward slide, back into his old ways. Drinking every night, Saturday evenings in the pub. But worst was his inconsistency and bouts of anger; the undeniable impact on Ollie and you.
Needless to say, I was pulled two ways, my mind conflicted.
Leave him.
Stay.
Opting for the latter, I told myself that everyone faced challenges at some point. The situation tested me – as a mother, a wife. As someone who knew what was right and what wasn’t, my need to protect Ollie and you created more problems, because try as I did, when Ryan was at home, it wasn’t possible for me to always be with you.
In the run up to Christmas, Lucy and I worked our usual long days, our workshop a nonstop production line. Word had spread about Petals’ garlands and table centrepieces, which were in demand to adorn houses and local hotels. Some were collected by our regular customers, others delivered by us, so it was by chance that I was there alone when a stranger came in.
‘I know it’s last minute,’ he said. He was in jeans and a sweater, and I put him at around my age; noticed he looked slightly out of place as he stood there. ‘But would you be able to make a bouquet for me?’
‘I can show you what we have.’ I led him over to the buckets of red and white flowers, of long arching stems of winter foliage.
Studying them, he frowned. ‘I think I’d better leave it to you,’ he said. ‘I mean, it all looks lovely. I do know she likes lilies, but other than that…’ He broke off. ‘She loves her garden, if that helps.’
‘It gives me an idea,’ I said, taking in his kind eyes, wondering who she was. ‘How much would you like to spend?’
He told me. ‘If that’s enough.’
OK. So he wanted a huge bouquet. ‘I’ll make something up and you can tell me what you think.’ I gathered stems of lilies, with eucalyptus and fir, some long spiky twigs, tiny delicate waxflower. I felt oddly self-conscious as he stood there watching me assemble it all. It was a big enough bouquet that I could barely hold the stems together.
He saw me struggling. ‘Would you like some help?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ I said gratefully. ‘Could you cut a piece of string?’ I asked him. ‘It’s over there.’ I nodded towards a ball of brown string next to some scissors.
‘How long?’ He picked up the scissors.
‘Half a metre?’ I waited for him to cut it. ‘Would you mind wrapping it around the stems?’
