BEFORE
Dear Lexie,
Remember when Ollie went to uni? I felt so many things. Of course, I was proud. I wanted the best for him, for him to live his life. But I missed him terribly.
You did, too. Life went on, the three of us now two, until a year later, you asked, ‘What will you do, Mum? When I move out?’
Your question took me by surprise. ‘I haven’t thought. I guess I’ll stay here. You and Ollie will be back from time to time. And it’s still our home.’ It was how I thought of our rented house, even though four years on, Ryan was still living in the house we’d bought together, where you and Ollie spent your younger years. Then I added, ‘Why? Are you trying to tell me something?’
You lay back on the sofa, your feet dangling over an armrest. ‘Well, actually… Some of the guys from the animal shelter rent a cottage. Someone’s moving out – they’ve offered me the room.’
I stood there. ‘Can you afford it, Lex? Lea doesn’t pay you much.’ And I was worried, too, especially with Ollie no longer around, about you moving somewhere I couldn’t keep an eye on you.
‘I’ve thought about it, Mum.’ You sat up. ‘It means I’ll be on hand when I’m needed at the animal shelter. And there’s a pub down the road from there – they’re always looking for staff – especially with Christmas coming up.’
‘You’re doing this now?’ Christmas was just over a month away.
‘I think so.’ You looked hesitant. ‘Will you be OK, Mum?’ You paused. ‘Only I don’t want to seem ungrateful. You’ve done so much for me and Ollie.’
I had a lump in my throat. I’d miss you terribly, but I’d always known this day would come. I just hadn’t expected it so soon. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’ I tried to sound bright. ‘But are you sure about this?’
‘It feels right. If I don’t take the room, they’ll have to find someone else. They’re great people. We have the same passion.’
‘You could save so much more money staying here,’ I said persuasively.
But money wasn’t the point. You saw it as a means to an end, something that put a roof over your head while you gave your time to what mattered; to living a life that fired you.
‘I’ll miss you.’ The lump in my throat was back.
‘Think how tidy the place will be,’ you joked, getting up off the sofa. ‘I’ll miss you too, Mum. But I’ll be back – often.’ Coming over, you hugged me.
They were getting rarer, your hugs. Those brief moments when I felt your hair against my face, inhaled the scent of you. Felt your strength. But you were your own person. Fierce. Independent. All things I loved about you.
I helped you move to the cottage, packing the car with homely touches and bags of food I’d bought for you, worried you wouldn’t eat enough. The cottage was small, hidden behind a tall hedge up a quiet lane. There was a wood fire burning in the grate as we went in. And you were right. Your housemates were friendly when you introduced me; I could tell from how comfortable you seemed with them, from the snippets of conversation, that you’d found your tribe.
Up a narrow staircase, your room had a double bed and a bookcase, while there was a wardrobe under the eaves. It was small. But I could see you here.
‘It’s lovely, Lex. We should bring your curtains from home.’ I took in the threadbare ones that had seen better days.
You smiled. ‘These are fine, Mum.’
Curtains weren’t important to you. And you seemed happy to be there. But you were young to be moving out. Almost the same age as Ollie when he went to uni, you reminded me. And you needed to be among kindred spirits. But as I drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was abandoning you.
I was lucky in the run-up to Christmas that Lucy and I were rushed off our feet with work. I didn’t miss you less, it just meant I had less time to think about you. I found the time to decorate a Christmas tree at home, thinking of all the years we’d done it together; garlanded the fireplace and made a wreath for the front door. Then Ollie came home for a couple of weeks, his presence for a while drawing you back. For a brief time, it was like the old days. The house filled with untidiness, noise, the three of us.
We spent Christmas Day together – you arriving late with straw in your hair after feeding all the animals and mucking out a dozen stables. We ate too much food; the two of you bickered and laughed together. Your eyes were alive as you talked about a kitten you’d adopted, and Ollie regaled us with stories about his uni friends. My heart burst with love for you both; it was all I’d ever wanted, to see you happy.
It lasted – a few days that weren’t, never could have been, long enough. On New Year’s Eve, I was up at the crack of dawn to meet Lucy for our last job of the year, setting up flowers for a New Year’s Eve party in a large country house with a marquee in the garden.
‘We are mad,’ she said. ‘Most people I know are sleeping.’
‘We’ll be done by lunchtime,’ I reminded her. ‘It will look amazing and we’re being well paid.’
A marquee always gave us a blank canvas and we set to work, transforming it into a winter wonderland with armfuls of twigs, winter foliage and fairy lights, setting the tables with vases of white flowers, infusing the air with the scent of fir and eucalyptus.
‘What are you up to tonight?’ Lucy asked as we drove home.
‘A quiet night in,’ I said. ‘You?’
