Simon’s not a bad person, per se. Yes, he did up and leave me with two shellshocked nine-year-olds when our marriage crumbled around us, but apart fromthat,I can see that he tries. I’ll give him that. A solid B for effort.
He tries to be a hands-on father with the twins but he always seems to shoot himself in the foot by saying or doing the wrong things just as everything has reached a peaceful impasse.
He will unleash the side of himself that is prone to overreacting instead of taking the time to listen, and think through his response, before he opens his mouth. And I’m often left to pick up the pieces and try to put everything back together after.
I dread to think what absolute clangers he’s likely to drop in the course of this conversation, so Adam needs me to be there, and more than that, he needs me to bring my A game with me. I need to be calm, rational and on his side. I have to realise this is not about me, but instead entirely about my son and his new family.
Adam and I plan Operation Break the News with military precision. We know we have to schedule our metaphorical bombshells to land at times in the day when the recipients are likely to be most receptive to listening and giving us their full attention.
For example, everyone who knows my mother knows that you do not try and conduct a conversation with her – no matter how important – whenCoronation Streetis on. There is nothing, she insists, in this world so important that it can’t wait half an hour so she can catch up with the latest events on the cobbles. We often joke that if Jesus Christ himself decided to descend from the heavens to bestow onto her all the mysteries of this world and the next, she would make him take a seat and keep his mouth shut until the Rovers Return was closed for the evening.
As for Simon, it’s always wise to make sure he has been fed and watered and has changed out of his work suit into his joggers and T-shirt. Even more advisable to wait until his two younger children – Saskia and Theo – are in bed. This is especially important today because they love the very bones of their big brother and the last thing he needs is to have them clinging to him demanding he play when he’s trying to have a serious conversation.
In what is either an act of self-preservation, or absolute masochism, we decide to get both of our visits over and done with on the same night.
We debate which order to carry them out in, and not just because of the timing ofCoronation Streetand the bedtimes of Adam’s half-siblings.
We wonder if we should face the potential shitshow with Simon first, and then uplift proceedings by visiting my mother afterwards. Or do we gird our loins with the love and acceptance of Granny Burnside before we walk into Mordor (aka Simon’s house)?
In the end, we opt for pulling the stickiest plaster off first and going to see Simon. After a pep talk to end all pep talks, we get in the car and set off, but very soon I can tell that even my most encouraging words aren’t hitting quite where I hoped they would.
As we park, I turn to face my son and even though it’s dark in the car, it’s not dark enough to hide the fact he is a sickly shade of grey.
‘Darling,’ I tell him, taking his hand, ‘you’ve not hurt anyone. You’ve not done anything wrong. You’re having a baby. You and Jodie are approaching this with so much maturity – more maturity than I’d have had, or your dad would’ve had, at your age. You keep that very firmly in your thoughts as we talk to him.’
Adam nods and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I will, Mum. I just hope he doesn’t start talking about it like it’s the worst thing in the world that could ever happen. We didn’t plan it, and in an ideal world’ – he pauses and takes a deep breath – ‘well, ideally we’d be older and settled, but it is what it is and this baby is my son or daughter. I don’t want to listen to Dad or anyone else talk about it like it’s a disaster in the making.’
My throat tightens. I’m momentarily overwhelmed by the emotion – and more specifically the love – in my boy’s words. He’s right, of course. This is his baby in the making, and my grandchild for that matter. Whether we chose for this little life to come into ours now or not is largely irrelevant – they are already on their way and now we just have to celebrate that and make the most of it instead of treating it as a tragic event.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I tell him, and I’m struck by a wave of maternal love and a protective instinct so strong I’m tempted to turn the key in the ignition and just drive home. I want to take him away from the possibility of anyone saying the wrong thing.
At the same time, I know I’d not be doing him any favours by putting this off any further. And who knows… Simon might just surprise us.
* * *
Simon does not surprise us.
It initially looks like he might. He nods and sits back in his chair, his face emotionless, and he says nothing. I’m happy with that. I’m perfectly okay with Simon Cooke saying nothing and continuing to say nothing for as long as possible. But of course, he has to speak eventually.
‘Oh, son,’ he says, his voice laden with woe. ‘What a colossal fuck-up.’
I immediately feel Adam bristle beside me, and that sense of irritation quickly moves, like a Mexican wave, right into my bones.
‘Simon!’ I chastise. ‘It’s not the end of the world!’
‘The boy is nineteen! He’s just gone to university. He has his whole life ahead of him and now what? He’s going to be saddled with a baby for the rest of his days. How’s he going to provide for it and get his education? Dear God, Adam, do you not know how to use protection? You’ve no idea what responsibility is about to be landed on your shoulders. You can’t just hand a baby back when it gets too much!’
‘Really?’ Adam says, and there’s a steely determination to his tone. ‘Because isn’t that exactly what you did? Walked away from us when it all got a bit much? I know we weren’t babies. Maybe it would have been easier if we were. Maybe we wouldn’t have felt so rejected. So I don’t think you’ve any right to be lecturing me on how to deal with responsibility.’
My stomach clenches. A mixture of pride in Adam and anger at Simon. And a healthy dose of guilt that our failed marriage has clearly left its mark on our son.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Simon sputters while I sit frozen to the spot, not sure what to say or if I should even speak at all. ‘I didn’t hand you back or walk away because it got too much. Things weren’t working between your mother and me and it was better that we went our own ways.’
‘Better or easier?’ Adam asks, and I feel my face burn.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ I mutter, almost afraid to say the words out loud.
Both men stop and turn their heads to look at me, as if I’m the oracle of this situation and know exactly what pearls of wisdom to share.
