“Actually, I’ve tried that and I don’t seem to be able to switch my brain off. But, as I say, I’m fine.”
“I’ve sent you a little care package. Have you got it?”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise at this information. “You sent me something?”
“Yes, it should have got to you by now. Lots of nice things to pamper yourself with and enjoy. You haven’t got it? I hope it hasn’t got lost in the post.”
“When did you send it?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“What? It definitely should have arrived by now. You sent it to the right address?”
“Yes! Your Peckham one!”
I hesitate, my heart sinking. I don’t know what I expected.
“That’s my old address, Mum. We moved to Forest Hill two years ago.”
“Oh, you’re joking! What a shame! Someone else is enjoying your lovely care package!”
Of course, that’s what’s upsetting to her. Not that she didn’t remember I moved house. Not that she didn’t bother noting down my new address. It’s that someone else might be using the bubble bath she picked out. I shake my head.
“Thanks anyway, Mum,” I say, because I can’t be bothered to have any kind of negative conversation right now after my run-in with Akin. “I have to go, I’m heading to Ruby and Leo’s for dinner and I’m late.”
“Oh! Of course, you go have a lovely evening. But maybe one day soon we can have a proper chat? Maybe a video call? It would be lovely to catch up, darling. It’s… it’s been a long time. And as I said, maybe you could think about coming here. Or I could come to you.”
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
“Times like this, a person needs their mother.”
It’s a comment that’s meant to be sweet and lovely, but it stings so badly, I have to close my eyes and bite my lip so I don’t say something I’ll regret. I don’t need her ever. She forced me to be that way.
“I have to go,” I manage to croak. “Bye, Mum.”
“Bye, darling,” she trills as I hang up the phone.
The still painful memory of the exact moment I realized I could never, ever rely on my mum—that I would never let myself rely on her again—flashes across my mind as I shove the phone back in my pocket.
I was seventeen and on a school trip in the Peak District, where my year group was spending a few days to celebrate the end-of-term exams being over. It was all organized fun—somesightseeing, outdoor activities, toasting marshmallows at night around campfires, that kind of thing.
Dad was still a bit of a mess at that point. It had only been two years since Mum left and he hadn’t quite got his head round anything yet, plus he was working all the time, and looking after two moody teenagers. It can’t have been easy. But he was determined to be a “good dad,” which meant encouraging me to keep up with Mum, regardless of his personal struggles with her.
The summer camp where my school class was staying in the Peak District was about two and a half hours’ drive from Mum’s—a lot closer than the five hours between her and Dad’s. He thought it was the perfect opportunity for us to meet. He was so adamant that in the end I gave in—I called Mum and we organized a plan. Instead of me getting the coach back home to Berkshire with everyone else, Mum would pick me up, and I’d go stay the night with her and Evan. The following afternoon she’d drive me to Manchester, and I’d get the direct train from there to Reading, where Dad would pick me up.
The final morning, I stood waiting with my bag outside the camp. The teacher in charge waited with me, and the coach with all the other students loaded onto it waited, too. The teachers—responsible adults that they were—weren’t going to leave me in the middle of the Peak District without ensuring that I’d been picked up by my mother.
After a half hour passed, I called her house, but there was no answer. By the time an hour had gone by, it was obvious that I’d been stood up.
The most humiliating part of the whole debacle wasn’t that Mum didn’t show—it was that everyone else in my class knew exactly what was happening. I’ll never forget that feeling of shame as kids started grumpily calling out from the coach that they were bored and it was time to go, and couldn’t they just leave me and I could call when my mum finally arrived?
And when Mum finally called in a fluster to explain—something had come up, she’d lost track of time, then she couldn’t find her phone and, would you believe it, there was nightmare traffic, but not to worry because she was on her way and couldn’t wait to see me—I was already on the bus on my way home. I snapped at her down the phone, hung up, texted Dad to explain what had happened, and then sat on my own looking out the window, trying to ignore the mixture of sympathetic looks and snide comments coming from my classmates.
When the coach got back to the school, Dad was waiting for me with Adrian.
“I’m so sorry, Freya. This is all my fault,” he said desperately, after hugging me hard. “Are you okay?”
I could see how terrible he felt, and I couldn’t bear the idea of telling him just how awful it had been.
