to me. She’d wanted to make clear she was a person in her own right, with a life and achievements of her own. But that night I was five, and all I understood was that I’d never have someone to call “Grandma”. Or “Mom”.
I burst into tears and asked question after question. Why can’t I call you Grandma? Why do I live with you and not my mom? Where’s my mom now? Why doesn’t she want to live with us? Andrea tried to comfort me and respond as best she could, and over the next ten or fifteen years I pieced together the story.
My grandfather left Andrea when my mother, Emmeline, was three. After a nasty court battle, Andrea won the house and custody of her daughter, but found herself close to bankrupt. After four years off work she couldn’t find a job in journalism, where she’d trained, so she took work as a typist, and put Emmeline into full-time care. In those days this was rare, and she was condemned by her neighbors, colleagues and family. To make matters worse, her manager began bullying and groping her at work. At the time there were no sexual harassment laws, and she needed the money too desperately to resign. Finally, after three demoralizing years, she stumbled on a feminist article in defense of day care in the newspaper.
Inspired and reassured, Andrea enrolled in a Graduate Diploma in Women’s Studies at night school. After topping the class, she enrolled in a Master’s degree, and was awarded a prestigious scholarship to progress to a PhD. She began lecturing, volunteered at a women’s refuge, fought for lesbians’ rights to IVF treatment, and made a name for herself as a hard-hitting court support worker for victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. When she finished her thesis to rave reviews, the Department of Humanities promoted her to senior lecturer of Women’s Studies, then to professor only a few years later.
Around this time, the problems with my mother became too serious to ignore. At fifteen, Emmeline was so embarrassed by Andrea she refused to bring her friends home from school. Her grades were in freefall, and the teachers who’d once called her “lazy but bright” started calling her “disruptive and rebellious”. Worst of all, this didn’t bother her. What mattered was looking pretty and being popular with boys, and at these things she excelled.
Andrea tried to interest her in feminism, but Emmeline sneered and laughed. Suspicious of her daughter’s ever-growing wardrobe, Andrea tracked her discreetly and discovered she was cutting school to work. In the months of almighty battles that followed, it emerged that Emmeline had also fallen pregnant, to a married man she’d met through her job.
Andrea wanted to charge him with statutory rape, but Emmeline insisted that she was in love and wanted to have his baby. But she was only sixteen, and the pressures of a baby were too much. Six months after I was born, my mother walked out, leaving me in the sole care of Andrea.
* * *
I didn’t look at Ryan while I told my story. I bowed my head and told it to my shoes. When I’d finished, there was a pause of several minutes before I dared to look up.
Ryan’s normally animated face was still. “Have you seen your mother since she left?”
I shook my head.
“But she calls you, doesn’t she? Or … or emails, or something?”
Tears welled again. “Andrea says she lives in the city somewhere, so they must be in touch, but I’ve never heard from her. I wouldn’t even recognize her now. I’ve only seen photos of her as a teenager.”
My eyes overflowed, and I hugged my knees to my face. Something touched my hair. I reached up to brush off what I thought was an insect or leaf, and my hand found Ryan’s. Shock crackled through me. I snatched my hand away as if his were electrified, but I didn’t push him off. I just sat, my scalp tingling under his touch as his hand moved in long, soothing strokes down my hair. When the strokes lightened, as if he was about to
I burst into tears and asked question after question. Why can’t I call you Grandma? Why do I live with you and not my mom? Where’s my mom now? Why doesn’t she want to live with us? Andrea tried to comfort me and respond as best she could, and over the next ten or fifteen years I pieced together the story.
My grandfather left Andrea when my mother, Emmeline, was three. After a nasty court battle, Andrea won the house and custody of her daughter, but found herself close to bankrupt. After four years off work she couldn’t find a job in journalism, where she’d trained, so she took work as a typist, and put Emmeline into full-time care. In those days this was rare, and she was condemned by her neighbors, colleagues and family. To make matters worse, her manager began bullying and groping her at work. At the time there were no sexual harassment laws, and she needed the money too desperately to resign. Finally, after three demoralizing years, she stumbled on a feminist article in defense of day care in the newspaper.
Inspired and reassured, Andrea enrolled in a Graduate Diploma in Women’s Studies at night school. After topping the class, she enrolled in a Master’s degree, and was awarded a prestigious scholarship to progress to a PhD. She began lecturing, volunteered at a women’s refuge, fought for lesbians’ rights to IVF treatment, and made a name for herself as a hard-hitting court support worker for victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. When she finished her thesis to rave reviews, the Department of Humanities promoted her to senior lecturer of Women’s Studies, then to professor only a few years later.
Around this time, the problems with my mother became too serious to ignore. At fifteen, Emmeline was so embarrassed by Andrea she refused to bring her friends home from school. Her grades were in freefall, and the teachers who’d once called her “lazy but bright” started calling her “disruptive and rebellious”. Worst of all, this didn’t bother her. What mattered was looking pretty and being popular with boys, and at these things she excelled.
Andrea tried to interest her in feminism, but Emmeline sneered and laughed. Suspicious of her daughter’s ever-growing wardrobe, Andrea tracked her discreetly and discovered she was cutting school to work. In the months of almighty battles that followed, it emerged that Emmeline had also fallen pregnant, to a married man she’d met through her job.
Andrea wanted to charge him with statutory rape, but Emmeline insisted that she was in love and wanted to have his baby. But she was only sixteen, and the pressures of a baby were too much. Six months after I was born, my mother walked out, leaving me in the sole care of Andrea.
* * *
I didn’t look at Ryan while I told my story. I bowed my head and told it to my shoes. When I’d finished, there was a pause of several minutes before I dared to look up.
Ryan’s normally animated face was still. “Have you seen your mother since she left?”
I shook my head.
“But she calls you, doesn’t she? Or … or emails, or something?”
Tears welled again. “Andrea says she lives in the city somewhere, so they must be in touch, but I’ve never heard from her. I wouldn’t even recognize her now. I’ve only seen photos of her as a teenager.”
My eyes overflowed, and I hugged my knees to my face. Something touched my hair. I reached up to brush off what I thought was an insect or leaf, and my hand found Ryan’s. Shock crackled through me. I snatched my hand away as if his were electrified, but I didn’t push him off. I just sat, my scalp tingling under his touch as his hand moved in long, soothing strokes down my hair. When the strokes lightened, as if he was about to
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