It had been a long day. It seemed like there had been a lot of long days. I was tired. Too tired to even get out of the car and make it up to the front door. Instead I sat behind the steering wheel and sightlessly watched the rain running ribbons down the windshield. Somewhere behind the warm, orange-lit windows of the house, the family would be waiting. Kids would want feeding. Dishes would want washing. Shirts would want ironing. Sooner or later I would go in and do all those things. I always did. But it had already been a long day.
It had been over a month since Mum had died.
I had nursed her right through. No, that’s not fair; we had nursed her, my husband Phil and me. To begin with, we’d looked after her at her home and then, for a brief time, she had lived with us. She’d liked that, staying with the kids. But eventually it had got too bad and she’d had to go into hospital.
We knew the end was coming. I sat with her. I watched her. Every day I watched her, fading away. But I never cried. We knew it was coming, so I never cried.
That’s how I deal with things, you see. I get on. What’s the point dwelling on inevitable unpleasantness when you can concentrate on the things you can change? She used to tell me I was just like my dad in that. She used to say, with exasperated affection, ‘You don’t have to be the strong one all the time, love.’
But I did. So even at the funeral, I didn’t cry.
She was strong, my mum, stronger than I think most people gave her credit for. She understood people. That was her gift. If someone was upset then she always knew just the right thing to say or do to make the hurt lessen. ‘Cup of tea?’ she used to offer, and give you one whether you agreed or not. By the time the tea was finished, or sometimes had just gone cold, she would have made the world a little bit better. Sometimes she didn’t even have to say anything at all. But once we had buried her and the sympathy flowers had withered and Phil and I had cleared and sold the house, there was no one left to offer me a cup of unwanted tea, so I had to be the strong one. And I didn’t cry.
She always got on well with Phil. They had a lot in common. It was he who had first suggested she stay with us for a while, when I was unsure about mentioning it in case it made him feel obligated. I think he enjoyed it as much as she did in the end. They watched the tennis together and she gave him tips for his tomatoes. Roaring side-by-side over an old sitcom on the telly, anyone would have thought he was her child and not I. They got on very well. He cried when she went. Quietly in the hospital. I didn’t. I was strong for him.
And the days and weeks passed by. We got on. Phil talked to me about her sometimes, but mostly we just got on. I knew he worried about me, as the days got longer and I grew more tired. I would catch him sometimes, watching me with a little frown. But we were OK. I was still strong. Although it did get harder to get up in the morning. Harder to get to work. Harder to get out of the car again when I returned home. More and more the days became like that one, when I sat behind the steering wheel and sightlessly watched the rain running ribbons down the windshield.
I was vaguely aware, out of the corner of my eye, that the front door had opened, spilling the cosy glow of the house out into the grey rain. I was vaguely aware that someone was hurrying over to the car. The passenger door opened and Phil climbed in, dripping onto the seat. I didn’t really care. I turned wearily to him, vaguely quizzical, waiting for him to tell me why he had come. He didn’t say anything straight away.
It’s funny; I didn’t even notice the mug until he held it out for me. ‘Cup of tea?’ he offered.
It’s the little things that make the difference. It’s the little things that matter most. He said nothing else that night, as we sat in the car and I sobbed and sobbed until the cup of tea went cold in his hand. But I’m not so tired anymore, and the days don’t stretch out so long and empty. Now I know that not everything goes away. Sometimes a little bit of someone stays behind.