Only a mother would know

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Only a mother would know

Naturally I have my best intentions for my child, but this is most definitely not it. From this cold metal stool I can see one child with greasy hair picking his nose and voluptuously enjoying his midday snack. To my right I can see a skinny boy, who looks far too old for this play group, who is currently biting one of his fellow playmates. Then there was William, a chubby child whose mother runs this association, who has a bladder problem and weeps all over the place, leaving wet patches on the swamp green carpet. Margaret, William’s mother, maintains the belief that her boy is a child prodigy and is a severely sensitive child that tends to piss himself when he feels insecure. Naturally with this child it is just a case of his mother refusing toilet train him at the age of five. In the corner on the furry rug are the three little girls, playing with the shoddy dolls that are each missing an eye or an arm; amongst them is my Amy. She has short brown curls, like her father’s. Only she has my face and eyes, which was very comforting as I always tried hard not to think about her father and how his abandonment of us will lead to my daughter facing life with one parent. There is always Jerry, my current boyfriend, who unfortunately does not really grasp fatherhood and is undoubtedly going to soon leave us and return to his party animal life.

It was raining on our way home back form the play group. I quickly pulled out the umbrella and put up Amy’s buggy shield, which had a tendency to collapse and soak her to the bone. As I was walking Jane caught me up. Jane was the mother of another girl in the group, Zoë, and was one of the few normal mothers that I came across. I rarely talk to her and find it hard to talk about anything other than the playgroup and our daughters’ habits.  We walked to her flat where she invited me for a cup of tea. Out of politeness I accepted, to be honest I didn’t feel the need to have her as a friend, she seemed a bit blank and dull compared to some of the other people I knew. Nevertheless I continued to see her every Sunday and Tuesday after playgroup. I started to see her more often and grew fonder of Jane; she was a sad case, a more drastic version of me: my boyfriend, her husband, would always go out; only hers would come back drunk. This did shock me but she said she was coping and I felt it wasn’t my place to interfere.

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Jane was becoming a close friend of mine and we stood up for each other when Margaret would make allegations towards our children, claiming that William would strike at them in self defence.

As I walked through the front door I saw a suitcase. Jerry was cooking dinner, a rare act which he usually performed when he was feeling guilty or had forgotten to tell me he was going to stay out the night. This was it the end of our fairytale, the end of his continuous obligation towards me and my fatherless child. I found myself starting to ...

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