**Gather Your Own Broken Glass**
“Honestly, Emily, youre being utterly daft! That good-for-nothing husband of yours, Oliver, will leave you high and dry one day! Hasnt he put you through enough already?” Mum never minced her words when it came to my husband.
“Mum, Oliver and I have been married for thirty-seven years, and youve spent every single one of them warning me about him! Please, just stay out of it!” I snapped into the phone for what felt like the hundredth time.
I avoided seeing her as much as possibleher favourite topic was always how my husband was a scoundrel, a rogue. I was tired of arguing, though I knew there was some truth in her words.
Back in my younger days, Id left Oliver once, foolishly running back to Mum. We already had a five-year-old son, William. The fight had been brutal. I ended up in hospital with a concussion, convinced it was the enddivorce, single motherhood. After being discharged, I went straight to Mums; William had been staying with her while I was ill.
She sighed deeply, her verdict clear:
“See? Was I wrong? That mans a brute! Stay here. Your father and I will help you raise William.”
“Ill think about it,” I murmured, exhausted, unsure of what to do.
“Theres nothing to think about! That monster might hurt William next! I wont let you go back!” It felt like shed lock us both behind iron bars if she could.
Mum had hated Oliver from the start, hiding my dowry away. “Let your precious husband clothe and feed you if hes so wonderful.”
A week later, Oliver came begging for forgiveness. Mum slammed the door in his face, hurling insults. I only learned of his visit laterId been out with William at the time.
After a month of stewing, I decided to return to him. Families fight, but they stick together. Besides, I loved Oliver. Always had. Thered never been anyone else.
I plotted my return carefully. Winter was comingwhat better excuse than fetching our coats? So, sneaking away with William, I went back to my husband.
Oliver was stunned, overjoyed. Our family was whole again. Mum was furious.
Truthfully, Mum and I had never clashed before. She was kind, caringa wonderful woman. But there was a skeleton in the cupboard, gathering dust.
At fourteen, Id stumbled upon her old diary while rummaging through the attic for a globe. The pages spilled secrets I wish Id never read.
After I was born, shed left me in a childrens home. My fatherthe man I called Dadwasnt my real one. The village gossip had forced her to take me back a year later, only after my aunt shamed the family into it.
That night, I confronted her. Without reading a word, she tore the diary to shreds. But the damage was done.
An invisible wall rose between us. I seethed with betrayal. The threads binding mother and daughter had snapped. From then on, I vowed my children would be raised by their own father and motherno step-parents.
Oliver, sensing Mums venom, suggested another child. “She wont drag you away with two,” he reasoned. I didnt argue.
Little Thomas was born. Mum still raged:
“Honestly, Emily, that tyrants tied you down with another baby! And youre blind to it! That dog strays left and rightmark my words, youll regret this!”
She wasnt wrong. Oliver was a charmer, and women clung to him like wet leaves. The day I ended up in hospital, wed fought over one such womanbold enough to visit our home, certain I was at work. But Id left early, sick with a headache.
I walked in on them half-dressed in our bedroom, champagne in hand. The girl bolted, shoving me aside. My head hit the floor. The concussion silenced Oliverfor a while.
His list of conquests was longcolleagues, old flames, strangers. You cant catch the wind in your hands. Still, I thanked God hed never fathered another child. That wouldve shattered our family.
Years later, my William repeated historya mistress, a secret daughter. His lawful wife and child suffered. Children always pay for their parents sins.
Ill never understand Mum. Once your child marries, your jobs done. Be there, but dont meddle. Let them make their own mistakes.
As my gran used to say:
*”Tend to your own gardens broken glass.”*
Some conflicts never die. We keep stepping on the same rakes, deaf to sense.
Mum and I havent spoken in three years. A stubborn silence. She tells everyone her son-in-law isnt fit to lick my boots.
But Mummaybe I deserve exactly the man I have.
I wouldnt want any other.
