Originally posted 2016-03-25 12:00:45.
When I was young they told me I was lucky. I had such great parents. My dad was handsome and cool. Long dark hair, motorbike. He looked like a Bay City Roller. And my mother. Oh those eyes. So pretty. She and my dad were such a pair. Only I knew what really went on behind closed doors. The drinking, the violence. One night I thought he’d killed her. I stayed hidden in my bedroom, waiting for morning and wondering if I still had a mother and if my dad was going to prison. Then I heard her cry and I breathed a sigh of relief.
When they divorced all my friends told me I was lucky. Now I’d be spoiled. Guilt would make them generous. It never did. My mother worried about the bills and took a second job. It seemed to be the making of her. Free from the shadow of my father she blossomed and bloomed and met someone new. They snuggled on the sofa so I stayed in my room.
My father had a wild old time once he moved out. But when he’d had a few he’d cry on the phone and tell me how much he loved and missed my mother. I’d wonder if he loved and missed me, but I never asked. I didn’t tell him about the new guy on the sofa.
When I was older and living on my own my parents told me I was lucky. I’d had such an easy childhood, not like them. They’d never even had a fridge freezer. I’d never wanted for anything. Easy life. And now I was all settled. Job done. I’d sit at home in the dark, thinking. Sometimes I’d cry and drink too much.
And today they tell me I’m lucky. My neighbour found me in time. She got me out of the bath, bandaged me up and called for an ambulance. And now I just lie here in my hospital bed wondering if this damn luck will ever run out.