The call came from Boy to excuse himself from Mother’s Day.
‘Would it be alright if he saw me the next day?’
There wasn’t much point in labouring the topic, so One agreed with a heavy heart.
One has been mindful of the years spent under the cloud of Aged P’s misery and bitterness and has endeavoured not to inflict the same tip-toeing, resentful life enjoyed by One and the Brother.
The tightening stomach and the shallow breaths of Sunday lunchtimes still loom large in One’s memory…
Every week we would gather ‘en famille’ to descend upon the Moat House restaurant for a Sunday roast.
Brother and One were duly kitted out in ‘Sunday best’ and positioned on the sofa awaiting the arrival of Father, who would have been working in the morning.
Without fail, he never, ever arrived at the appointed time and each second over the expected arrival wound the Mother into an increasing frenzy.
The eventual outing would be an indigestion inducing nightmare, peppered with spiteful repartee back and forth between the warring parents.
Any road up, Father is deceased and One would now go to the lengths of severing a limb to avoid spending time with the surviving Aged P, so One is mindful of the reluctance for Boy to see One.
It is only once a year though.
It’s Mothering Sunday, not Mothering Monday…