Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
My kids will never have such a memory. My kids will never lie in bed thinking no one would notice if they ran away because nobody comes to say goodnight to them anymore. They’ll never wonder what it feels like to make someone proud. Never have to feel afraid of going home, or making a mistake, or existing. If they remember me as cringe for hugging them too often, or boasting about them too loudly, I can very happily live with that.
“She doesn’t deserve you. Neither of them do.” The words sound crap as they tumble from my mouth. Becca’s better at this stuff.
“What do I do?” he asks, looking up at me like a lost puppy. This Dad shit was much easier when he came to me with scraped knees and bellyaches. “I swear, when I see Callum I’m gonna punch him in the fucking face. Absolute fucking weapon. He’s supposed to be—”
“That’s what you’re not going to do,” I interrupt. “He’s not worth getting yourself arrested for. I think you should…” Crap. “Damn, Ben, I don’t know. Shit, your mum and I were married at your age.”
That makes him scoff. He even manages a small smile. “That’s fucking mental.”
“All right, all right. Enough with the effin’ and jeffin’ now,” I say, figuring I have to parent at some point. He’s not wrong, though. I don’t regret marrying Becca at seventeen for even a second. We knew we were ready. We knew it was real. We knew it was forever. No one had ever loved me as much as her. Yet, looking at my own seventeen-year-old son before me, it doesn’t seem possible. Ben might think he knows everything, but he’s a child. A baby. Though I’m sure he’d hate me for saying it.
Were Becca and I children? Were we wrong? How could we be when we’re still together? Hardly anyone marries young these days, and even fewer stay married. We must be doing something right.
“Sorry,” Ben mutters, yanking me from my thoughts. “I just don’t think I’m getting married ever. Even if she gets pregnant.”
I laugh at that. “You know Mum wasn’t pregnant with Lucy when we got married, right? We did it because we loved each other.”
“Seriously?”
My mouth forms an O. “How do you not know that? Your sister is nineteen and your mum and I will be celebrating our twenty-first anniversary this year. Do the maths!”
“Numbers and I aren’t friends.” Sighing, he flops back into the cushions.
So do I. We’ve both had bad news today and it would appear there’s nothing either of us can do except stare at the blank TV screen and exhale loudly every twenty seconds or so. “Wanna beer?” I offer.
His head whips round so fast I’m surprised his neck doesn’t snap. “Serious?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re seventeen. You telling me you don’t drink beer?”
After taking a moment to consider his answer, or rather, whether to tell the truth, he cocks his chin upwards. “Sure. Cheers, Dad.”
“In the fridge,” I tell him, stretching my legs and crossing my feet over the coffee table. “I’ll have a bag of crisps while you’re in there, too.”
Ben tuts. “I’m not a bloody waiter,” he whines as he walks out.
“Why have a dog and bark yourself?” I call after him, chuckling at the memory of Becca’s dad. He always used to say that. I feel sad that our kids don’t remember him. He would’ve been a better grandfather to them than my own dad. I know that because he was a better dad to me. Alas, he died shortly after Ben was born.
Soon enough, Ben’s back and has mirrored my position with his fancy winged trainers up on the table. The cat’s perched in the middle, glancing between us with the evil eye like she’s plotting our demise. A few sips of lager later and Mercedes has evaporated from Ben’s mind, replaced by the excitement of his impending provisional driving licence. I want to be excited for him. I was excited for him twenty-four hours ago. Now, all I can think about is the cost of lessons, the price of a car, insurance, petrol…
“It should be here by now,” Ben complains. “I applied, like, six weeks ago.”
“Everything’s taking longer since covid. There are huge backlogs. Don’t worry, they’ll get to yours.” Easier said than done when you’re seventeen, impatient, and craving your independence and I know how annoying I sound when I hear my own words.
“Jordan’s arrived last week. They only applied for it five weeks ago. I reckon mine’s lost.”
Got to love teenage optimism. “Maybe Jordan had different documents or something. It did say on the form to allow up to ten weeks. It’ll come, don’t worry,” is all I can say. Again. We’ve already had this conversation several times.
The only response I get is a grumbling noise. “By the way, Jordan and Ella are coming over tomorrow after college. Don’t forget Jordan’s pronouns.”