Novella Express #3 - Sonia Hadj Said - E-Book

Novella Express #3 E-Book

Sonia Hadj Said

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Beschreibung

Edition #3 of Novella Express A New Dawn for the Novella featuring: • Bluebird by Sonia Hadj Said • Between the Virgin and the Sea by Cath Barton • Dear FIN by Andrea Layne Black Novella Express is a book series publishing novellas submitted from around the world. CONTRIBUTING TO EDITION #3: Bluebird starts on a morning that the protagonist believes to be the end of her life. An immigrant from Eastern Europe, the narrator has spent the last ten years thriving to be a writer or a journalist in London and failing on every front. In a bid to try and save herself, she takes a month off from her catering job and takes us down memory lane of experiences of being a young immigrant woman as well as a struggling artist. Minimum-wage jobs, unpaid internships, school certificates, rented rooms in dangerous-feeling areas, nightlife, rejections, family expectations: these are all entwined in her inner monologue as she fights for her own life before time runs out. Without sentimentality, Sonia Hadj Said's captivating novella records the casual cruelties of life and its fleeting moments of human connection and tenderness as an immigrant woman attempts to reconcile herself to the world around her. Cath Barton's melancholic novella Between The Virgin and the Sea is set in an unnamed city which has fallen off the map of the world, and is accessible now only by sea. Violence has broken out in the city and the people, fearing that the church is involved, pray instead at roadside shrines. The story tells the events of a day at the end of which the white statue of the Virgin which stands on a hill overlooking the city may ― or may not ― come to life to restore peace to its people. Central to the story and living in the barrios is a boy called Tag, the things of which he dreams and the maps he draws. Set in a surreal and changing city, in which pizza delivery is carried out by donkey, and nothing may be what it seems, Between the Virgin and the Sea explores themes of childhood and coming of age. A captivating blend of magical realism, tender comedy, and literary experimentation, Between the Virgin and the Sea is a captivating portrait of urban life quite unlike any other. Andrea Layne Black's LGBQT novella Dear FIN tells the story of Jack Wilson, a young man mourning his beloved dog, on the eve of his 17th birthday and the six-year anniversary of the tragic death of his parents, as he struggles with friends, family, sexuality, and his troubled feelings in the small coastal community of Old Riverdam. Dear FIN creates the dazzling, funny, and raw world of a troubled teenager; coming of age; coming out; coming to terms; and coming together with new friends and loves. The narrator Jack is an instant friend to the reader, too ― and Jack will make you look at life more differently than ever before. A book that dives deep into the pressures of how mental health and loss can take a toll on your life, Dear FIN is a fun heart-pounding novella that looks at coping with loss. To read Dear FIN is to step with Jack as he struggles with friends, family, sexuality, and his troubled feelings in the small coastal community of Old Riverdam. A funny and charismatic tale from Canada, Dear FIN is a satisfying and thoughtful novella, within which the reader can unusually participate. Published by Leamington Books, Edinburgh

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

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CONTENTS

Title PageBluebird Sonia Hadj SaidWithout sentimentality, Sonia Hadj Said’s captivating novella Bluebird records the casual cruelties of life and its fleeting moments of human connection and tenderness as an immigrant woman attempts to reconcile herself to the world around her.About the AuthorBetween the Virgin and the Sea Cath BartonCath Barton’s melancholic novella Between The Virgin and the Sea is set in an unnamed city which has fallen off the map of the world, and is now accessible only by sea. A captivating blend of magical realism, tender comedy, and literary experimentation, Between the Virgin and the Sea is a spellbinding portrait of urban life quite unlike any other.About the AuthorDear FIN Andrea Layne BlackAndrea Layne Black’s LGBQT novella Dear FIN tells the story of Jack Wilson, a young man mourning his beloved dog, on the eve of his 17th birthday and the six-year anniversary of the tragic death of his parents, as he struggles with friends, family, sexuality, and his troubled feelings in the small coastal community of Old Riverdam.About the Author Copyright

BLUEBIRD

Sonia Hadj Said

Copyright

Bluebird Copyright Sonia Hadj Said 2023

Published by Novella Express An imprint of Leamington Books 32 Leamington Terrace Edinburgh Scotland

Cover Image by Tangletree Designs Layout by Cavan Convery Set in Perpetua by Leamington Books

This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library

eISBN 9781914090714leamingtonbooks.comnovella.express/bluebird

BluebirdDla Pauliny

 

 

 

Worldwide Folklore: symbol of joy and happiness

 

 

Polish Folklore: someone irresponsible, reckless, carefree, a parasite

Content Notice

While beautifully written this story contains elements that might not be suitable for some readers, and material that might even make them feel bad; for example suicide and self-harm, violence, blood, racism, drug abuse and hateful language. This notice exists to prevent the possibility of exposing someone with past trauma, to something that might insight a physical and / or mental reaction. Bluebird is a novella written with urgency and focus, and at its heart describes the mental health experiences of a young immigrant woman, and this notice is here to give individuals the forewarning necessary for them to make use of the strategies that will decrease the harmfulness of encountering triggering material.

Bluebird

It began on a day I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want the sun to tickle me gently and tell me a nice story with a happy ending. The sun had been lying to me, you see. So, I said, ‘No, no my darling, I don’t believe you no more so go and make someone else’s day better.’ I changed my religion to grey skies that told no lies, didn’t force me to smile or pretend. I thought I was feeling better, but people believed I was sad. I didn’t understand my mind. It was blank, with no more answers to give me. It stopped talking, shaking its head apologetically. I was alone, I realised. What was that feeling, I could not explain. But I knew that a part of me was lost somewhere along the way.

A way to my dreams and ambitions, and nothing stopping me. Until, as it turned out, the finish line nowhere in sight and already, there was none of me left to continue. Haven’t I sacrificed enough? But it didn’t matter as I had nothing left to give anybody, including me. Of course, I wondered how did I get here? What was my mistake or if there were any in the first place that I made. Do you ever feel like you’ve done it all, you squeezed that bottle, cut it in half with scissors, scrap that content to the bottom and still not be satisfied? Yes, that’s how it felt. But I wasn’t sad. You can’t simplify that. Not when you spend your entire life on happiness drugs, always trying to make shit happen even when shit hits the fan. You can’t stop and say, ‘Look, I think I’m depressed.’ That’s how it began. My brain was talking to me in strange, new ways. I told it to go away, I really did. I said, look, I’m not a wuss, I’m an Eastern seed. We do things differently. We’re strong and don’t complain. We like to move away, far, far away from homes and things to tie us down, things that make us weak. So there, I did not believe in anxiety or depression. I had a different name for that: a lost interest in life.

Covered with a cloak of nothingness that would make me invisible, I tried to hide for a while. What do you do when you have no money, can’t go anywhere (need to pay the rent) and wake up each day thinking, ‘This is hell. I don’t see myself surviving this mess’. What do you do when you sit at work, eating teriyaki salmon, yum, yum, thinking about suicide. The point is, I don’t want to die. Does it make me safe and normal again? This haziness is too much to bear, I want to run away. This world is too small for me. I won’t go. I won’t lose this fight with London, my forever muse. What do you do when there is nothing left but a steady thought telling you that’s it, thank you and next. You have been replaced.

So I took a month off from work and life that hasn’t been there with me anymore. I gave myself a month to find myself again, like in bad Hollywood movies with blank characters that just sit 10around, waiting for magic. Why magic? It’s that moment where everything magically changes in one song, the protagonist realises their faults, they look in the mirror and make a vow to change their life at just a perfect moment in the script and bum, end of film. But my magic is a cold pint of beer and a frantic dance. It’s drugs to keep me awake and do more and more since nothing works. My magic is irresponsible sex with a guy who has no name. This state, this is fine, I can live with that. But the weakness of my mind that is begging me to give up and shut down, I don’t think this is a way to survive. So, I took a month off, a stupid thing to do, but in my case, when shit gets dark and you don’t feel alive, it was a lifeline that I had to throw myself because guess what, there is no one here to help you get through this mess. Oh, I should try NHS?

I talked to a girl who wanted to kill herself and unlike me, looked for professional and free help. Three months wait on a “I want to kill myself” list after which they cancel and leave you to be. Samaritans call and warm advice; go back, tell them you need help, they can’t ignore your pain.

‘Hello, is this NHS? I’ve been thinking about killing myself and you’re refusing me help. This is unacceptable and I wish to be seen, inserted with a happy pill.’ So instead let’s take time off and save ourselves in any available way. On my last day of work, when I wanted to Dracarys everyone (I’ll get to that), I realised why. It just got too much. And I’m a strong slut, look at me swearing, drinking big pints, just trying to find a way out. Do you know what a big problem is? People and their opinions that usually no one needs. Yes, sure, my depression speaks. But it also wants everyone to shut up and keep their fucking advice about my life. Because on my last day, before the “holiday” I thought I could kill some men. The witty mouths with shit on their minds. Telling me to smile. Say something funny, then? Telling me not to eat so much, I’m getting fat. ‘Was that your second or third dinner?’ Well, I’m sorry my depression isn’t anorexic. So keep your advice, I told you anyway, we’re not going to fuck.

Someone told me that’s because people care about me, and I laughed. I thought, if their care makes me want to die, am I the crazy one or is everyone else just completely mad and fucked up? On the last day before my break, where this introduction ends, I heard people say, ‘You should go and write some things. You should be a journalist. It’s so easy. After all, you have a degree.’ Jeez, I said. Is that all? Silly, stupid me.

They said I’ve wasted my life. I knew I would either leave or go Dracarys on the whole place. Where to? Preferably to my bed. I did 11not see another way. No place or human to save me. No amount of sun or Tuscan hills. What would I give to be depressed but rich, to be able to help myself instead of giving into nothingness. The only truth I knew was this: I lost all will to live. Challenge accepted.

*

The hardest thing in an artist’s life is to keep parents calm and to make them realise this is a road chosen by you. No amount of talk will do. The demons that are thrown your way will dance around your head. They won’t leave or hold your hand; that’s not their job. It’s your parents’ work. They struggle but never give up completely. They beg, threaten and cry: ‘Demons have become your friends and you’re mixing with a bad crowd!’

But the time comes when you want to leave that dance. When your parents have almost given up. Suddenly, you see yourself standing on a street’s curb, holding onto your phone. No one to call. There is only one person that will answer. See, you’re a fucking kid again, just longing for your mother’s warm embrace. But there you imagine her, sitting on an old chair, grey-haired. Still worried but now she wants nothing for you, just one comforting thought that when she’s gone, you will survive.

I read a great thing about being happy. Because that’s what we’re trying to do here, right. That’s what drove me to complete hopelessness – the search for happiness on my terms. I thought I was revolting and listening to my heart. But I read – and embrace yourself for that – whatever decision you made based on someone else became their influence. There I was in a little room with yellow walls. I looked back at my whole life. Eight years in hands of a cub is a long sentence of…choosing my life based on my pride. Choosing constant pain because that was the artist’s way. Choosing complete poverty because someone told me that’s how I would end up. Choosing shitty jobs with minimum wage to embrace this toxic affair. I was told my way of living had no chance. I thought I was going against it, choosing myself but really, every action made that hurt no one but myself was based on someone else’s words. I read that this was not happiness. I wish someone had told me that before.

Before I sacrificed everything.

Before I said no to one too many opportunities.

Before I pushed to prove.

Before I started breaking down under heavyweight of dreams unspent. 12

Before my mum begged me, ‘Be responsible, child.’

Before my dad said, ‘You won’t make living off that.’

Before knowing that their words would make up my mind.

Before I put ‘no regrets’ on my arm.

Before I was to regret every moment.

Before turning it into yet another poem.

Before I was published once.

Before my book got out.

Before I was too young to understand.

Before beautiful movies would make me dream again.

Before I felt like a sad joke.

Before years were passing by with me in the same place.

Before I saw a difference between making it and just living a decent life.

Before I knew I would be longing for all of that.

Before I read a book about being happy.

Before I stopped believing I would ever go lucky.

The hardest thing for an unfulfilled soul is to wake up on time. The beer is running out. Tobacco dry, coke won’t do a thing. Everyone around you is old and grown-up. Parents have almost given up. You long to be free at last from this desire to prove yourself, but to whom? Finally, there is silence around. You have space to breathe and see…who do you really want to be? Do you have the energy for the last try? What if it doesn’t work? You let it die. It’s a spontaneous decision made, but it feels like you have been preparing for that. At last, courage was born to say it out loud: I am tired with this life so I’m going to kill that part of myself, there is no other way. I don’t know what will be left, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does so I will put it on one card. One month. One life.

*

I could not say how many job applications I sent just how I don’t know how many men I let inside my bed. Now I think, these two things have so much in common, they affect each other like two toxic friends. There is no balance in this life, you can’t wrap it around your confused head as again, you put on a nice dress. Walking through that door, smile while you just want to be in bed, all alone. They asked why I wanted the job and my head screamed, ‘I’ve got bills to pay!’ But instead, I came up with a nice story of looking for glory in this sad, useless world. Every honest voice of mine tried no let me know that it didn’t feel right. But what awaited on the other side? Exactly. So, 13why do you want to work for that company? You don’t, you just want to be left alone. Can you start immediately? Sure thing, can’t wait. Just do a little test, sitting around a room with other ambitious souls that want to work for a right-wing paper that hates women, immigration, liberals and everything remotely good for this world.

That’s the moment you break, desperation in the air and you don’t want to be its friend. That’s when you know you fucked it up again; on purpose or because you’re not talented after all? Sorry, mum, I will keep on trying. In the meantime, hands shaking with disappointment and resentment, I still had to go to work and smile at people, serving their pork chops with hot gravy. But before, I said to myself, let me try and fix this miserable state. Because everyone fails at things they’re not sure they like. We do this to just carry on with lives, have something to show, a meaning behind our whole existence. To sit in front of a big boss and let him give us a job.

Without it we’re nothing or so society says. Free people are most damned because this isn’t a free world anymore, never has been but maybe it was easier to cope in it. Last night (I just remembered so forgive this detour), I met a lesbian with my name, it was so strange that we decided we had to be friends. She told me some stories of the old days. I asked her with glittering eyes and hope to hear the words, I said, ‘Was it easier then?’ and she looked at me surprised shaking her head. I was disappointed again.

Because it’s easier to be sad about times you couldn’t remember. She said, ‘Back then we worked for nothing and had no rights.’ So, we would not be friends because her story was not mine to tell. Earlier that day I went to see “Rocketman”. I cried inside for all the moments in the film that used to make me smile and now were just a slap on a face, a quiet voice that reminded me I gave up. Was that what it would be like from now on? Would I spend my days in a quiet cinema room and watch inspiring heroines go after their dreams, hating them bitterly while loving every second of work they did, thinking this should be me and could? So again, how do you get to that place of nothingness and resentment to a happy, ambitious and hopeful you?

Right, back to the story of my last job interview, after so many of them. I sat a test to be a reporter and felt like nothing could go worse at this moment, so I left, looking over the Thames, a beautiful day and a great view. I looked down, suddenly wanting to jump and asked myself, ‘Would you dare?’ I didn’t want an answer for that. I didn’t want to enjoy the weather and already, my mind was screaming for help so I gave it all I could afford. I went to Pret for a coconut 14coffee. It was one thing that made me feel warmer and safe. So, when the nice lady shook her head and said, ‘There is no coconut milk today’, guess what, that’s when I felt really upset. ‘Okay, Okay,’ I said, ‘That’s fine,’ tears rolling down my cheeks thinking hell, so that’s how a breakdown feels. But guess what, she gave me another coffee for free, poor woman, probably thinking I was crazy. I took it to the upper deck, put some music on although I hadn’t listened to music for so long, it had been irritating me. But that day I listened to lyrics about my life and didn’t see a way out. I cried like a little girl, unable to catch my breath, trying to escape to a British Museum where I could hide. Amongst historical ghosts and beautiful things, I tried to remember what life is. For the next month, I would try and answer that.

*

Mum said, ‘I will visit you one day. When your life is settled and you’re not a little, silly girl.’ Adults are supposed to know better. If you want a child to act a certain way, make sure to say the opposite. Lie if you don’t want to see their pain and the consequences of rebelling against what people say. So, this is how after eight years she gave up. And did I feel like a winner, as I thought so back when 22, screaming, ‘YOU WILL NOT HAVE MY SOUL.’ No, we both lost. I was at the same place, now rebelling against myself and my mum, well, she never wanted to win. She was just trying to break the curse.

Mum said, ‘I’m just so scared.’ She told me a story of a fortune teller and her prophecy when asked about our lives and what she could see. The wicked fairy laid out the truth. Her eyes were blind as she touched a photo of a little girl, me. ‘She will always chase after spoiled dreams,’ and that one thing would define me. ‘What else did the crazy bitch say,’ I begged my mum to tell me, so I could break the curse. Want to know what the future holds? There you go, ask a lady with a magic ball, and use it as truth. There is your line of every behaviour that affects you and the ones you want to protect, who in turn move against it and in the end, make it all come true. My mum would still not tell me how the story ends. Every time I ask, she shakes her head. In dark moments I wonder, is that when it all happens? Can I stop it, is there an antidote to a curse that got all tangled up in my own frustrating web?

*

15There is one way, my friend. The witch came to me in my sleep, laughing at the things she had seen. ‘I’m going to win,’ I mumbled, wasted with a poisonous drink she had brought me. She stopped smiling and said, ‘Shut up, look at yourself.’ She was so upset that I turned out weak and not at all what she expected me to be. ‘Shut up and look at the reflection of what you had become. The dark circles around your eyes and sleepless nights are not what makes you an artist. This body you ruined for short term pleasures and pain to feel bad for yourself. A cloudy head full of gods’ nectar that makes it feel okay the very next day when you wake up, put some rock and roll and feel like one of them.’

‘Please, help me then,’ I begged the witch. ‘Is there a cure for this state?’

‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘And it’s here. Your wake up call, the strongest antidote.’ She disappeared as I heard a knock on the door and with trembling hands, opened it, already knowing who was the guest. My mum walked in, curiosity on her face. ‘I have waited for years,’ she said. ‘Now I’m here. I realised, this is your adult life and I missed all of it. Show me what you have sacrificed everything for.’ Oh no, I thought. But I’m so lost. Still in the same little room and a shitty job (and you, mum will never know that I have taken a month off). Do you really want to meet your daughter? But she isn’t here, she has disappeared under the weight of her shit. Are you ready to see her real face? Am I ready to tell you how badly I failed?

I remember our last conversation when I tried to explain. I said, ‘Look mum, I’m sacrificing basic pleasures for lasting fame. This is the only way of getting there.’

‘Sacrificing what?’ you asked with a mock. ‘A career you don’t have? A relationship when your heart doesn’t know love? Success doing things you love? You’re sacrificing what, exactly?’ you asked and of course, I didn’t know. Now, you came to see for yourself. Maybe even understand. Or maybe to save me. To say, ‘My child, it’s all okay. You can stop running away. I won’t chase you anymore, I’m coming your way. Let’s meet there and stop, let’s understand.’ My mum was coming. I couldn’t wait.

*

We talked about the weather, getting on the 123 bus. She looked around with interest, so many different-coloured faces, what a painting. I prayed every minute of that first day. Please, let the kitchen be clean. Please, let my room look okay. Please, no fights outside local 16bars. Please, no crazy guys, walking around half-naked, showing off their ass. I realised it was one big: please, don’t let her see what my life is really about. So, I guess I did not get used to any of this, after all. I ignored things that seemed insane and evil. I walked home with head hung low, a key in my hand, ready to pierce someone’s neck. This is what you get when you settle for less because you believe that’s the only way. But look at your life through someone else’s eyes and the truth will hit you like a thousand-pointed guns. You can’t turn around from it and you can’t run so you stand there frozen, staring into the gun, shouting, ‘PLEASE, DON’T SHOOT, I’M INNOCENT!’ Are you?

Outside of a big but quiet cafe in St James’s Park (your legs were tired), we looked over hundreds of flowers and passers-by. Your eyes were sad. Life was getting hard. Back home, things were crumbling down as we decided that no one was safe. The coffee was creamy and sweet, I kept burning my tongue on all of the things I wanted to say. That I couldn’t carry on. But you were first. Yes, no one is safe when the strongest person you know breaks down and says, ‘I’m afraid it’s your turn.’ Shit. You’re not ready, so brush it off with a short nod, like you’ve got it. Yeah, no worries. I know. I’ve had my fun (and you paid for most of that) so now I will emerge calm and wise, say things like ‘I’m ready to settle down,’ so that you can relax, enjoy your visiting time. I hope you believe me as this once I mean it, mum. I want to buy nice clothes and have evenings and weekends off. I want to go on a hot vacation without worrying about spending money and the rest of the month when I haven’t got enough for basic stuff. I want you to talk about me with pride. But most of all, I want you to stop being so scared for my life. Look, it’s alright. I’ll get all of this in order, I’ve got one month (but you don’t know that).

You loved Nothing Hill and I laughed with all my heart when before arriving you said, ‘I want to go to that film place. You know, with a cute actor and a pretty street.’ It was Saturday – the worst day to visit as Portobello Market looked like an ants’ nest, everyone piled on each other, blind to the fact that they were on a simple street, that if it wasn’t for its fame, would mean nothing. It was similar to the journey me and my friends take, putting everything on one thing, betting our cards on one life, waiting for someone to decide we were worthy. If right now, someone with power came to your stinky area and made a film or wrote few lines, just wait and look for the prices to go up. Yes, even in Wood Green.

This is how I was walking down a never-ending street on a Saturday morning, ready to kill myself because after all, it’s just a 17street? Poor people living in the coloured houses, I wanted to say as I took my mum’s photo under one of them. But then, poor? Not very much. So fuck that, let’s take more! Let’s go along stalls with antiques and cutlery as I stand by, dreaming of owning my own little place. It doesn’t even have to be nice. Sad thoughts are creeping in again, I’m feeling depressed so I look over at my mum. ‘Disgusting,’ she says and I laugh so hard, my belly is hurting. Thank you mum this once for making me feel better about things that are out of my reach. What’s one person’s ceiling is another’s dirty floor, I was slowly understanding how much I’ve changed.

From silly dreams of fame to longing for a quiet place. A room of my own (never read the book, found it dull and didn’t appreciate the irony of me being locked in four yellow walls, always feeling them closing in on me, knowing that this was the only thing I could afford), just to be left alone. I went from expensive clothes and parties to second-hand finds and well…parties. From all-inclusive to feeling excluded from everything fun around the world. I went from wild dreams to dreamless nights with blackness in front of my eyes. I went from aggressive fights and standing up to big men to bending my ass so they could have a better shot at kicking me. I went from owning desires to desiring nothing but solitude, alcohol and sex. I went from trying to rebel against my mum to wanting to make her proud. I think I’m getting old, this is the first sign.

So maybe we weren’t at war anymore, but the battle could still be won. The battle of, ‘Why don’t you have this and that yet?’ And I didn’t even have to explain. London would do that for me. As we walked back to the main street (your feet were hurting and you needed coffee), you stopped by a letting agent without a word, counting in your head like every day at work for twenty-something years. Again, I wanted to laugh so hard at your amazed face. ‘What’s that price for?’, you asked. ‘For a month,’ I replied and you shook your head. ‘Then, what does it cost to buy the house?’ I pointed a little below at a long number. You lost all hope. We walked to a place called Le Pain blah, blah (‘Why French?’ you asked. Because that’s their territory). This time you took notice of the prices of scones and coffee. ‘Olaboga, you can afford this?’ you asked. I could tell you a lot of things, like, mum, chill. This is Nothing Hill. But instead, I shook my head in distress and said, ‘See, and you always say how I spend so much.’ You glanced around at fit friends and tourists like yourself. It was interesting. At 48, you were still learning. I joined in observing the world around us. It was easier to take pleasure in life when you were busy showing someone around. You could forget all troubles and 18just be that person again, someone new to the scene with big hopes and dreams of what life could be.

I ate a scone with big remorse, regretting not buying those beautiful artichoke hearts at the market. You told me to get them but the prices were so high, I said, ‘Look, stupid artichokes cost so much.’ You tried to convince me. ‘God, look at your face, you love them so much, just get it and let me pay.’ See, everything and nothing was the same. I still refused myself things I loved and that were good for me, settling for a fat scone (like in ‘Flowers’ TV show where Shun complained about butter being in everything in the UK, but later on I’ll explain), but this time I did not want you to pay for my way. Not the good nor the bad, my dear mum. I’m the adult one, showing you my town.

Heavy with unhealthy lunch, we went to Oxford Street. Shopping. Again, I used to live for this. Now I struggled to breathe as we passed by rich and fabulous. You saw beautiful clothes and lipsticks, tourists with Primark bags. We spent few hours walking around and I had so many stories to tell but now they were somewhat stuck in my throat. I was a little girl who could barely afford her rent. Staying away from places like this was the best way not to feel like you were missing out. Then, with time, you believed that. You focused on different things and went to different places. You met different friends. You just wanted to be yourself. What was that again? Damn, I can’t remember it here, on the third floor of Marks and Spencer where I’m trying on beautiful ballerina shoes. They’re leather. You find me, have a look and say, ‘Let’s take them, you need proper shoes, I can’t look at you.’

Mum, you’re the best guest, you make me laugh at times when I can’t remember what it was like to feel light and not wake up with a heavy burden on your chest. Because at that moment I remembered a little trick I used to have. When younger and poor (now just poor and mature), and visiting you, I made sure to wear the ugliest of shoes. The moment I stepped off that plane, you would look at me in distress and say, ‘What are these old things on your feet? Do you walk around London like that? No wonder you can’t get a good job.’ I giggled and replied, ‘But they’re my favourite’ (not true). And a moment later I was getting new, shiny shoes pretending to be sad when putting old ones in the trash. Of course this time again you said, ‘When we’re back at your place, you’re throwing these away.’

‘Okay, mum, okay,’ I said and hugged new shoes, feeling twenty again. 19

*

That should’ve been the end but that’s not why you came. You had worries on your head that you needed to get away from, but at the same time, watched me living my life in strange suspense of being constantly afraid to cross that comfortable line. Everyone has a different relationship with their mum and I always felt confident about mine. You always made it clear: I am not your friend, I’m here to guide you and make you the best version of yourself. Did I hate you for it, sure. And then you said, ‘This means I’m doing my job well.’ And it’s also how I knew that after few blissful days of you just playing a tourist, the time would come to lay the cards and have that battle of minds. The thing is, none of us had the energy for that.

I took you to the National History Museum. We walked through it quickly and I loved that we didn’t have to stop at every bloody stone. Then, moving to Victoria & Albert, you marvelled at the streets of South Kensington saying how this was a place to live. You were warming up. Inside, you found everything interesting, but mostly the place where they sold coffee. We managed to get a seat in that beautiful room with chandeliers on a weekend afternoon.

Sipping coffee, your time was slowly coming to an end. I just wanted to hide my head in your hands. The clock was ticking for me. I had three weeks of holidays left to figure out myself and so far, nothing but death and blackness ahead. So you looked at me and asked how I was doing. Your voice was different, soft and kind. I never heard it like that. I wanted to only do one thing: cry. But it wasn’t appropriate for us. Many times I cried in front of my dad to soften his heart (it always worked) but not for you as your eyes could pierce through every lie and doubt. This time I knew, if I cried, that would break you. I had to be strong for you when you told me about troubles at work and home, how nothing was permanent anymore. That was the moment. You gave me a chance to open up after all these years, silently promising you were here to hear. So I started slowly.