Mater

1. One day when my brother was 6 or 7, my mother found a little booklet under his pillow, with the title ‘Girls that I have loved’.
Inside were four or five names, the inevitable hearts. She laughed and showed it to me. I didn’t laugh. I made her promise to put it back where it was and never, ever mention it to him. Even when he’d grow up to be 20, 30, whatever – just, never.

2. My mother has never been good at either respecting her children’s private life, or taking them seriously. Growing up was a painful business. I will always remember my 12th Birthday party, when she came back from the shop with a packet of sanitary towels and placed it on my dresser with the words ‘you’ll be needing these soon’. In front of all my friends. She didn’t want to humiliate me; she tried so hard to play it down she made it huge.

3. You’re right, in Californian psycho lingo, I think it’s called a lack of boundaries, or something.
She would read my letters instead of ask questions, then bring up the finer points at dinner: ‘what’s that about buying condoms?’ she’d drop, out of the blue, with a snigger. She would smirk a bit, use euphemisms. ‘That boy friend of yours’. I learnt to keep my letters well out of reach; and not under the pillow.

4. There has been progress though: from never knocking before coming into my bedroom, she now gives a perfunctory rap, and immediately barges in. Just before you ask if I’m still living at home, no I’m not; I left 12 years ago, and burnt all the old letters.

5. Six months down the line, I still haven’t told her that, yes, I have met someone, and that it’s good. I wish she would ask, but she doesn’t. I can’t just volunteer the information. I’ve tried. I’ve done role-plays. How can I drop it casually enough, but not so casually that she doesn’t smirk? Why doesn’t she ask, for the sake of Pete?

6. It’s the sniggering. It’s the euphemisms. I could defend my brother, but I can’t seem to be able to defend myself from her embarrassment at realising that her daughter has a life.

7. Six months, and it’s good. Mom, can you hear me? And no, it’s not a man with a good job, who knows lots of things and can teach me stuff.