Not Giving Up My Son
Youre not listening, Emily, said Patricia, folding her hands over her chest like a judge passing sentence, The boy deserves a proper life, not just you and your watercolours.
Its my life, Patricia. And his as well.
Patricia, steady and as grand as a Georgian wardrobe, stood in the middle of her sitting room. On her finger sat a diamond ringlarge enough to keep her firmly grounded. Behind her, young Matthew, six, sat in an armchair, clutching a new shiny red toy fire engine and staring determinedly at its wheels.
Emily waited in the doorway. Shed come to collect her son after tea. Theyd agreed on eight. It was now pushing ten, and Patricia was acting as if no such arrangement had ever existed.
Matthews staying overnight, Patricia intoned. Ill take him to school myself in the morning. My driver will bring the car round.
I dont need a driver. I take him myself.
On what? That battered bus?
Emily felt a familiar tightness bloom in her chestnot hurt, exactly, but the kind of bone-deep fatigue that accumulates by the year.
Matthew, she called softly, Get your things, love. Were going home.
The boy looked first at his mother, then his grandmother. Patricia merely raised an eyebrow. It was enough.
Mum, can I stay and play a bit longer? Matthew said, barely louder than a mouse.
You heard him? Patricia declared, triumphant. The child has spoken for himself.
Emily stepped inside, into the plush warmth and expensive gloom.
Matthew, come on, please. Time to go.
Emily, came a voice from the hallway.
It was Andrew, tall, in a pale blue shirt, mobile glued to his handa man so perpetually attached to his phone, youd think hed developed a rare tropical malady.
Emily, pleaseits not worth the fuss. Mum just wants a bit more time with her grandson.
Thats two whole hours past when we agreed, Andrew.
Oh, what agreement? Were family.
Exactly! cut in Patricia, advancing a daunting step. Family. But you, Emily, youre always fighting us.
Emily looked at her husband. He stared at his phone as if the answer to everything might be hiding in a WhatsApp group chat.
She remembered a conversation before their wedding: that coffee shop with wobbly wooden tables where Andrew had said she was different, that hed never met anyone quite like her, that he admired her quiet world, the way she painted, her gentle silences. Emily, young and in love, believed him.
Later, it seemed hed admired something more convenientsomething quiet and pliant and unlikely to argue with his mother.
She reached for Matthews hand. Lets go.
Emily! Patricias voice grew sharp. Youre hurting the boy.
Mums right, muttered Andrew, never looking up. Dont cause a scene.
A scene? Emilys tone grew brittle, like a violin string under stress. Andrew, your mother just refuses to let me take our son home. This isnt a scene; this is reality.
Youre exaggerating.
Im exaggerating.
She watched him. His eyes stayed firmly fixed on the screen.
Fine then, she said evenly.
And left.
Down the long hallway lined with elaborate oil paintings and gold-framed mirrorsnot an ounce of warmth about the placeEmily walked past pristine potted plants that had never, by the looks of them, witnessed a real leaf fall. Patricia seemed to have furnished her house for an interiors magazine, not a family.
Outside, the October air was wet and thick; she climbed into her old hatchback, the one with a scratch on the passenger side, sat awhile, then started the engine and drove away.
Their own three-bedroom flatbought five years ago with a little something put in by Patricia (a fact she recalled at every opportunity)was quiet. Emily flicked on the light in her small art studio. Papers, tubes of paint, brushes, and an unfinished illustration for a childrens book waited on the desk. A girl on a swing, surrounded by a golden garden, leaves tumbling around her; there was something you couldnt name in the girls eyes. Not joy or sorrow. Something real.
Emily slumped onto the chair and stared at the page.
She was from Norwich, a thoroughly normal English city. Her mother, a teacher; her father, a mechanic. Their flat: small, with bright curtains, and a chubby ginger cat called Morris. Emily had drawn since she could hold a crayonacross jotters, the walls of her bedroom, whatever was to hand. Her mother never scolded, just said, Let her. Means she sees the world in her own way.
She went to art college, then to university in London. There, she met Andrew: a law student, confident, funny, generous, the sort who sends flowers just to prove a point. Emily fell fast (and, as it turned out, blindly).
Her mother-in-law arrived soon after the wedding. Before, Emily had met her only twice: at the engagement and the wedding itself. On both occasions, Patricia had been perfectly polite in that rather pointed way that made it clear Emily had not yet earned her place.
When Matthew was born, politeness evaporated.
Patricia, long widowed, had inherited a stately home in the Hertfordshire countryside, a flat near Hyde Park, and quite enough money to never let the price of a loaf trouble her sleep. Andrew, her only son, was her undisputed darlingand when Matthew arrived, Patricia promptly set her sights on her grandson.
She would let herself in without so much as a knock, bearing things Emily hadnt asked for: that the nappies you use are cheap, that you feed him all wrong, that hes left to chill on a draught, that Emily coddles him too much and hell grow up dependent, or not enough and thus emotionally stunted. The grievances changed, the tone did not.
Andrew, ever the diplomat, would disappear into the kitchen to check the fridge, or would find some urgent call he simply must take, or just bury himself in his phone while his mother ran a one-woman Ofsted inspection.
One evening, Emily finally asked:
Why dont you ever say anything to her?
What would I say? Shes just involved, thats all.
She told me yesterday Im a rubbish mum.
She merely said youre over-anxious. Thats a bit different.
Its exactly the same.
He gave her the look people reserve for complaints about discount teabags: as though shed raised a fuss over things that simply didnt matter.
Emily, dont take things to heart. Shes just a lonely old lady, thats all.
Emily had learnt that silence and drawing were sometimes the only way to survive. While Matthew slept, shed paintsmall illustrations, which she started selling online. One publisher noticed, then another. Slowly, she built up real work, with real contracts and actual pay.
Patricia found out, and a new line of commentary began.
Youre sat at your pictures while the childs left to his own devices.
Hes at nursery. I work when hes at nursery.
Its hardly work, darlingits a hobby. If it were a proper job, youd earn proper money.
I earn enough.
Enough? Patricia’s voice went up a register, like enough was a dirty word.
Later that evening, Emily sat reflecting, remembering how Matthew had looked between her and his grandmother, how Andrews head had stayed dutifully bent to his screen.
Andrew came home just before midnight.
He went straight to the lounge and flopped onto the sofa. Emily emerged from her studio.
Did you bring Matthew? she asked.
He stayed with Mum. Hes fine.
Did you tell her it wasnt right?
Oh, please, Emilydont start.
I have to, Andrew. If I dont, no one ever does. You just stare at that phone while your mother decides where our child should sleep.
She is his grandmother.
And I am his mother.
You made a scene. Mums rightyoure too tense.
Emily stood rooted to the spot. He looked small and slumped, as familiar and distant as a favourite mug youve dropped and glued back together one time too many. She thought of all the years shed waited for him to finally grow up, to finally stand by her, to choose her and Matthew over his mother and that damn mansion.
Suddenly, a new certainty settled over her. She wasnt waiting anymore.
Andrew, she said, quiet but definite. Go.
He looked up, genuinely startled.
What?
Go, Andrew. Back to your mums. Take what you need, but go. Tonight.
Youre joking?
No.
He stared for a long minutethen, giving a weird, sheepish little laugh, left the keys on the table and went.
Emily stood in the silent flat a long time, listening to the rain. Matthew had school tomorrow. He was still at Patricias. What came next, she didnt knowexcept that shed be at the gates first thing. Alone. And shed bring her son home.
She didnt sleep. Just sat in her studio, thinking. She remembered the sound Matthew made when he really laughedtossing back his head, crinkling his nosea strangled giggle that no word ever quite fitted, the kind you had to hear for yourself. She remembered the first time he picked up a paintbrush, two and a half, drawing one long, serious red line as if signing a peace treaty. Cooking pancakes together on Sundays, batter everywhere, both of them cackling like lunatics.
Those moments were real. Shinier than any red fire engine a grandmother could buy.
In the morning, Emily put on jeans, a jumper, her blue raincoat. No make-up; she wasnt on show. Just a woman walking towards her son.
Patricias house still loomed behind a set of gates and a button-ready intercom.
Who is it? came the housekeepers voice.
Emily Gordon. Matthews mother.
Pause. Then the gates scrolled open.
Patricia was already waiting in the hallway, crisp and neat in her casual cashmere, hair set for any possible dignitary.
Youre early.
Ive come for Matthew.
Hes having his breakfast.
Ill wait.
Patricia motioned her inside. Emily perched in the imposing sitting room (high ceilings, parquet flooring, silk curtains to the floorluxury so precise it felt like being trapped in a catalogue), while Patricia sat opposite, studying a point just past Emilys left ear.
Ill say this plainly, Patricia began, Ive made my enquiries. Your income is patchy. Some weeks you have commissions, some not. Thats hardly suitable for raising a child.
I manage.
For now. What if you couldnt? Matthew needs stabilityschool, sports, trips. These all need money you simply do not have.
He has what he needs.
Pictures? Patricia asked, her voice sweet as Bitter Lemonwith more sting than a slap.
Yes, said Emily, including pictures.
Patricias brow twitched. Youre a clever girl. Dont do anything foolish. Andrews ready to come home. Patch things up and well forget any of this happened. Matthew will have a proper life again.
He has a proper life.
He has a poor one.
Theyre not always the same thing.
Patricia stood, gliding up and down the room in her signature walkdemanding, filling the air, occupying the territory until you felt about four inches tall.
If necessary, Ill go to court, she threatened. I have the means. I can prove you dont provide, your jobs too unreliable, your place too small, youre too distracted with work.
Try it. Emilys voice was soft, calma fact, not a challenge.
Patricia paused. For the first time, she actually looked at Emily.
Matthew!
Her voice carried. Shortly, the boy appeared in the doorway, still in pyjamas, holding a buttered slice of toast. He froze at the sight of his mother.
Mum?
Hello, love. Emily stood but stayed stilla soft smile. Finish your toast, then well go pack, yes?
Matthew, Patricia tried, dont you want to see that new cartoon? I promised to find it for today.
Matthew looked at his grandmother, then at his mother.
Emily crouched to his eye line. Remember pancakes? We planned some for this weekend. And the dragon you started drawing? Hes still missing his tail at home.
He needs a tail, Matthew nodded, distracted, the toast long forgotten.
Exactly. And a dragon without a tailwell, that simply wont do.
A crooked half-smile appeared on his face. His eyes were wide (his fathers), but there was something of Emily there toosomething that could see inside, not just out.
Cartoons can wait, he piped up. Ill go with Mum today.
Patricia was so still she couldve been carved from marble.
Fine, she said at length. Go get dressed.
Matthew dashed off. The adults stood awkwardly in silence; Emily watched the October garden through the tall windowbare trees, the sort that gather secrets.
You think youve won, Patricia finally murmured.
Emily shook her head. No. I think Im just going home with my son.
Matthew thundered down the staircase, school bag swinging. Emily took his hand and out they went.
Her car was waiting by the gate. She buckled him in, started the engine. All was quiet until, as they turned down the avenue, he asked:
Mum, will Dad be there?
Not today.
Hes gone to see Granny?
Yes, love.
Is he coming back?
The road was slick, leaves sticking to the tarmac, orange and brown.
I dont know, sweetheart, Emily said honestly. Not right now.
He considered this. Alright, he replied, and turned to watch the rainy window.
In his alright was all the bigness and smallness of being six. Something inside Emily shifted. She gripped the steering wheel tighter.
The next weeks didnt get easier. Andrew called a number of timesinsisting she was being unreasonable, that it wasnt how families solved things, that Matthew missed having his father around, and that, by the way, his mum had done a lot for them. Emily listened, giving only non-committal hums. She knew he meant it. That, in its way, was the problem.
He wasnt crueljust not up to the job. Hed never learned to choose. Never learned to fight, only to deferto stand next to her, not off to the side with his phone.
In November, Emily filed for divorce. Patricia, true to her word, sent in a sharp-suited solicitor, stacks of documents proving Emily wasnt providing: not enough cash, tiny flat, too busy for time with her son. The court process began in December and dawdled right into summer.
Emily worked more than ever. She took every commissionillustrations, book covers, little posters for childrens charities. More publishers noticed. An editor wrote that her drawings had their own pulse. Emily had no idea what that meant, but it was lovely just the same.
She didnt lose. Her solicitor was no star in the courtroom (he certainly didnt own a fountain pen), but was meticulous and genuine. By then, Emilys income was up, the flat was hers by inheritance on her mothers side, and Matthew was thrivinga happy, gentle boy, well-attached.
The judge granted Patricia scheduled visitation rights. Patricia, predictably, arguedbut the law is the law.
Andrew finally agreed to the divorcehesitant, slow, after a slew of poignant late calls. Once in a while, he talked about reconciliation. Emily listened, indifferent. It wasnt anger; just a feeling of distance, as if he was phoning from another country.
Matthew saw his dad on Sundays. Andrew would take him to the cinema, the park, sometimes back to the big house. Matthew would return quieter than usual. Emily let it be. Shed feed him, get out the paints, and eventually he would warm up and become himself again.
One day, after visiting his father, Matthew said, Granny says you and Dad were both wrong.
Emily poured some tea.
Do you think its possible both people can be wrong?
Thats what she says.
Maybe it is, said Emily.
And you?
She looked at himseven years old, head tilted, eyes serious.
I think what matters isnt whos right or wrong, but what you do next.
He considered this. Thats a clever answer.
Or a slippery one.
Whats slippery?
Its when you dont answer directly.
Oh, he said, and wandered off to draw.
Two years passed since Emily came home that October night alone. Two years that were by no means easy, but were at least real. There was fatigue, too many nights she fell asleep over her digital tablet, weeks when the bank account rang alarmingly empty and dinners were creative acts involving the fridges last scraps, cheerfully dubbed culinary adventures for Matthews benefit. There were plenty of silent evenings when the phone didnt ring and she wasnt always sure what to do with herself.
But there was something else.
There were those Sunday mornings where they made pancakes and put them to cool on the windowsill, breathing in the moist scent of pavement and fallen leaves. Matthew would eat pancakes with his hands, laughing that untranslatable laugh.
There were wintry evenings when Matthew got ill and Emily would sit by his bed, reading until he drifted off, his little hand curled firmly around one of hers.
There was the day he brought home a drawing from schoolpraised by his teacherand the first thing he did was say, Mum, Ill show you!, her first and foremost, which mattered more than any court ruling.
Patricia still had Matthew on her allotted days. At first, she tried to maintain a running commentary on Emilys parenting at every handover, but Emily kept to please and thank you, never rude, never spoiling for a row. The conversation shrivelled on the vine.
Over time, Patricias speeches faded to mutters. The visits continued, but any emotional skirmishes dwindled.
Andrew moved to a different part of town. Through friends, Emily heard he was seeing someone new. It hovered in her mind for a day or two, before dropping away like the weather forecast for a city where you no longer live.
Her career kept on quietly growing. She inked new contracts. Her name popped up in parents groups discussing best childrens books. Someone wrote online: Emily Gordons illustrations are honest and alive; children get them. Emily found the post by accident and read it over twice, then a third time.
Honest and alive.
Maybe because she drew what she knewa boy with syrup on his chin, a mum reading by lamplight, a cat gazing out the window. Nothing made up, just what was there.
Around November, two years after it all began, Matthew came home from school clutching a piece of paper as if it were the Magna Carta.
Mum, lookI made you something.
They sat in the kitchen. Milk was warming on the hob, early darkness pressed at the window.
Emily took the leaf.
It showed a house: small, two windows shining yellow. Two figures stood at the front: one tall, one short. The big one held the smallers hand. Above, a navy sky peppered with slightly wonky stars. In the corner, labouring with a crayon, hed written, US.
Emily stared at the picture.
Nothing fancy about the house. The figures, a bit wobbly, as only a childor a cubistcould manage. The stars uneven. All wrong, and yet entirely right.
Is this us? she asked.
Course! grinned Matthew. Us and our house.
Its brilliant.
The dragons tail is done too, he added. Want to see?
Absolutely.
Ill fetch it!
He barrelled out. Emily propped his drawing by her mug, looking at it under the kitchen light. The milk on the hob crept towards disaster, and she quickly poured it into two mugs.
Mum! called Matthew from his room. Can dragons have two tails?
They can if they want to.
Cool!
First snow fell beyond the glass: soft, slow, the sort that melts on contact. The kitchen was warm; the milk steamed; the drawing with crooked stars and US in the corner stood guard beside the kettle.
Matthew came back with a new drawing, plopped in his chair, sipped milk.
See, one tail is all spikyits for battle, and this one is soft, for showing off.
I see, clever boy. Ones for fighting, ones for style.
He beamed. You always get it, Mum.
She watched him, his proud face, the double-tailed dragon, outside the gentle snow.
Mum, Matthew said, can we make pancakes tomorrow?
Is it Sunday?
Yup!
Then absolutely. With jam?
With jam.
He began to draw again. Emily held her mug, watching him shading a dragon tail. Somewhere, life kept galloping on, for everyone. Maybe somewhere Patricia sat grandly in her big house, Andrew played at building something new; it all went on, just not herenot in this little bright kitchen.
Emily finished her milk, picked up the US drawing.
Where shall we put it?
Matthew looked up. On the fridge? Thats the important spot.
Good idea.
She pinned it up, took a few steps back, checked that it was straight.
Is it alright there? Matthew mumbled, tongue out, focused on his masterpiece.
Perfect, said Emily.
