Fragments
Mrs. Harriet English, I’ll have a word with my son. It wont happen again!
I really hope so, Peter Thompson. Oliver is a bright boy! Hes clever, enthusiastic, and loves maths. And sports. You ought to find somewhere for him to channel his energy. Perhaps a football club or swimming lessons. Hes simply bouncing around with nowhere to put ithence the climbing across desks. I know you understandits risky. But thank you for helping repair the broken desk. Lets agree I wont report this, and youll see to it that Oliver is well-occupied.
Of course. I understand.
Harriet nodded to the Thompsons and smiled, turning toward the window. Olivers father looked much like a schoolboy caught out; shuffling his feet, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Only yesterday Harriet herself had been a university student, and now she was admonishing a grown manit felt strange.
Still, Oliver had a good fatherthat was obvious. He truly cared, surely hed do his utmost to raise the boy well. Harriet wasn’t sure she understood people yet, but she felt certain about this. There was something familiar in the way both father and son lowered their eyes before her; and the way Oliver grabbed his fathers hand as they left spoke of such trust, Harriet felt a sharp pang of envy. Shed never had that with a father; in fact, shed never had a father around at all.
Mum always dodged questions, refusing to tell me much about her past. It wasnt until I turned eighteen that she finally sat me down and told me how I came to be.
“Harriet, you’re old enough now. You deserve to know about your dad. Youve asked me so many times; it was never that I didnt have an answer. I just didnt want to upset you.”
“And now youll tell me?”
“Yes. Its time. You’re nearly an adultsoon youll have your own choices to make. I want you to make them knowing your own story.”
“Mum, youre scaring me!”
“No, darling! Theres nothing to be afraid of. Your fathers a wonderful manbright, talented, kind”
“So where is he then? Why havent I met him? Does his kindness not extend to his own daughter? Mum, doesnt that seem a bit odd to you?”
“Oh Harriet its so hard. Trying to explain my own life to you is harder than unloading a hundred train carriages.”
“Lets start at the beginning. Did he not want to see me?”
“Not quite. Harriet, I didnt want him to.”
“News to me! Why, can I ask? I remember searching every mans face for my dad as a child. I used to envy the other children something awful when their dads picked them up from nursery. Id watch as Emmas dad lifted her onto his shoulders, looking so proud, and shed stick her tongue out at us: see, thats my dad! I once even walloped her for it.”
“For what, showing off?”
“No. For her dad”
“Oh Forgive me, sweetheart. It was my fault you grew up with no contact with him.”
“Can you just explain what happened between you two?”
“I can. Though I doubt youll understand or forgive me. Still, Ive kept it quiet too long. Listen. You carry not your fathers surname, but my first husbands. But your middle name is from your dadI changed it for you when you were five. Dont ask why; it just seemed right at the time. But Ill start from the beginning. My first marriagea simple arrangement, as our parents planned our wedding before we were out of nappies. Our families were so close, breaking that promise never crossed our minds. We accepted it as fategrew up believing we were destined for each other.
“It sounds odd.”
“Youre telling me! Now I realise how unnatural it was. Back then, though, it was just life. We became the best of friends, closer than anyone else. I thought that was love. But it wasntat least, not the kind between a man and a woman. A kinship, a strong bond, but not love as one dreams of.
“I realised too late. Wed been married a year when I met your dad. And I was gonecompletely lost. It was a madness, really! Not just passion, although that was there. It swept us away, letting neither of us breathe nor pause to consider what we were doing.
“But the true difference was that I woke upI realised Id been living in a warm cocoon where everything was planned for years ahead: flat, car, job, careernothing left to worry about. Attempts to do things our own way were quickly put down: ‘Why bother? You have everything.’ We just drifted along, happily enough, until I met himyour father, Nicholas Evans. Athlete, painter, poeta wonderfully soulful man, who changed my life forever. The poetry he wrote for meI still remember every line by heart.
“Spare me the poetrywhere is he now?”
“He lives in Manchester, with his familyhe writes his verses now to his wife, not to me”
“So you still love him?”
“I never stopped”
“Then why didn’t you stay together? Was it your husband?”
“No, he didnt stand in the way. I was the problem!”
“Ive heard that before. But why?”
“Because I had you.”
“What, I ruined your life?”
“No! Dont even think like that. I lost myself, Harriet. My family and hisso tightly bound togetherdemanded I repent when I fell pregnant. Locked me away at my grans, arranging for the pregnancy to be ended without asking me. For a while, I was untouchable, an acceptable sacrifice to their peace of mind.”
“Horrible But you had me. Did they fail?”
“They didbecause of my first husband, Simon. He went against all his upbringing, helped me escape. He was prepared to raise another mans child as his own, out of nothing but love. Only later did I realise how deep his feelings ran. Unfortunately by then it was too late. He did everything to make sure I was safe; put me in touch with his friends in Newcastle, where neither my parents nor Nicholas could find me. I lived with them for over two yearsgrandad John and grandma Margaret, you remember?”
“I used to believe they were my real grandparents until you told me otherwise. I was so angry! Decided Id keep on believing they were mine, all the same. But, Mum, if you loved Dad so much, how did you just leave? How did you manage, pregnant and alone, among strangers?”
“Because everything fell apart the day Simon brought me to Nicholas and I told him about the baby.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing much. Just a pausea look in his eyes that said everything. He didnt believe me. He didnt believe the child was his.”
“And that was enough for you to walk away?”
“Yes at the time, that was enough. I was so torn that the smallest doubt made me run. I should have explained, tried to fix it. Later, I learned that my mother convinced Nicholas the baby wasnt his; told him hed been just a distraction for a bored young wife. He believed her lies; I couldnt understand why he didnt fight for mefor us.”
“If hed really loved you, he would have. Would you have forgiven him if he had come back?”
“No, I couldnt. He gave up on meon you too, even if only for a moment. He believed what shouldnt have been believed”
How do you know all this?
“He told me himself when you were three. I was in London finalising my divorce, and he came just to close things properly.”
“Did you reconcile?”
“As you can seeno. I let him go, forgave him, and moved onnot as a child, but as someone whod finally grown up. If Id seen him try to connect with you, I might have changed everything. But he never tried; he looked past you to me, but never saw you at all. His kindness, which I know is real, wasnt enough for his own child. And without you, Im nothing. Youre the gift life gave me, undeserved perhaps, but very cherished. My anchor.
I love you too, Mum. May I ask something?
Of course, anything.
Why didnt you stay with Simon? I think you loved him a little, too.
I did. Thats precisely why I left and why I cut contact once I was settled. He visited and tried to meet, but I refused. Guilt, mostly. I could never love him as he loved me. And yes, I didnt want to ask him to raise anothers child. He deserved a family of his own, with a woman whod love him back and bear his own children.
Do you miss him?
Very much. He was my best friend.
Would you like to see him again?
No, darling. Best let old wounds rest. Our lives have diverged and wont meet again. What matters now is you. Do you want to meet your father?
I wasnt ready to answer. Mum said she didnt want to see Nicholas, but perhaps she was hoping Id say yes, so shed have an excuse to see him again. I asked for time to think.
Fine. I have his contact details. If you decide, Ill buy your train ticket and book your hotel.
And you wont come?
She smiled, and I saw more sadness and tenderness there than words could say.
No, darling, no. Thats in the past. Im grateful that Ive known real lovelove that sets your heart ablaze at a single word or touch. But thats gone now. All thats left are fragments
I want to know what thats likereal love.
Dont wish for such a fate, Harriet! She almost gasped, pulling me into a tight hug.
What should I wish for thenpeace? Like you had with Simon?
Not that either. Wish for warmth, my dear. May you meet someone who gives you light and comfort. I pray for him each day.
Why? You dont know him, or where hell come from if he ever will.
I dont know. But I believe my prayers are heard. When the time is right, you’ll make the right choice.
By whom, Mum?
She only smiled, kissed me, and changed the subject. But I remembered what she said. That evening, and each night after, I started whispering a little prayer I’d made up: May I find someone to whom I can give my warmth and lightand may he need it.
Why those words? I didnt know. It just felt right. After all, taking is easy; giving is much harder. And I know myselfI couldnt just take love and not give it back. Love is always two-way. If only one gives, and the other merely allows themselves to be loved, no one is happy.
I chose not to meet my father. I decided these complications werent needed by anyone.
But I did meet my mothers parents once. Just once, at a café near their home. I wanted to see the people who could turn their backs on their only daughter and granddaughter.
They arrivedclinging to each other, glancing nervously around. Their fear was almost funny and for a moment I nearly laughed when Granddad made sure to sit with his back to the window.
Are you afraid someone will see you with me?
The effect was so sudden, I was a little scared myself. Gran went pale, and Granddad shifted like he was shaking off a heavy coat.
No
Dont worry. I wont keep you long. I only want to know: do you regret losing your family?
That was it. Gran pressed her lips tightly and shook her head, while Granddad tried to comfort her. They didnt notice as I stood up and left. Not a glance after metheir own flesh and blood.
I walked to the bus stop in tearsbitter, angry tears. I couldnt understand how anyone could live so selfishly, forsaking love for pride. That meeting shook me deeply; I sat a long while on a nearby bench, watching children chase pigeons by the fountain.
My phone rang, and I fumbled for it, wiping my cheeks.
Harriet, where are you?
On my way home, Mum why do you sound so cheerful?
Because Granddad John and Grandma Margaret are here! Out of the bluetheyve just arrived! Only in London for two days. Hurry home!
BrilliantI’m on my way! I put my phone away, dried my eyes. I didnt want to cry anymore. Call it coincidence, but for me it felt like an answer to a silent prayer.
In the end, you choose whom to love and whom to call family. My real grandparentsGran and Granddadwere always there. My uncles and aunts, though they live far, never forget a birthday and still bring me chocolate and teddy bears. Ive collected bears since I was littlethe collection so large that Mum jokes about needing a whole room for them soon.
I pulled out my compact.
Here I am, as I am, and that would never change. Id grow and change but always remain shaped by the love (and loss) of two people who never realised the treasure theyd let slip away. At least now, I knowlosing is easy; finding and holding onto something precious is hard. But if life offers me that chance, I won’t let it go.
Sitting on that bench by the little fountain, surrounded by childrens laughter and the gentle cooing of pigeons, I understood one simple thing: live in such a way that you never regret. Maybe it wont always work out, but its worth the effort.
Even if Im only a fragment of what once was whole, I can still reflect the good around me. With people who love me, I hoped Id one day learn to return that love. Even the smallest shard can catch and throw back the light.
The school bell, a bit raspy and familiar from my own childhood, announced the end of the day, and I began gathering my things.
Goodness! Toms probably been waiting ages. Sitting in the car, tuning in to his favourite radio show and singing along under his breath.
I couldnt help but smile.
Tom hadnt been blessed with a singing voice, but hed been given plenty of enthusiasm. I, with my years of music lessons and perfect pitch, didnt mind in the slightest. His joy made me laugh till I cried, clapping and teasing, “Eat your heart out, Elton John! Bravo!”
Tom would blush and fall silent, but soon enough would start up again, humming his favourite tune.
I swooped up my ungraded tests, flicked out the lights, and hurried out.
What did it matter how Tom sang, as long as our hearts beat together? Wed both wake in the middle of the night whenever our Annabelle coughed in her sleep or called:
MumDad
Even now, at six, Annabelle called us “Mudad”her special word, making us one. It didnt matter which of us she meantwed both come.
And that was happiness.
You could always snuggle between us, tucking cold toes under Dads arm and a nose into Mums hands, falling asleep so soundly that lonely dreams would never return. And, as you drifted off, youd hear us whispering:
Let me settle her. Youve got an early start and said you werent ready for lessons.
No, Ill do ityouve got that meeting tomorrow! Youd be a fine sight, snoring in front of everyone.
Finelets do it together.
Lets.
