Why you must NEVER put your mother before your husband
It’s the ultimate tug of love. And bitter experience taught divorcee Jacqueline there should only ever be one winner
CRAMMING two adults, four children, plus the l uggage for a week’s summer holiday into a small family car is an achievement in itself. But try to squeeze grandma in, too, and it turns into a farce.
When I look back now, I can’t think how we did it, but somehow we shoehorned everyone in: baby Harry on my lap, toddler Jack on my mum’s, then James, seven, and nine-year-old Nichola almost submerged under a pile of cases.
Only my husband, Jas, who was driving, had a seat to himself.
Fortunately it was the Eighties and seatbelt laws were less stringent, otherwise we would never have made it, legally, from our home in Middlesex to our rented holiday cottage in Cornwall in our Mini Metro.
It’s hardly surprising that during the entire 12 years of our married life Jas and I only went away on two holidays — because wherever we went, my mum, Pat, followed us like a shadow.
She lived with us during our marriage and has remained with me since my divorce — 24 years after Jas and I separated, she continues to share my home. And although I love her dearly, her constant presence in my life has at times been an irritant — and even an encumbrance.
There are t i mes when a married couple need privacy — an evening to themselves; an o ut i ng unaccompanied; a chance to be romantic — but my mum was always there, too, the third person in our marriage, sandwiched between us at t he c i nema and even muscling in on nights out with friends.
‘ Oh, I’d l i ke to come, too!’ she’d exclaim every time we said we were going for a curry — and invariably she’d tag along, apparently unaware that her presence was superfluous.
And because I hate confrontation, I never managed to tell her outright that we wanted some time alone. Instead, in the early days of our marriage, Jas and I resorted to subterfuge. ‘We’re just nipping out,’ we’d say before mum could get her coat, as we scuttled out of the front door.
Then, even though I knew we deserved time as a couple, I’d still be burdened with guilt as we went to a restaurant with friends. So I’d beg everyone not to hurt Mum’s feelings — or provoke any injured remarks about being excluded — by letting slip that we’d all been for a meal together.
And although Mum had her own spacious bedsit in our house, she chose not to allow us to enjoy our own company in the evenings. Instead, she would squeeze alongside us on the sofa and watch TV with us.
It probably won’t surprise readers to learn that our marriage did not survive. After 12 years, with Mum a constant presence in our marriage, it eventually fell apart.
Today my Mum is 80, and I am 55. I share my five-bedroom home in Uxbridge not only with Mum but also with my two younger sons, Jack, 27, and Harry, 26, as well as Jack’s fiancee, Natasha, and their ninemonth- old son, Harrison. My two elder children, Nichol a ,34, and James, 32, have left home. I work full-time as an office manager— leaving home at 7am to drive to work in Brentford, and returning after 6pm — in order to meet the costs of upkeep on our large home and make the mortgage payments. Yet sometimes, I just want to shrug off the burden of my financial responsibilities, sell the house and buy something small where I can live mortgagefree and travel when the mood takes me.
But it is an impossible dream. How could I abandon Mum? How could I possibly l eave Jack, Harry, Natasha and my grandson? So I soldier on as I have always done, trying to subdue my frustration.
Even so, I ask myself: is there such a thing as too good a daughter? And should I be a less accommodating parent?
If I’d put myself and my husband first — even occasionally — would my life have panned out differently? As it was, my future was predetermined when my father, James died, cruelly young at 41, of cancer, when I was 16.
I have a twin brother, Colin, but I felt I had to take responsibility for our widowed mother, who was also 41, because he was joining the Army.
So l i ke many daughters, I stepped in to look after her, supporting her as she grieved.
I would give her a bouquet of carnations, as my father had always done on their wedding anniversary. Seeing her tears — half happy I had remembered; half sad because Dad was not there to buy them — I knew I could not leave her alone.
AND although I wanted to remain at school — perhaps even go to university — I left to get a job and help out with the family finances.
In fact, the engineering company in which my father had worked as a manager for many years took me on as an office junior, and I learned secretarial skills at evening classes.
At work, too, I met my husband, accountant Jas. Born in Singapore, Jas had lived there until he was six.
We married when I was 20 and he was 24, and for a few short years we lived together in our own home. But the thought of Mum being alone plagued me. I hated to imagine her isolation and sadness.
When I broached the subject with Jas about asking her to move in with us, he agreed. Asian couples have a strong tradition of living with their extended families, so for Jas it was the obvious thing to do.
I had not realised, however, how
much Mum would wish to be involved in our lives and how her constant presence would erode our privacy and cause us to do less and less as a couple.
Indeed, even her bedroom was next to ours, so we were often conscious of her proximity when we wanted to have sex. We couldn’t be spontaneous. We were always worried she would overhear us.
It’s no coincidence that Jack was conceived during the one caravan holiday we managed to have on our own with our two older children.
And as our family grew, I gave up work and became a stay-athome mum for nine years, while Mum had a little part-time job in a shop.
It was lovely that she was with us, of course, and she relished being with the chil- dren so much when they were young, that she came with us on every picnic, every trip to the zoo, every weekend treat or visit to relatives.
I was, however, quietly irritated that she never gave us space to breathe — almost literally when she crammed into the car with us on that trip to Cornwall — and at one point I got so tearful, my doctor referred me to a counsellor.
‘Why don’t you suggest to your mother she gets her own place?’ he said, and eventually I mustered t he courage to mention this to her.
‘So now I’m not wanted any more!’ she wailed. It was the last time I ever broached the subject of her moving out.
As my enforced closeness with my mother was cemented, Jas and I grew farther apart. While, at the start of our marriage, the three of us would go out together, as the years went on, Jas increasingly suggested I took Mum out on my own.
‘After all,’ he would reason, ‘you two like romantic films, and I don’t.’
So we would go to the cinema, while he pursed his hobbies — playing squash, socialising with his friends, and going to the gym.
At home, too, Jas came to accept that Mum would share the childcare and housework with me, while he retreated more from family life.
I desperately wanted him to be more involved; to play with the children and also to take his turn at loading the dishwasher as most fathers do. But he viewed this as a woman’s role — and after all, there were two of us doing the job. So i nevitably we grew f urther apart. Would we have done so anyway if mum hadn’t been there, exerting her presence so forcefully? It is hard to say. But with hindsight I wonder if she did not hasten the process of my eventual separation from my husband.
Perhaps I should have been more assertive — we never had rows. . . but I quietly accepted the status quo until, one day we realised we didn’t have a marriage any more.
There were no recriminations on either side, and within a year or so we were divorced.
Since that day, I have lived with my mum. In f act, f or almost all my life — except those few years at the start of my marriage — we’ve shared a home. Today, although she suffers from osteoporosis, she remains healthy and active.
But I concede now that it was a mistake to have protected her so selflessly when my dad died, for she has never forged an independent life and I have forfeited much of my freedom.
Sometimes, I f eel besieged from all sides. Mum will often ring me at work, worrying about things that turn out to be trivial. She called me in a panic once about water f l ooding through the roof, and I rushed home expecting to find it in imminent danger of collapse, only to discover a trickle.
There was another alarm about our two Yorkshire Terriers, which had me tearing home in a panic. According to Mum they were about to breathe their last, but — one expensive trip to the vet later — it turned out they were only suffering from a bit of wind!
The boys, too, have tested the boundaries of my good nature. There was a point, a couple of years back, when they invited so many of their friends home for meals that I felt as though I was running a hotel.
To jolt them out of their complacency, I put the house on the market, but they were indignant, and I knew I couldn’t possibly go ahead with a sale.
So my constant struggle to keep a roof over everyone’s head continues. My sons contribute to the household budget, but Jack, a car showroom manager, and Harry, who is in telephone sales, put little into the communal pot and Mum can’t afford to chip in much either, so the main burden continues to fall on me.
So here I am, still. And much as I love them all and am glad to help them, I feel trapped by my responsibilities. While other friends look forward to the freedom that comes with retirement, I plod on, doing my best to be a good daughter, mother and grandmother.
My eldest son, James, an engineer, has left home. Nichola, now lives in Australia — her home for the past 11 years — and is married and working as an accountant.
I miss her greatly, and while I’m delighted she has pursued her dreams, I do sometimes feel rather wistful that mine have not yet taken flight. As well as my full-time office job, I have a part-time job I love, as a marriage celebrant — I conduct weddings in the community — and I also have a partner, Terry, 63, a retired businessman.
However, we haven’t considered l i ving together. I wouldn’t want to repeat my mistakes; besides, he still has a grown-up son who lives at home and an elderly mother who is reliant on him.
He is, however, wiser than me. Despite our responsibilities, he insists our time together is sacrosanct. I don’t know whether it is by accident or design, but his car has little room in the back. So when we plan a trip away — as we did recently, to Devon — there was room only for the two of us.
Mum joined us there for a family wedding, but we reached a happy compromise. She travelled by coach; Terry and I in his car.
It may only have been a small step forward — but perhaps, at last, we’re heading in the right direction.