Them part 2

You are here

On reflection my adopting mother took out the disappointment in her own life on her family, wanting her charges to be something we weren’t. And in some way I particularly epitomised her failed expectations. She would spend money we didn’t have on clothing that indicated a class she aspired to while greedily hoarding sweet biscuits in a tin occasionally shared with her charges. Autophobic, she was unable to stay home alone so we kids were given plenty of days off school to keep her company. She couldn’t enter a lift, step on escalators nor drive a car. She was her family’s burden: we weren’t hers. But that’s not the way she saw it.

At one point, early in my childhood, the adopting couple told me I was adopted; and I was fed a bizarre story of how I arrived at their home. It was said that the adopting male had gone to a fellow worker’s home and that family had deserted the property leaving neglected me behind in a bassinet. It was their impression of ‘… the Stork brought you’ but less plausible.

 

‘The liar's punishment is,
not in the least that he is not believed,
but that he cannot believe anyone else.’
George Bernard Shaw (1856 – 1950)