Mummy Needs a Break. Susan Edmunds

but she could walk to work, and I suspected she had just been too lazy to get around to moving.

      ‘Turns out I was paying my share to Laurel but she wasn’t paying the landlord. So I have to get out, anyway. And I can’t get a house anywhere else at the moment …’

      I tried to push down a growing wave of frustration. Did I not have enough problems of my own to deal with?

      ‘Why not? You’ve got a job.’

      ‘I took out a loan to pay off my credit card last summer but my work’s been so erratic I haven’t been able to make the repayments – bastards sent me to the debt collectors. I won’t pass a credit check for a good couple of years, they say.’

      I stood as tall as I could and stared at her, my hands on my hips. ‘How old are you, Amy?’

      She looked surprised. ‘I’m thirty-one.’

      ‘Why are you still doing dumb stuff like this?’

      She recoiled. Her voice was timid. ‘I didn’t want to ask Mum and Dad for a loan, so I thought it was the best thing to do. I was doing my best … I want to be self-sufficient.’

      She trailed off, her eyes watering. I hadn’t snapped at her in years. But I had already bailed her out of two housing-related messes. The first was when Frank had walked away, leaving her with a lease she couldn’t handle. I’d paid half of it for three months. The second time Stephen and I had paid her insurance excess when someone started a fire in the bathroom at a party.

      ‘No.’ The force of my fury shocked us both. Too bad – walking all over me seemed to be the pastime of the moment and I wasn’t having it.

      ‘It’s time you accepted the consequences of your actions. You can’t keep rolling through life like a teenager with nothing to worry about. I’ve picked up after every other stupid mistake you’ve made, and I’ve got way too much on my plate right now to add you to it. Own your own mess for a change.’

      She was staring at me, her mouth open.

      ‘Other people manage to find new apartments. I’m sure you can, too.’

      I turned away and directed Thomas through to the lounge, where I propped him on the bean bag. I sank on to the armchair behind him. He leant back against me, his cheek against my shin. I could hear Amy clattering as she threw her clothes back into boxes and hurled them out to the car. She stepped heavily on the accelerator, her wheels screeching as she took off from the end of our driveway.

      ‘Daddy home soon?’ Thomas looked up. I stroked his head, trying to slow my breathing. I was in danger of getting a little ‘ping’ from the sanctimonious smartwatch app I’d downloaded to help manage my stress. I wanted to slap the old me across the face. What did she have to be stressed about?

       CHAPTER FIVE

      How to make a paper doll chain

      What you’ll need:

       Some paper

       Scissors

      If you’re using A4 paper, cut it in half lengthwise. Fold the piece into eight equal-sized accordion pleats. With the fold on the left, trace an outline of half a doll on the paper. Then cut around it. When you open the paper up you should be left with four dolls, holding hands. They’ll stick together, even if your family is falling apart – although some days you might wish it would fall apart a little more quickly.

      Do you know what drives me nuts? The concept of ‘me time’. You’re meant to have a bath, or go for a massage, eat a whole block of chocolate in bed or skive off for lunch with your girlfriends and feel good about taking time out for yourself. Except I get into the bath and I can’t get out, and even before I got pregnant I couldn’t bear the idea of strangers massaging my body. All my friends are juggling workloads much too heavy, and with childcare far too limited, to break for lunch with me.

      Between work and looking after Thomas, I manage to squeeze in a couple of minutes of ‘me time’ for frivolous things such as washing my hair. I can’t bring myself to believe that half an hour of indulgence makes up for the fact that I do 99 per cent of the drudgery the rest of the time.

      But try to explain that to anyone else, and they look aghast. ‘No me time? Oh but you must have some me time. Can’t pour from an empty cup …’

      So it’s another thing added to my ever-growing to-do list. No one wants to be an empty mother cup.

      One thing I still do try to squeeze in between the frantic dash for work deadlines, and the seemingly interminable bedtime battle, is yoga. Although I’ve long since given up my dream of being a teacher myself, I find ten minutes of stretching can turn around many of the aggravations of a day of child-wrangling. I’ll never be a YouTube yoga star – while those women get the tops of their heads on the floor in a forward fold, my palms are still only halfway down my shins (I blame my short arms). But I happily follow them through the motions, and even Thomas is starting to enjoy finding his own tree pose or a comfortable seated position (although sometimes that is in front of the television).