Mrs Whippy. Cecelia Ahern

He is five years old. Unfortunately, yesterday he was hiding under Brian’s bed. It’s a new habit of his. He appeared to have inhaled too much smoke. He wandered down to breakfast like a zombie in his Power Rangers pyjamas and cowboy boots. He was complaining that he had the munchies. His eyes were as wide as saucers. He had pupils like Charlie’s when he used to watch late-night porn.

      Apart from becoming high every day from inhaling second-hand pot, he has now decided that breakfast, lunch and dinner must be eaten under the bed. Whenever we need to leave the house, it takes me twenty minutes to find which bed he has hidden under.

      My eight-year-old, Vincent, has taken to not speaking. His school principal has called me into the school twice in two weeks because of his behaviour. But nobody can do anything to convince him to talk.

      So I eat dinner practically alone every evening. Mark hides under the bed. Vincent doesn’t speak to me. Brian rarely comes home to eat dinner. There’s not much I can do about this, unfortunately. How can you drag someone into the house on time when you don’t know where they are? How can you force someone to speak? And how can you tell someone to stop hiding when you can’t find them?

      And I’ve just realised that each of my boys has copied their father in some form or another.

      My eldest son, Charlie Junior, has my heart broken too. He’s in prison. He has a sentence of four years for burglary. He’s been there for two years. My second eldest, Terry, went on one of those year-long world trips with a group of friends. That was three years ago. He has decided to settle in Thailand. He sends me an e-mail once a month. I don’t really know how to work e-mail, so I have to ask Brian to read it to me. He rarely does.

      I try my hardest with the boys. I really, really do. I’m a good mother. I know I am. But I can’t seem to get through to them. There isn’t anyone around me to help. My husband refused to recognise his own bad behaviour during our married life. I doubt he has noticed his sons’ carry-on. Any time something was wrong, it was always my fault. He could never compromise. The only time we met in the middle was when we both rolled into the dip in the centre of our twenty-five-year-old bed. If my husband won’t listen to me, why on earth would the boys?

      My dear mother died last month. My older brother has moved to Ohio. He’s opened an Irish store that sells Irish butter, sausages, bacon, chocolate bars, crisps and tea to the homesick Irish community. My very best friend, Susan, is a mother of four and married to a saint of a husband for twenty-five years. She has just begun an affair with the window cleaner. He is twelve years her junior. I feel I can’t talk to her any more.

      I’m feeling very alone these days. Every day, as I sit on my twenty-five-year-old sofa, I begin to think that it and my life are very similar. It’s falling apart at the seams.

      Three

      My husband takes the boys on Saturdays. I watch him from the bedroom window every week as he drives off in our car. Then I fall onto the bed we used to sleep in together. I stay there until the boys come home the next day.

      Today I greeted him at the door. I needed to talk to him about the boys’ behaviour. I needed him to back me up more often. I needed the boys to see him support me and respect me. Then perhaps they would listen to me. When all they ever saw was a man that walked all over me, they assumed they could do the same. My mother saw it in them. She tried to teach them. They were as good as gold for her. But as soon as she would leave they would return to their old ways. It was like a bulb being switched off inside me when that happened. My mother was always on my side. I needed the boys to see that Charlie was on my side too.

      “Charlie,” I said, opening the door before he put the key in the lock. He refused to return the key to what he considered “his house”. And it was his. He had never put my name on the deeds to the house. In fact, he had refused to.

      He looked up at me in surprise. Then his usual scowl returned. He always seemed irritated by everything I did.

      “Where are the boys?” he growled, looking past me.

      “They’re in the sitting-room,” I said, aware that my voice sounded child-like. He had that effect on me. “I just wanted to talk to you about something first.”

      “What?” he snapped. “We’ve done enough talking. I’m not coming back. Don’t beg me again.”

      My face reddened. I felt my head get hot. I swallowed hard and looked down at my hands. I still had my wedding ring on. He hadn’t. He had refused to wear it the day after he said “I do”. I should have known that meant “I don’t”. I should have known it meant “I never will.”

      “No, I … I … I don’t want to talk about that,” I stammered.