Perspectives

Perspectives by Jennifer Talkington The Dress “Mum, you can stop staring at me like that. I’m not committing a crime.” “It’s not a crime,” she said, spoon paused mid-air. “It’s just... concerning.” That word , “concerning”, she used it like a sledgehammer wrapped in cotton wool. “I’m wearing a dress, Mum. People wear dresses you know” “People wear seatbelts, too. Doesn’t mean they have any style or grace!.” I tugged the hem down. “Jake likes it.” Her eyes flicked up. “Jake would like you if you were wrapped in used black plastic bin bags. He’s that sort.” There it was again her judgment disguised as experience. She was like Google with crow’s feet. “You don’t understand and you don’t know him.” “Oh, I know the type. He’s all protein shakes and promises.” I sighed, loud enough to make a point. “You hate everyone I go out with!” “I hate men who can’t respect you as you are without getting you dressed up like a doggy bag of left overs” “You mean you hate men, full stop.” Her mouth twitched, a tiny, wounded flicker she tried to hide. “Go on then,” she said. “Go find out the hard way. But take a condom.” “Mum!” She just sipped her tea. “Love’s messy, darling. Best to be prepared.” I slammed the door, hearing her laugh echo behind me. I was leaving that irritatingly smug laugh that said she already knew how this would end. The Mirror I watched her leave, that little flare of perfume and teenage defiance. She walked like she owned the pavement, hips full of the confidence I’d long since misplaced. God help me, she looked just like I did at seventeen. Jake bloody Simmonds. I’d met him once. He had the grin of a man who’d never had to work for attention. That easy swagger. It made young women melt and older women absolutely furious. When I was her age, my Jake was called Pete. He had a motorbike, too. He called me angel right up until the night he forgot my name and called me “Claire” by accident. Some lessons tattoo themselves on your bones. She thinks I’m bitter and maybe I am. But bitterness is just knowledge you’ve lived through. I wish she could see that I’m not trying to ruin her fun. I’m trying to keep her heart from cracking the way mine did. But sometimes you can’t stop a girl from chasing the fire that’s going to burn her. You can only be there with the aloe vera and tea afterwards. His Smile Jake smelled like coconut body spray and radiated exotic charm. He met me outside the cinema, kissed me too hard, and said, “You look unreal, babe.” Unreal. Not real. That word should’ve been a clue. Halfway through the movie, his phone buzzed. He texted under the seat, his phone a light glow, his thumbs flying. “Work stuff,” he said. “Marketing.” I nodded, pretending I wasn’t counting how many emojis flashed on his screen. He made me feel wanted, he was so magnetic even when half his attention seemed elsewhere. I could hear Mum in my head: The charming ones are always bored. They need an audience. But I didn’t care. I was the lead role, not the audience. Or so I thought. The Pattern She came home late. No music. No humming. Just the quiet kind of silence that clings to guilt and deep sadness. I wanted to ask how her night went, but one wrong word and she’d retreat into her fortress. So I said nothing. I remembered that silence. It was the sound of being young and pretending not to be hurt. I’d worn that same expression once, a mix of pride and shame. I’d said it’s fine while wiping off mascara tears. Back then, I had no one to make me tea or tell me it would pass. She has me. She just doesn’t realise yet that I’m not her enemy. The Itch I woke up scratching. Not metaphorically. Literally. Google told me I had everything from gonorrhoea to imminent death. My brain melted. I couldn’t tell Jake. He’d probably say, “That’s mad, babe,” and just go to the gym. There was only one person I could turn to, even though she’d laugh herself into the next Wednesday! The Diagnosis She shuffled into the kitchen mid-morning, pale and jittery. “Mum,” she said quietly. “I need, erm, medical advice.” Every muscle in my body went on alert. “What’s wrong?” “It’s… itchy.” “Where?” She glared. “You know where.” “Oh.” I swallowed a laugh. “Define ‘itchy.’” “Like… sandpaper and stinging too.” Bless her. I took a deep breath, nurse mode flicking on. “Any discharge?” “MUM!” “I’ve seen worse in A&E.” She cringed. “Yeah there’s… stuff. Okay?” Right. That was enough. I grabbed my keys. “We are going to the urgent care clinic. Now.” She sat quiet all the way there, cheeks flaming. I couldn’t tell if was through embarrassment or shame or both. When the pharmacist had handed her the antibiotics, she looked like she might cry. Outside, she said softly, “He told me he was clean.” I wanted to find Jake and disinfect him with a pressure washer full of hand gel! “Sweetheart,” I said, pulling her close. “Men like him think ‘clean’ means showered.” She half-laughed through tears. “You were right.” I didn’t gloat. I just kissed her hair. Because being right had never felt so bloody awful. The Confrontation A week later, I was human again. Mum and I went for coffee. It was some kind of an awkward peace offering. She stirred her cappuccino like she was casting a spell. “You all right?” she asked. “I’m fine.” “You don’t have to talk about it.” “I’m fine.” We sat in silence, the kind that feels too loud. Then I looked up. There he was. Jake. Sitting a few tables away. His hand on a blonde’s thigh. His mouth on hers. Everything went silent. Mum’s eyes followed mine. She froze, cup halfway up. “Darling…” she started. “No.” I stood up. “Not this time.” I crossed the café before my brain caught up with my feet. Jake looked up, lips glossy from betrayal. “Hey, babe—” The latte hit him before the sentence finished. “That’s for the lies, cheating and the antibiotics, you bastard!” The whole café gasped. Somewhere, an old lady actually clapped. Mum was watching from our table, half horrified, half proud. And I, I felt clean for the first time in weeks. The Fallout We left to a round of applause. She was shaking but fierce, cheeks bright with rage and eyes bright with new found freedom. I saw myself in her then, the woman I used to be before fear and responsibility softened my edges. “You were right about everything,” she said. “I hate it when I am.” We hugged, right there on the pavement, and for a moment, I thought maybe this was it, the bridge rebuilt. But you can’t rebuild trust on the same soil where pride grew. She might forgive me later when the sting of humiliation faded, she might remember how I’d been right about him. The a whole other sting of perspective would hit. I’d remember how she’d had to get hurt before she’d believe me. That’s the curse of motherhood winning the argument but losing the bonds of closeness. After Mum died when I was thirty-two. Heart attack. The hospital smelled like her disinfectant and tea bags. She’d spent years fixing people who never said thank you, and then her own heart just gave up without warning. I found her nurse’s watch in a drawer. Still ticking. I wore it for months, even though it made me cry every time it beeped. We never had that Hollywood reconciliation. Just small peace offerings; coffee, phone calls and her reminding me to take my vitamins. I wish I’d said thank you. Or sorry. Or both. She’d have waved me off with a joke. “Don’t get sentimental, love. You’ll ruin your mascara.” The Next Generation If you’re reading this, Liz, you’re probably rolling your eyes. But one day, you’ll have a daughter who thinks you’re dramatic. She’ll call you controlling. She’ll say you don’t understand. And you’ll want to shake her, scream, I was you, once. You’ll remember the nights you lay awake, waiting for the door to open, praying she’d come home safe. You’ll realise that love looks a lot like interference when you’re the one being loved. And when she comes to you, crying about some boy who promised forever and delivered an infection, you’ll make tea, because that’s what women like us do. The Café Again Maisie’s sixteen now. She brought home a boy named Ryan s smile like a fox, hair too perfect, eyes that don’t hold eye contact but slide away. When I warned her, she snapped, “You don’t get it, Mum.” And I swear I heard Mum laugh in my head. Weeks later, Maisie came home crying. I didn’t ask why. I just put the kettle on. She said, “Mum, do you think people can change?” I thought of Jake. Of Mum. Of all the men who taught me lessons I didn’t want to learn. “No,” I said. “But we do.” She frowned, like she was trying to solve a riddle. “Men like that don’t change,” I said. “But next time, you’ll spot them faster. That’s the trick.” She nodded slowly. “You sound like Nan.” “I take that as a compliment.” Later that week, I went back to that same café — the one where Mum and I had our showdown. Different furniture, same ghosts in my mind. A young couple sat where we had. The girl looked ready to cry. The boy was all charm and excuses. I wanted to warn her. To grab her hand and whisper, Run while you still can. But I didn’t. You can’t vaccinate your children against heartbreak any more than teaching them what a hangover is. You can only teach them where the safe bolt-hole is. I stirred my coffee and whispered into the steam, “You were right, Mum.” And in the faint clink of the spoon against the side of my cup, I heard her laugh the laugh of a woman who knew the end of every story, and loved me enough to let me live mine anyway.