MORNING SERIAL
WAS this cheeriness what she had meant when she’d bragged about her poker face? Had her meltdown happened only in my imagination? There was no disharmony today, no drama. I could either leave, having experienced a rather pleasant whitewash, or I’d have to initiate something. ‘Mum, I have to tell you I am no longer willing to be your emotional repository,’ I said. ‘I know I’ve been upset lately but you can understand what it’s like for me…’ she replied. ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘I understand, and I am saying that I am not willing to be your sounding board.’ ‘But who else can I tell? I haven’t got any friends, it’s not my fault.’ ‘I see your problem and I am sorry about it, but I am not willing to be your emotional dustbin. You’ll have to find another solution.’ ‘I have to talk to someone, I’ve had a lot…’ ‘I understand, but I am not willing…’ ‘But you can just let it flow over you. Don’t let it get to you.’ ‘Mum!’ I raised my voice. ‘I don’t want you to dump your emotional crap on me anymore, okay?’ There was a long silence. Was she going to cry, get angry or drop dead? I didn’t know. Eventually she said, ‘I see. Yes. Heard and understood.’ Another silence followed, then, ‘Gosh! I don’t want you to dread coming to see me.’ ‘No more outpourings, okay?’ ‘Okay,’ she concluded, looking a little cowed. We’d got there in the end thanks to a standard assertiveness technique I’d learned in the nineties. Before I left I suddenly thought of something. ‘How did you manage when you lived alone? I only saw you every few months,’ I asked. She thought for a while then said gloomily, ‘I don’t know. It was different.’ Then it came to me. ‘You used to write. You wrote every single day. Now you don’t write at all.’ ‘My God!’ She seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I haven’t written for eighteen months.’