Fiona Gibson - The Mum Who’d Had Enough

Its Scout who wakes me by licking my face. Scout, the fox terrier we would only adopt as long as he wasnt allowed on the furniture, and who is now luxuriating, sultan-like, on the king-sized bed.

Christ, boy, get off me I flip over to joke with Sinead about waking up being snogged.

The joke will have to wait. Sinead isnt lying beside me.

Strange; its unusual for me to not hear my wife getting up, and these days shes been getting up all times of the night. She is easily disturbed by nocturnal noises I really should have set those mousetraps last night and has been suffering from, I dont know anxiety, I guess. Often, I wake up at some ungodly hour and shes lying there with her eyes wide open, looking tense and afraid. Perhaps its hormonal? At forty-three, I think shes a bit young for the menopause not that Im any kind of expert.

I just try to help. Really, I do. I gently suggested she might try herbal supplements Id heard Liv at work enthusing about the soothing properties of sage but Sinead just snapped, I appreciate your handy hints, Nate, but Im fine , thank-you-very-much! Even so, it had been pretty shocking when she announced, a few weeks ago, that she was planning to see a therapist. All I could think of were Woody Allen films and everyone talking about their emotionally abusive mothers, and by all accounts Sineads childhood was extremely happy.

Did that mean she wanted to see a therapist because of me ?

Having manoeuvred Scout to one side, I check the time on my phone: 6.43 a.m. I climb out of bed and pad quietly out of our bedroom and across the landing, past Flynns room.

No need to wake him yet. Our sons school is on the other side of town and most days Sinead drives him there, even though he can manage the bus no problem and thinks its ludicrous that we want to ferry him anywhere at sixteen years old. Flynn has cerebral palsy. While most kids think nothing of it, you get the odd little arsehole who wants to start something, and there were a few bullying incidents on the bus when he was younger. Understandably, his mum still likes to deliver him safely to the door (or at least, around the corner from school, which is the closest hell allow). He comes home with his mate Max, who lives two streets away, so thats fine.

Of course its fine . Flynn is virtually an adult. I need to stop thinking of him as our little boy.

More urgently right now, I have a strong desire to find out where my wife is. I check the bathroom no Sinead and head downstairs with Scout trotting along at my side.

In the living room, last weekends newspapers are still strewn messily across the coffee table. Honey? I call out. Where are you?

No reply. I go through to the kitchen, expecting to find her there, sipping coffee and explaining that she just woke up stupidly early and couldnt get back to sleep. But theres only Bella, my mothers sleek and regal collie, whom we are dog-sitting while Mum scales some Cumbrian mountains with her new bloke. Still dozing in her own basket, Bella wouldnt dream of jumping onto anyones bed. Mum thinks its appalling that Scout is allowed onto ours. Judging by her reaction, youd think we allowed him to sit on the table and lap at our soup.

Sinead? I call her more loudly this time, then place a hand on the kettle. Its cold. Detective Nate Turner surmises that his wife has not yet made coffee. I fill it and, as I switch it on, I spot a sheet of lined A4 paper lying on the worktop.

It is entirely covered with my wifes rather charming, elegant handwriting albeit a little scrawlier than usual and looks like some sort of list. A to-do list, I assume, giving it a cursory glance. Sinead is fanatical about writing things down; she reckons its the only way she can keep on top of this family.

I look at the list again, properly this time. At the top of the sheet, shes written a heading and underlined it several times:

Everything Thats Wrong With You

I frown and stare at it. She cant mean me. As far as I know, she sat up pretty late last night, probably working her way through that second bottle of Blossom Hill, judging by the empty sitting by the bin. It must be some kind of stream-of-consciousness thing, maybe triggered by yesterdays session with Rachel, her therapist. Although Sinead is loath to tell me what goes on between them, Id imagine Rachel gives her various mental exercises to do. She probably told Sinead to list all the things she thinks are wrong with herself.

I look down at Scout, who is staring up at me with unblinking brown eyes. Is that what she pays all that money for? I ask him, at which he tilts his head. As far as Im concerned, Sinead is pretty much all-round-brilliant just as she is. I have always believed this, from the night I first spotted her at the All Saints gig in Leeds (we often joke that we wish we could say it was Oasis or Blur) and she was dancing in her vest top and combats, long blonde hair swooshing around her finely boned face. My belief in her wondrousness has only increased over the years.

I look back at the list, suspecting now that I probably shouldnt even read it, if its meant to be part of her therapy

Unable to resist, I start to read:

You dont listen to me.

You take me for granted.

You dont consider my needs

I frown. Who is this you shes talking about? Surely, its not me. Could it be Flynn? No, of course not. The most she ever complains about is the state of his room and his lackadaisical attitude towards homework. So who else could she mean?

I continue to read:

No effort made re us as a couple

Christ, so it is me! I glance around, half-expecting her to be standing there in the doorway with her arms folded and a bemused look on her face. Its just a joke, Nate! Cant you take a joke?