Low Expectations by Elizabeth Aaron Page A

something like ‘You should have aborted me’ carries no more weight than ‘You forgot to buy the milk’.
    â€˜Darling, you know I love you; it’s just hard for me to seeyou wasting your looks, youth – what’s left of it – and your talents. You could have been a barrister!’ This comes up frequently, despite my having never shown any interest in or affinity for Law. I can only assume the fact that I don’t break down and weep during our heated arguments qualifies me. ‘And why shouldn’t I get some sort of return from you? People originally had children because they worked the farm and cleaned the house, not because they brought them joy. The only thing you can do for me these days is to reflect well on me, is that so much to ask?’
    As irritating as this little chat is, I do understand her perspective on things. What is the point of having children? Likely as not, they will drain your finances in their youth, remain adolescently dependent well into adulthood and then totally ignore you in your dotage. If you’re lucky they might spring for a half-decent hospice, but more likely death will be a sweet relief from whatever poorly funded NHS pit you are thrown into.
    â€˜Well, sorry, I’ll try harder in future. Was there something else?’
    â€˜Yes. Your father is in town and wants to have supper to discuss something, he won’t tell me what, of course. You need to be there. I would like some moral support please. That Woman will be with him. I’d like you to be on my side this time.’
    â€˜Oh, right. Okay. Are you all right? When?’
    Dad lives in Rickmansworth in Hertfordshire. To Mum, this is is so far outside Greater London he might as well have moved to the Gobi desert. They’ve been divorced for years, but they are still fiercely opposed. In my mother’s words, ‘How can the greatest betrayal a wife can face ever be amicable?’ I do try to be on her side, but it’s difficult when the battle lines have been drawn over decades and you are never quite sure where they might lie.
    If my father had been discreet, I’m not entirely sure she would have been too concerned. She frequently opined that polygamy is a practical solution to the difficulties that modern longevity have added to marriage. In her romanticized fantasy, however, she as the First Wife would act as Empress with the Second Wife as a Concubine who would not only take over her unwanted sexual duties but also act as her personal slave. If Dad had just taken a mistress, Mum might have felt a certain relief in sharing him with someone else and even fooled herself that it was a rather Continental arrangement. Walking in on him cheating in their marital bed shattered that illusion. The combination of betrayal and abandonment scarred her deeply.
    â€˜Of course I’m perfectly fine darling, I’m so much happier without that old blowhard. He can have his floozy – I know deep down he must be miserable without me. She’s as dull as dishwater and has probably been more thoroughly used. We’re having supper at The Brompton Barand Grill on Thursday at 8 p.m. Wear something appropriate please.’
    â€˜Yeah okay, cool. I’ll see you then. Have a good week!’
    â€˜Yes, of course, darling. Bye, dear.’
    Yikes. Is the sacrament of marriage really worth all the wounds you’ll inevitably inflict on each other long-term, let alone the initial bureaucracy and paperwork? There are times when it is inconceivable to me that I might ever be so in love that I could delude myself that marital vows are anything more than conditional promises no one really intends to keep.
    â€˜Hey, what are you doing out there? Come back to bed.’ Beardy’s deep voice nudges me out of my reverie. His head pokes out of the doorframe and one arm snakes out to tug at my messy hair affectionately. God I love the look of a man who has just rolled out of