After some mumbling downstairs, Mum comes up to see me. She’s in tough mode. I can tell because her eye is twitching. This happens to both of us when we are angry. It’s a stupid genetic trait we share.
“Mills,” she says, sitting next to me on my bed.
Sitting next to me. You’ll recognize that as a brilliant parent tactic that’s meant to say, I’m on your level. I understand.
I don’t think she does.
“I understand that it’s difficult to share me with Gary.…”
She definitely doesn’t understand.
“You’re not a tube of Pringles, Mum!”
“No—but you’re used to having me to yourself. And now I’ve got someone else to focus on.”
I’m quite calm now. “Someone else,” I say, “who has completely insane levels of cleanliness. He tried to use an antiseptic wipe on a cushion the other day—”
“He struggles with Dave. He’s never had pets,” Mum interrupts.
“Whatever, Mum. Dave cleans herself at least twice a day. She would probably use deodorant if they made it paw-friendly.”
I’m still calm. Ish.
“Millie,” Mum whispers, putting her arm around me. “You’re right. Dave is a very clean cat. And you are a good girl. You’re self-regulating…” (What does this mean? She’s always saying it!) “When you were a toddler, you would ask to go to bed. You’ve always been…”
We cuckoo together like Granddad’s tacky clock: “Sensible.”
“I’ve rung your dad. He’s really happy to have you. And he says you can bring Dave—but, Millie, I don’t want you to go! I won’t stop you if that’s what you REALLY want, but in that magnificent head and heart of yours, I know you know that this is a bad idea. You’re back at school. You need stability. You know you do!”
How does Mum do it?! She sees straight into the heart of me like a drone with a really clever missile. And she carries on. She can read me like a book that has hardly any words and lots of pictures.
“Perhaps we can work together and find a compromise to stop all this? How about if the Wi-Fi goes off at ten o’clock and if we all, as a family, have a conference about crumbs?”
This makes me smile even though I don’t want to. I put my head down so Mum can’t see. I know she’s trying to make me laugh.
“You know,” Mum says softly, “Gary is a lovely guy. Yes, he’s very house-proud, but he also makes me laugh a lot. He’s funny, Millie. Give him a chance.”
I don’t believe this for one minute. The Neat Freak is probably already planning to turn my bedroom into a Museum of Sanitation (that’s a good word stolen from the hand dryers at school) to display his collection of SERIOUS dusters.
“Come on, Millie.” Mum squeezes my shoulders. “You know I just want the best for my little girl.”
And THAT is the problem. To Mum, I am still that little girl in a doctor costume trying to wrap Dave’s ear with a dishcloth. She won’t let me actually become an adult. Moving out is really the only way to show her and Gary that I AM one. Or nearly am one.
I snuggle into her shoulder. “Mum, I love you, but I really want to go and live with Dad. Just for a bit. I think some time away from here will be good for me.”
Mum looks hurt but keeps her arm around me. She takes a deep breath.
“Okay. Well, I don’t want you to go. Even for a little while,” Mum says. “But you’ll only be down the road. And I know that, whatever I might say, you’re a big girl, really. I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you really want to do. Perhaps you’ll appreciate what you have here, and you’ll come back.…”
She stops talking and sadly plods out of my room. I hear her sniff. Please let it be a sudden allergy to pet hair and not tears.
Oh, Mum! I want to stay. I want HIM to go. IT IS HIM! I don’t mind your rules, homework, or even the way you tell me I shouldn’t have a boyfriend till I’m thirty-two. I just want him to go and for you to let me be normal and live in the twenty-first century.
But I don’t say that. I text Lauren to tell her what’s happened. Then I go downstairs to tell Mum that I’ll pack some overnight stuff and my school uniform and come back for the rest next weekend. I don’t speak to Gary. Thanks, head, for still being a little bit my boss.
I think.
Before I go and put my things in the car, I take a photo of my room and put it on Instagram. All my books, and my lights shaped like cacti. With a Slumber filter, it looks really cool. It also means I can check in the future to see if anyone has moved anything or tried to scrub it. Don’t mess with me, Gary. I am basically a forensic policewoman scientist thingy, and I can trace your every cleaning move.
By the time I leave home, my post already has a couple of likes. I’m collecting witnesses. AND they like the way I’ve done my room!
My old room.
What am I doing? Brain, come back from holiday. I’m going to live with my dad.