Eventually Truth And Love Will Win

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It’s Mother’s Day, 2017, and I’m in York to give a talk about my memoir. My son, now in his forties, who lives nearby, comes to the B&B where I’m staying to have breakfast with me, bearing flowers and a card that says ‘To a lovely Mum’. It would be hard to tell that this is the first Mother’s Day we’ve shared since he was a toddler.

I was a student when I became pregnant and married – Adam was born when I was just 20. I took out a year to look after him full-time, then went back part-time to finish my studies. I enrolled for a further degree at York, and we moved to Leeds, where my ex-husband got a job. But I was suffering from severe depression, as I had throughout my childhood and teenage years, and felt trapped in an unhappy marriage. I knew I must leave, and tried to take Adam with me, but I had neither money nor emotional support to make it work. Too depressed to think clearly about long-term consequences, I agreed to shared childcare and joint custody. Adam would stay with his father in Leeds and I would have him in York at weekends.

The day we parted is etched in my memory. Adam was three. I was 23. He was wearing a padded jacket and knitted blue and white bobble hat. His cheeks were red with cold and he was staring at us both, bewildered about what was happening. I leant forwards and kissed him, said I’d see him again soon and climbed into the train. I felt bereft straight away, as if I sensed the repercussions of this would darken both our lives for the next four decades.