Yesterday, bailiffs entered your house, threatening to take your dining table, the TV and your car-boot-sale plates. My heart broke over and over again as you cried, saying, “They’re taking everything I’ve ever worked for.”
While my father chased dreams all over the world, all of which ended in failure – expensive litigation, bailiffs knocking on the door, enforcement agents and angry red letters – you worked and worked and worked.
I will never forgive my father. I always warned him against his ventures and hare-brained schemes, to no avail. All the while you worked to feed us, clothe us, keep us (barely) in this house and make us all happy.
When the bailiffs and the police came to the house, I was on the other side of the river, drinking in the pub with people I hoped to work with one day. When I saw your texts, I kept a straight face as they laughed and enjoyed themselves. I kept that straight face while I ran across the bridge to the train station as you cried on the phone. I kept my straight face on the rush-hour train, though I was shaking and my fingers had turned yellow from fear.
I want you to know that I have seen all the letters. I know everything. How you are behind on the council tax, how they are threatening to take more of our stuff to satisfy the water bill, how the lawyer is demanding payment for the hours he spent poring over my father’s various abandoned court cases and the other hungry people after you.
But still you smile with us; you take the time to ask us how our day went and you celebrated with me when I received my results from the first stage of law school. We are strong because you are. We love you so much.
While my father is in some other part of the world running away from his responsibilities, you work every day as a teacher. You work so hard all the time. You even took another job as a tutor at weekends to earn extra money. At first, it was so you could afford Christmas presents for us, but now it is to pay all those bills and legal fees. You sold your car, all your jewellery and everything that matters. The day I left for university, I know you sold something to cover my rent payment. But still you smiled and took everything in your stride.
As I sit here, I am replaying the scene in my head when the bailiff called you pathetic, and I struggle to hold back tears. You are anything but pathetic. You are the strongest person I know.
I work so hard at law school now so that in a few years, I will buy you the convertible you always dreamed of driving. I will take you on a shopping spree and treat you to the most expensive dinner I can afford. I will take you to a spa and to get your nails done. And one day – it may take a little while longer – I will be able to say: “Mum, you never have to work again.”
Until then, we are sorry. All you have now is our unconditional love.
Your daughter,
on behalf of your other daughters who are too young to understand