Page 37 of The Holiday Cottage

I don’t want to be your mum.

You ruined my life.

She badly wanted not to care. If she was as indifferent to the whole concept of family as her mother seemed to be, none of this would have mattered. But Imogen longed for family. She ached to have people around her who were connected to her life, part of her history. She wanted to be part of something bigger than herself. She wanted to buy Christmas gifts for a whole bunch of people, she wanted conversations that starteddo you remember when...

And she knew that even “normal” families had their stresses and problems, but she would have gladly embraced those problems if it meant having people around her who had her back.

But she had no one, and she was so tired.

Tired of doing everything by herself. Of carrying every worry herself, of crying every tear by herself. What did she want for Christmas? Someone to lean on. Someone who wasn’t going to walk away when things got tough. Someone who wasn’t going to tell her she was the worst thing that had ever happened to them.

What was she doing here?

Her mother didn’t want her loyalty. Her mother thought she was a barnacle, not a support, so now was probably a good time to do something about that.

She had to leave. She had to get out of here, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to make that final move.

She heard the beep of machines and focused on the white walls and white coats of the doctors who bustled in and out. The atmosphere was sterile and cold, exactly like her relationship with her mother.

A woman who had been hovering in the doorway, presumably visiting a relative, approached and put her hand on Imogen’s arm. “Are you all right, love?” There was warmth and concern in her tone and she shot a look of disapproval toward Imogen’s mother, but Tina either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Imogen felt her face burn. If there was one thing worse than being unwanted it was people knowing she was unwanted. She wanted to defend herself. She wanted to shout out that she hadn’t ruined her mother’s life on purpose, that she was an okay person and the worst thing she’d ever done was invent a dog. But she didn’t, because what was the point? “I’m totally fine.”

And she should be. She should not be feeling this shocked and vulnerable. Even though her mother had never spelled it out quite so clearly, she’d always known. There had been no point in her childhood, not a single day, when Imogen had thought that maybe Tina was pleased to be her mother.

With a last look at her mother, she stumbled back along the corridor. She knocked into a visitor, and then into a nurse carrying a bunch of files.

“Sorry,” Imogen mumbled, “so sorry.” She was walking blind, everything blurry, her whole world fuzzy and unfocused.

Somehow she made it through the waiting area and out into the busy street. The cold air whipped under her coat and chilled her, but she didn’t care. She walked until she reached the park that was adjacent to the hospital and then she sat down on a bench.

People scurried past her, wrapped up against the bitter winter wind.

Occasionally, people glanced at her, but that wasn’t surprising. Only someone with a death wish would sit outdoors on a park bench on a day like this.

Eventually, someone sat down next to her and she felt a hand on her arm.

It was the woman who had been on her mother’s ward. She’d followed Imogen outside. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it, love. People say things when they’re unwell and hurt.”

That was true, but Imogen knew her mother had meant every word.

Imogen said nothing. She just wanted to be left alone, but the woman didn’t seem inclined to leave.

“Is there someone I can call for you? A family member? A friend?”

A family member.If only.Unfortunately, her only family was lying upstairs in that stark hospital room wishing Imogen had never existed. That was it. There was no one she could call. No one who knew the truth about her life. No one who knew who Imogen really was, or where she’d come from.

She really was alone. There was something touching, but also bleak and depressing, about the fact that the only person who had shown her any care and attention was a stranger.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “But thank you for your kindness.”

After a moment’s hesitation the woman left, and Imogen sat alone on the bench shivering. No one else stopped and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want to engage with strangers. Or anyone.

Bad things happened in life, she knew that. Accidents, illness, bad choices, bad luck. It was all part of being human. But when your own mother thought you were the worst thing that had ever happened? When you were the bad thing that life had delivered?

That was a tough one to deal with. That was hard. Mothers were supposed to love their babies unconditionally. Whether they were small, bald, ugly, loud—whatever—the one thing that was supposed to be guaranteed in life was a mother’s love. That was the basic requirement for a parent, wasn’t it? The whole job description. Forget reading together, or playing in the park, or eating vegetables—those were all nice to have, but not essential. But love? That was essential.

And when you’d never had that, when your mother had come without that guarantee, you never really trusted anything again, because if she couldn’t love you what possible chance was there of anyone else loving you?

---