Contents
Prologue The Ex
Chapter One How I Got into This Mess
Chapter Two The ‘Happy’ Family/The Turning Point/Dad was Right
Chapter Three The Turning Point/The Light in the Darkness
Chapter Four A Swipe in the Right Direction
Chapter Five Finding Our Feet
Chapter Six Second Chances
Chapter Seven The Other Ex
Chapter Eight A Day of Highs and Lows
Chapter Nine Woman’s Best Friend
Chapter Ten The Truth About Laura
Chapter Eleven Gearing Up for a Fight
Chapter Twelve Lawyer Up
Chapter Thirteen Finding Meaning in the Madness
Chapter Fourteen Supermum (in Law)
Chapter Fifteen The Proper Family
Chapter Sixteen Doing Nothing by Halves
Chapter Seventeen Laughter is the Best Medicine
Chapter Eighteen Same but Different
Chapter Nineteen Absent Fathers
Chapter Twenty Some Light in the Darkness
Chapter Twenty-One Goodbye Dad
Chapter Twenty-Two The Ruined Flowers
Chapter Twenty-Three Behind Closed Doors
Chapter Twenty-Four A Problem Shared
Chapter Twenty-Five Out of the Mouths of Babes
Chapter Twenty-Six Pretending Everything is Fine
Chapter Twenty-Seven The Shit Hits the Fan
Chapter Twenty-Eight Grounded
Chapter Twenty-Nine Fresh Paint, Fresh Start
Chapter Thirty Our Girl is Back
Chapter Thirty-One WTF?!
Chapter Thirty-Two Feeling Positive
Chapter Thirty-Three A Different Kind of Happy Ever After
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Rachaele Hambleton, aka Part-Time Working Mummy, is a Sunday Times bestselling author and one of the most popular parenting personalities. She is a full-time mum to three daughters and one baby boy, step-mum to two boys and is married to her ‘bird-boy’ Josh. Her successful blog documents the highs and lows of life as a family of eight … with a dog and some chickens thrown in for good measure. As well as blogging and bringing up six tiny humans, Rachaele fights hard for awareness and is an ambassador for Kidscape and a Patron of Trevi, Plymouth.
facebook/PartTimeWorkingMummy
Instagram: @PTWMUMMY
Twitter: @PTWMUMMY
Betsy, Seb, Lula, Isaac, Edie & Wilby – watching you grow, each with completely different personalities, goals and dreams but at the same time showing loyalty, support and love to one another, especially when times are tough, makes me see I got something in life right.
Thank you for teaching me new things every day. I adore all of you.
Joshua, for being such a huge part of who those six tiny beautiful humans are and the biggest reason I love you so much.
You work so hard in your own career yet support mine constantly, making me achieve things that would be impossible without you by my side.
Thank you for making me feel a love I never knew existed before you.
I will never take for granted what we’ve created.
To the eight of us
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
The Ex
I’d just started writing in my book this morning when I heard them pull up.
I peer out the window before heading downstairs. It’s grey out, the sky looks depressed and I sense the rain is going to start any second – and not stop for the day.
I see he’s got another new car. Oh, he’s gone for an Audi this time. Brand new. Black. Small and sporty, three-door – a perfect car for a forty-year-old father of three children. Dick.
The boot opens automatically, and he ushers the kids to pick up the handfuls of shopping bags, which are no doubt full of clothes and toys that he’s treated them to. Total Dick.
I see Belle grab three small paper bags from MAC and one huge one from Hollister while Rex is laden with oversized bags from JD Sports and Game that he can hardly lift. Art isn’t moving. He isn’t collecting his bags, no matter how hard his dad is trying to persuade him. He’s stood as still as a statue, leaning against the car with his head aimed down at the pavement. He’s going to lose it. I can’t even see his face, but I can just tell from his body language.
Here we go again …
I rush down the stairs and, as I get to the front door, it swings open and Belle flies in past me.
‘He is SUCH a dick,’ she bellows, as she storms up to her room with her headphones in, slamming the door behind her.
Rex follows. He tilts his head to the side as soon as he sees me, beams at me with his beautiful smile, showing his huge dimple in his left cheek. That boy – he instantly makes me melt whenever I see him. He says ‘Hey Mum’ then looks back, waves bye to his dad, turns back to me and whispers ‘Art’s about to lose it’ in a small voice that reminds me he’s still such a baby. He then drops his bags and walks straight past me into the kitchen and I can already hear him rummaging in the fridge.
I look round for a jacket to put on but everything is now packed in boxes, including my coat. I spot one of Jamie’s old jackets on top of the stack of boxes that are waiting to be collected by the removal firm and quickly wrap it around me before going out to retrieve my heartbroken son. I’d hoped Jamie would be back before Mark turned up with the kids; he’s so much calmer and more rational at dealing with Mark than I am. It’s so typical that while he’s gone out to grab us some lunch, this moron decides to turn up.
‘Hey, buddy,’ I say to Art, as I shut the front garden gate behind me and try to calm him down. By this point he’s crying, repeatedly saying to his dad, ‘But you always do this.’
My head is telling me to bite my tongue, even when faced with my upset child.
It’s weird, I think to myself. I know immediately what each cry that one of my children makes means; it’s our job as mums, isn’t it? To immediately recognise whether your child is crying because they’re in pain, crying in temper, anger or frustration, or whether it’s a cry of genuine upset where their hearts are physically hurting. Right then, Art sounded like he was angry crying. I can hear his frustration, but both of these feelings are totally justified, and they come from the knowledge that his dad is yet again abandoning and rejecting him. The same old shit is flowing out of his mouth.
‘Arthur, mate, I have to work. I promise I will make it up to you. I’ve bought you that new limited-edition game for your Xbox, and Sof is sorting your subscription as we speak so you can go online and play with your mates.’
Bite your tongue, Jo, I repeat, like a mantra in my head.
I try to intervene and do what I’ve done for the past five years, where I try to convince Art that his useless, narcissistic, lying piece of shit father isn’t a useless, narcissistic, lying piece of shit.
‘Baby, your dad has to go to work. Gran is going to come over and take you to the park while Jamie and I load the last few boxes, and then we will be ready to go,’ I say, hoping to calm him down and take his mind off things.
Art tries to reply to me, but he’s too far gone. He’s inherited the same cry as me and he’s now totally lost control. He’s choking back sobs and stuttering repeatedly while trying to get his words out. ‘But … but … you, you said we were with Dad all weekend … all weekend until Monday be-be-be-because you and J-J-J-Jamie needed to move, and and and you wanted to get the new house sorted for us!’ He stopped, let out a huge heartbroken wail and ended his sentence with, ‘It�
�s Saturday morning, Mum. We only went to Dad’s last night. We haven’t even seen him for one da-da-day.’
My heart aches. Still now, as I write this, it aches. It is actually a physical pain watching my baby feel so hurt because he can see that his dad doesn’t want him and he knows deep down both his parents are stood here, blatantly lying to him.
Bite your tongue, Jo.
‘Yes, babe, I did, but it’s fine. Dad has to work.’ I reassure him. ‘Jamie will get all the beds up first and you guys can help unpack at the new house and put things exactly where you want them. I’ll probably make your room look rubbish anyway if you aren’t there to help me.’ I want to reply with the truth and tell him that actually having three kids on top of trying to move hundreds of miles away to a new house is going to be really stressful and unfair, and I want to tell him his dad is a useless twat who is purposely trying to fuck this up for me yet again, but I don’t. Instead I bite my tongue so hard it almost bleeds and I notice Mark slyly open his car door and slide into the driver’s seat. He keeps the door open but starts pulling his seatbelt around him to prepare for his take-off.
I want to say, ‘Are you not even going to give your son a cuddle goodbye? Are you not going to say sorry? Make another date? Wipe his tears away?’ I want to tell him that he should be making the most of his time with the kids before there’s a six-hour drive between them. I already feel guilty about moving them away, despite his uselessness, and I don’t need his help to make it worse. Knob. Instead I bite my tongue … again.
Mark starts to roar the engine of his brand-new Twat Mobile and says, ‘Right, mate, I’ve got to shoot. Send me some pictures of your new room and let me know if you have any problems getting online with your game and I’ll get Sofia to sort it.’
I want to scream as loud as I can: ‘HELLO?? DICKHEAD?? He’s bawling. He isn’t listening to a word anyone is saying because you have broken his heart yet again. Nothing is going in about the stupid game you’ve paid him off with, or the online pass your helpful girlfriend is sorting, or taking pictures of this new room he isn’t interested in …’
Bite your tongue, Jo.
As my mantra plays on a loop in my head, I instruct Art to go inside the house so I can quickly sort things out with his dad, and I spot Mark roll his eyes at me with irritation before he revs the engine. Again. Not for the first time I feel furious with myself for wasting so much effort involving him in our discussions the very moment this move became a possibility. I was so worried about moving the kids away from their dad, but if he doesn’t care, why should I? Jamie and I are enough for them. They’ll be better off.
When I see that Art has shut the front door I bend down, put my head through Mark’s car window, and say, ‘Just so you know, this shit stops now. I’ve spent the last five years watching you walk in and out of our children’s lives as and when it suits you. Your daughter hates you, your youngest son sees you as some sort of weird rich uncle who swans in every few months to throw unnecessary gifts at him, and your middle son is totally fucked because he spent the first six years of his life having you kiss him goodnight most evenings, when you weren’t out shagging around, for you to then disappear completely. For the last five years you’ve acted like he doesn’t exist. If we’re both being honest you don’t have to go to work. You are lying, yet again. So, when you do go and collect your girlfriend now, if you’re planning not to cheat on her like you did to us, then perhaps you could have a chat with her about making more of an effort with the children you can’t be bothered with. You’ve been together for over five years now … Maybe she could actually spend some time with them, get to know them. She didn’t meet a single bachelor; she met a married father of three children. Maybe you two could think about behaving more like a family, more like parents, rather than constantly communicating to your children that they are a total inconvenience to the pair of you. You either start being a proper dad to make this move work like you said you would or you fuck off all together. I am not allowing you to cause any more damage to our children than you already have.’
‘Jo, you’re being crazy, I have to go into the offi—’
‘And one more thing,’ I interrupt. ‘I am sick to death of waiting for your dribs and drabs of child support as and when it suits you. I spent the first three years after you abandoned us living on income support because you refused to pay anything other than the mortgage and the utility bills. And now another man is paying to raise your children while you drive round in your piece of shit penis extension and swan off to the Maldives every other month for a holiday. I want maintenance going into my account, from today, every single month. I am not the beaten-down pregnant housewife you once left. If that doesn’t happen, I will put a claim in with child support. And you know what else, Mark? The only thing I pray that you’ve taught our children is to never conceive with dickheads, because the damage I’ve watched you cause them is absolutely soul-destroying.’
Mark couldn’t look more bored if he tried so I turn round before I resort to hitting him with more than my words. As I walk towards the house, I do a quick check to make sure none of the kids are spying on me from the windows. When I’m confident they aren’t, I hold up my left arm, as high as possible and give him my middle finger. I hear his horn beep as he speeds off, and I’m unsure whether it’s to gain my attention so he can argue back with a better hand gesture or whether he’s just letting me know he’s seen my middle finger. I keep walking into the house with my arm held in the air and my finger on display the entire time.
Then I slam the front door behind me. As I lean against it, I find myself sliding downwards into a heap on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest and my heart beating so hard it’s like it’s about to burst out of my chest. I was right about the sky. I hear the rain beat hard and heavy on the windows of the house.
I can see myself back there now, as I write this, and it puts a lump in my throat all over again. I felt drained, so drained, that the sobs came within seconds. Sobs of frustration, hurt and anger for my babies, for me, the sobs of guilt that there is nothing I can do to protect them or make this situation any better, and the sobs of disappointment in myself because I reacted to him when I knew it was just so, so pointless.
You should have bitten your tongue, Jo.
So.
A journal.
It was my therapist Myrah’s suggestion. Well, her plan B. At first, we discussed me writing letters – to all the people I wanted to say things to – but never sending them. She told me this is what a lot of people in therapy do to help get their thoughts and feelings out. However, I have so many people I’m trying to mentally deal with that I feel like the content of my letters would constantly change, because some days feel like I’m OK with things, and how I feel, and then other days, I have so many unanswered questions, I drown in it all.
So, we decided on this. This book: my diary, journal, memoir – Myrah said I can call it what I want, and I can write what I want. Anything and everything to help me process my thoughts and feelings; something I can read back when I need to – if I need to. I also know that we forget so much. We forget how deep we were in the trenches; we forget the funny stuff that made us laugh until we were in physical pain. So this is where I will write all of that – the positives and the negatives and all the bits in-between that make up my life.
And writing so far has really helped me. And reading it back makes me feel the things Myrah tells me I lock away – and I’ve decided I don’t want to lock anything away any more because that doesn’t get me anywhere. Instead, I want to write about it – whenever I get time or feel it’s necessary.
So, here goes …
CHAPTER ONE
How I Got into This Mess
My name is Jo. Born Josephine, weirdly, because my elder brother was named Joseph a few years before my arrival, hence why I have always been ‘Jo’ and he has always been ‘Joseph’. We don’t use my full name and we don’t shorten his, otherwise we would have the exact same n
ame, which would be even weirder. My full name, right now, is Jo Cassidy, I say right now as this is ‘his’ name, my ex-husband – before that my maiden name was Smith, which is why I haven’t reverted back, because I didn’t enjoy having the same name as so many other people, as well as not feeling ready just yet to have a different surname to my children. It seems so unfair to me that even though I was the loyal, devoted wife and now I am the only one raising our children they carry someone else’s name … and my third name, the one I was born with and kept for the first two years of my life, is Addison, which ironically is my favourite name out of all three – we will get to that part shortly.
I’m thirty-four. I am a mother to Belle, fifteen, Arthur (who we call Art), eleven, and Rex, who is almost five.
As you now know, I have a twat of an ex-husband named Mark. I also have an amazing partner called Jamie who I’ve been with for the past two years.
I suppose for this to make any sense to you, and to me when I’m old and I forget myself, I should go back to where it all began. I want to do that – to write down what I remember, to tell my story. And, kids, if you are reading this when I’m gone, I wrote this so that you guys have as much detail as possible about who your mummy was. Maybe you won’t want to read this, but I know what it’s like to be an adult with so many questions about childhood and no one to answer them; in case you feel that I got things really wrong with you, I hope this journal will help you to see that I was only ever trying to get them right. Perfect, even. A girl can dream.
I was the third child born to my parents who, according to the few people I have ever spoken to about them, should never have had children – my father, not at all; and my mother, not with him. I have a sister called Kitty who is thirteen months older than me, and of course my brother, Joseph, who is three years older.
I have no memory of my parents and I have never met them as an adult. My siblings and I were removed from their care when I was fifteen months old and we were adopted after being in foster care for a short time. My brother has never spoken of memories he has, and maybe that’s because he doesn’t have any. I don’t know.
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