Page 49 of When We Are Old

I groaned.

“And the headmaster will tell her off for the party.”

Angela spoke from the door—that’s how many eyes-closed conversations I’d had in the space over the course of my lifetime. Even without seeing her I knew where she stood.

“And I’m a shit parent.” I mumbled into my hands.

There was a pause and then a gentle grasp wrapped itself around my wrists and pulled my barrier down. “Ronnie. None of those things are true or have to happen.”

Lifting my face, I met his gaze. “Mum is a given, Jewson has me pegged already, and well, I think my own point speaks for itself.”

Matthew frowned, his face of beautiful thunder clouding. “What’s this nonsense you tell yourself, Ronnie?” His minor notes rattled around my chest, making my breath tighten and quicken. “I’ll help you clean. I’ll come with you to school on Monday, and you are definitely not a shit parent.”

“Harrumph.” I tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held me tighter. “There are two drunk fourteen year olds upstairs.”

“So? It happens. When we’ve finished tidying, I’ll tell you all about what happened when Liam raided dad’s whisky supply. He was thirteen and was sick for hours.”

I offered him faint smile. “Really?”

“Yep. Dad went old school and made him drink another measure as soon as he stopped being sick.”

Ugh. Even the thought made me want to gag.

“See.” Matthew flickered a smile at me, and it warmed my heart like the first ray of the sun through thick clouds on a stormy day.

“Looks like you don’t need me, Ronnie. I’ll go.”

Matthew swivelled his head to look at Ange. “Oh no. You get to clean up too.”

“What? I didn’t make this mess.”

“Grow up, Ange, and help,” he barked and both Angela and I stood up straighter.

Ange muttered under her breath about bossy bastards, but turned and walked into the lounge. “Oh shit. Ronnie do not come in here,” she called back.

I shuddered and a squeaked a whimper. “Oh God. She’s going to kill me.”

“Ronnie Childs. Thirty-five and scared of her own mother.” Matthew arched a dark brow. Hearing him say it made it brutally real.

“She’s mean.” I stared at my shoes.

“Ronnie.” He tilted my chin with his forefinger. “She’s only as mean as you let her be. My mam’s mean too: always bossing us about, organising us, telling us what to do.”

“Really?” I thought of lovely Lynn and her warm kitchen with considerable longing.

“Sure. You know what I do when she oversteps the mark?”

“What?” A smile crept across my face.

“I tell her to fuck off.”

“You do not.” My hand connected with his chest, a light bat across firm muscle.

“Aye, I do.” He started to laugh and pulled me in tight against his chest. My nose pressed up against his shirt and I inhaled him deep into my lungs. “Then the next day I take her flowers and apologise the shit out of it, so she makes me food and looks after the boys when I need her to.”

“So you still need her even though you don’t want it all the time?”

Our gaze met and he frowned. “Ronnie, it’s okay to need people. That makes us human, makes this thing called life real.”