All day, Rita had been on edge at work. She snapped at a customer, quarreled with her coworker. She worked in a corner shop. Even though shed been a decent studentmostly Bs and Asgood grades hadnt exactly paved her way to happiness.
“Bloody unfair,” shed mutter. “Emma barely scraped through school, could hardly string a sentence together, but thanks to her dads connections, she waltzed into uni and got a degree. Meanwhile, my dad? A hardworking bloke, brilliant with his hands, but no connectionsjust a fondness for the pub. Every penny he earned went straight to the bar.”
Ritas mum, a hospital cleaner, raised her and her two sisters on a shoestring. They lived in a small village in a cramped house, barely making ends meet.
Rita sometimes vented to her coworker Lucywhen they werent bickering, that is. Theyd huddle in the stockroom for smoke breaks, swapping woes and gripes.
“Honestly, Luce, Mum kept us on a tight leash. No dances, no cinema, nothing till we finished school. If one of us even looked at a boy, shed chase him off. No wonder we grew up clueless, shy, and about as streetwise as a goldfish.”
“Bit harsh, your mum,” Lucy would say. “Mine couldnt care less where I went.”
After school, Ritas sisters fended for themselves. The eldest trained as a seamstress, landed a job at a factory, and got a tiny flat in a council block. Shed swan back to the village, smug as you please.
“Freedom at last! My own place, my own moneybrilliant.”
Not that she ever brought gifts. By thirty, she was still single. The middle sister trained as a painter-decorator, got knocked up by a bloke named Paula cheeky lad with a taste for lagerand married him out of sheer desperation.
“Fine, Ill marry you,” Paul had said. “Kid needs a dad, right?”
They lived in a grim workers hostel, waiting for a council flat that never came.
Rita, the youngest, trained as a hairdresser but ended up in the shop instead.
“On my feet all day, wages swallowed by stock shortages,” shed complain.
Then, a stroke of luck. She met Tonya bloke who loved a laugh and a bit of footie.
“Fancy coming to my mates birthday?” Lucy had asked. “Ladsll be there.”
Tony asked her to dance, they hit it off, and before long, they married. But the bloke who was all charm in the pub turned out to be a lazy, cheating sod at home. Rita had a son, Jamie, and divorced Tony three years later.
Life was tough. Rita scraped by, took odd jobsselling booze, working market stalls.
“Nobodys going to help me,” shed think bitterly. “Mum sends veggies from her garden, but you cant buy shoes with potatoes.”
She hardened with each year. Nothing irked her more than her mums advice.
One evening, as Rita touched up her lipstick, the doorbell rang.
“Who on earth?”
Her mum stood there, breathless, lugging bags. The lift had been broken for weeks. Rita forced a smile.
“Didnt expect you, Mum.”
She was supposed to meet Eddie at a pub. Now this.
“Managed the stairs, did you?” her mum chattered, unpacking veg onto the counter.
Rita checked the clock. “Mum, Ive got to dash. Feed Jamie when hes back, yeah?”
“Go on, then,” her mum sighed.
Eddie was halfway through a pint when Rita arrived, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Mum showed up unannounced,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Elderlyalways at the wrong time.”
They drank till closing, then swung by a mates flat. Rita stumbled home at 3 a.m. Her mum sat scowling in the kitchen.
Next morning, nursing a hangover, Rita gulped painkillers while her mum washed up.
“Out all hours with men while Jamie reeks of fags and probably lager. Sort your life out before he goes off the rails!”
“Im an adult, Mum,” Rita snapped. “And Jamies fineall kids do it these days.”
She stormed out, fuming.
“Lectures from her? We raised ourselves! All she did was bark orders and scream if we slacked.”
After the divorce, Rita played the field, squeezing gifts and cash from men. Then Eddie came alonga divorcé with a sharp mind and a knack for earning. She clung to him.
Six months in, he proposed.
“Rita, loveflowers, a ring, and me. Marry me?”
“Obviously!”
Life improved. Eddie was decent, hardworking. They moved into a nice flat, had a daughter, Sophie. Then her sisters started visitingnot for chats, but loans and hand-me-downs.
Rita cut them off, changed her number, ignored her mums pleas to visit. Even when her mum fell ill, she stayed away.
“Let the sisters handle it.”
Years passed. Rita had another son. Her parents died. She attended the funerals, left fast. A neighbor scolded her.
“Cold-hearted, you are. Your mum slaved for you, and you couldnt even visit.”
Rita shrugged. “What good did her strictness do? Life favours the bold, not the obedient.”
But as she aged, guilt crept in. Shed cry at night, even visited church, wishing she could beg forgiveness.
Too late now.
