It was 5.45am, Christmas Eve morning, 20Whatever. Exhausted from another late night secretly preparing those little special extras for the kids, I struggled from my bed for one last time before the beginning of a full five days of annual leave. Not a holiday. That would have meant at least some degree of relaxation, calm, fun. Instead, it would just be a longer-than-usual string of consecutive days where I didn’t have to plough through crowds of commuters to get to my desk for another day at an ultimately unfulfilling job.

 

Richie was asleep. He’d opened an eye briefly when I purposely clattered the wardrobe doors shut, then told me to keep it down and rolled over. I’d reminded him it was Christmas Eve and that he had yet to organise the main presents for the children. This was his only job. Literally. He was out of work yet again. 

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I showered, dressed, prepared my bag and grabbed a piece of fruit, then took a moment to gather some strength before leaving, contemplating the mess I was in. Today would obviously be the last chance to get the gifts at the top of each of the children's list. One day to go. He'd had the short list of three presents, along with my credit card, for over two weeks now, but still nothing. There was always a reason he hadn't been able to manage to get to the shops, and it was invariably someone else's fault.

 

I took a deep breath. It was time. I made sure my shoes connected sharply and loudly with the wooden floor, then called out one final reminder as I passed by the bedroom. He grunted an insult and shouted for me to stop with the constant nagging, and within seconds was snoring.

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*

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He couldn’t do it again could he? I’d told him in no uncertain terms the night before that I couldn’t go through again what had happened the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that. I was in tears when I’d told him, swamped in wrapping paper and discarded sellotape with hours more torture ahead of me. 

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“Why is it always me staying up, sorting everything out? Why can’t you do just something to make sure they have a special day? Is it really that difficult to stay in and put in a bit of effort? Seriously?”

 

“You buy them too much. And you make way too much fuss. That’s why you’re in this state.”

 

“I buy them too much? Are you for real? They’re our kids! I want them to feel loved! I want to see them excited! I get them what we can afford after I’ve paid for food and bills and after what you spend on whatever it is you do during the day while I'm working and every night wherever it is you go. You’d better sort those presents tomorrow or I’m done. I’m not putting up with this any more. I don’t deserve this.” 

 

I began sobbing uncontrollably. From the corner of my eye, I could see him shuffling awkwardly, impatiently.

 

“Right, I’ve got to go out.”

 

And with that, he was gone. It was 9pm. I went to bed alone and noticed that I was still alone when I awoke at 3am to go to the toilet. He’d crept into bed at around 4am and I’d pretended to be asleep so as not to have to have any sort of interaction with him. I remained awake until about 20 minutes before I had to get up for work when, naturally, sleep decided it was just the right time to take my head back to the pillow, adding more misery to the struggle of hauling myself from the bed and getting on the road one last time before the break.

 

With it being Christmas Eve, we’d likely be sent home from work after lunch. I consoled myself with this as I boarded the heaving 468 and wedged myself between a buggy and the corner of the stairs, my long puffer coat acting as a feeble cushion against the angle. And no sooner than we had started moving, than the bus jolted to a halt and I ricocheted between buggy and stairs, my shin connecting sharply with the bottom step in far too undramatic a fashion for anyone to even notice, let alone sympathise, with the fleeting agony of the moment.

 

The bus crawled from stop to stop, people came and went, but I remained stuck in my spot until we eventually arrived at the bus stop a few minutes’ walk from the office. I battled my way through the far-from-accommodating crowd to the door and alighted, and only when I stepped off did I notice the sickening stabbing sensation shooting from my shin all the way up to my stomach. Every second step of the short walk brought with it excruciating pain, so much so that I thought I would vomit. 

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A quick trip to the toilet once at work revealed a deep and nasty gash. The surrounding area was tender to the touch and had taken on a deep blue hue. 

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Without warning, a tidal wave of world-weariness crashed over me, drowning me momentarily in despair, leaving me soaked to the skin in gloom. Luckily I had some of the trusty, chunky painkillers I’d brought back from Madrid during the annual summer visit. I’d noticed that not only did they numb physical pain, but were quite adept at suppressing the pain that this joke of a marriage constantly heaped on me. I promised myself there and then that change would happen. Little did I know what lay ahead.

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It was the previous summer that I’d started to wake up. Another family trip to the Motherland funded by me. Although he'd made his usual promises about helping to pay off the credit card we were using while out there, I would never see a penny of the debt in which we eventually found ourselves languishing. But of course, he insisted on being the person to keep hold of the card.

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"What's it going to look like if they think you're paying for everything?" he'd argued. "I'm the one who's going to be paying it back and I'm not having that lot thinking I'm sponging off you"

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Each day, he’d go out around 11am with some of the other men, touring bars and cafes, and he would always come back with treats for the table if we were eating in. When we went out to eat, he insisted on paying: we were the affluent emigrants; they were the little folk who had not his talent, drive or vision to escape the peasants’ life. They were destined to remain here, lucky to be patronised by him once a year, to eat the food he lavished on them and to listen to his never ending tales of adventure. Of course he’d pick up the tab! No problem! His pleasure! 

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My despair.

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Of course, the credit card was his idea, but it had to be taken out in my name because he couldn’t get credit, because he didn’t have any money to pay it back. Luckily for him, I did. I worked. Two jobs at times - his idea of course - while he pursued that perfect employment opportunity. 

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His tactic? Sleep till midday, get up and go for a coffee or three in one of the local cafes, buy a coffee or two for one or two of the regulars - so generous he was with that credit card - then speed around the local neighbourhood in his beloved motor, frequently stopping suddenly and illegally on the road to have a quick chat to anyone he saw that he knew, while swearing and blasting on his car horn at any motorist, cyclist or pedestrian who might have the temerity to challenge his delusional interpretation of the Highway Code. 

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Then it was back to the flat to work on the masterpiece that was his CV so he could send it out to a few lucky, prospective employers.

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But he was always overqualified, apparently.

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On this particular day, there would surely be no time to grace the town with his presence, for today was Christmas Eve. He had one job to do.

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As lunchtime approached at the office, and with it the joy of an unofficial afternoon off, my teenage son, Jack, called me to let me know that he would soon be leaving to attend a Christmas lunch with the charity he’d been volunteering at. He called to let me know that his departure would leave the youngest, our three year old, effectively unsupervised as his dad was still asleep. I told him to go and wake his dad and to make sure that he had surfaced before leaving the house. He did so, much to the annoyance of his father, who shushed him and told him abruptly that he’d better watch his mouth or he’d be sorry. How dare he bark orders at his dad! Who did he think he was?

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Jack reluctantly apologised, explaining that he had to go and get changed or he’d be late for his lunch. 

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“I’m up! What is your problem! Go to your precious fucking lunch!”

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Jack went to get changed and put his headphones in to listen to his music.  

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​Richy went back to bed. 

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But only for a short while, for the youngest was now playing with his favourite toy - the electric cooker! He’d turned on all of the dials and, slowly but surely, the pan on the hob got hotter and hotter until it finally started to melt the plastic colander that was still resting inside it from the pasta Richie had made on his return in the early hours.

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The smoke alarm went off, but the music in Jack's  headphones was loud enough for the sound of the alarm not to appear quite so shrill and close. The smell of burning plastic, however, coupled with Richie's screams of anger, were more than enough to alert him to the ensuing chaos. Diego, our three year old, was hysterical with fear and had retreated to a corner, sobbing. Rather than console and reassure him, Richie could only respond to the situation by throwing insults at Jack.

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“What were you doing leaving a three year old playing with a cooker? Are you some sort of retard? You could have had us all killed! I give up on you!  You’re an embarrassment! Get out and go to your stupid, fucking lunch.”

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When I arrived back from work an hour or so later, the smell of burning plastic mixed with narcissistic rage hung heavy in the air. 

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Because of heavy traffic, it had taken about 20 minutes longer than anticipated to get home. He looked at me with disgust as I walked through the door, asking where I'd been until this time and then started one of his regular gaslighting rants: 

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“I was meant to be out getting the presents and now look at the time! It’s going to be a nightmare in the shops. And you expect me to get everything now? Don’t start blaming me if the shelves are empty. You were the one who was late. I’ve had nothing but shit to deal with today. I told Jack to look after Diego while I went for a shower but he left him on his own in the kitchen and look what happened! Can’t he do one little thing? Fucking useless! He had his headphones in, locked in his room while this one was busy burning the place down! I’m starting to give up on Jack, I swear! The guy’s a joke!”

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I just stood there. I didn’t have the energy to say anything back so I stayed silent, put down my bags and went to the toilet to have a minute to myself. As I splashed my face with cold water, my shin throbbing furiously from down below and emanating right to my chest, I tried to summon the courage to go back out. 

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But then I heard the door slam violently. Music to my ears. 

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I hobbled back into the lounge and in the direction of the sofa, but as I did, Diego approached me slowly, mournfully, sobbing. When he reached me he just wrapped his weary arms around the top of my legs to where he could reach and cried and cried.

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