Broken

We spend Sunday’s in Rochdale with Theodore’s mother, and once a month we take her out for lunch. It took a while to convince her that it was okay to take a day off from the kitchen once in a while, but she refuses to go anywhere flashier than a pub. She’s a great woman who I have nothing but respect and admiration for, and dare I say, I think she might actually like me, too – especially since I stopped smoking.

On Saturday’s we visit my grandfather in the nursing home. He doesn’t know who either of us are and often refers to Theodore as the ‘pansy nurse’ who keeps hiding the whiskey, that he doesn’t even own. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know who I am, he’s my relative, and I now realise just how important family is.

Max and I have grown so much closer over the last twelve months, and that’s because now, I’m ready to let that happen. I spent my whole life keeping people at arms length, foolishly believing I was protecting both them and myself. The scars on my wrists, still raised, but fading, are a daily reminder, however, that my methods didn’t turn out too great, so I decided to embrace being open, allowing myself to love, be loved, in the hope it would ease the weight of the pain that’s suffocated me since I was a child.

It did.

The darkness still looms over my head, threatening to rain down on me. Some days it does, only now I have people there to help me dry off before it seeps into my bones. I’d like one of those people to be my mother, but we don’t talk much these days. She didn’t take it well when I stood up to her over the business, when I reiterated the fact my father left his share to me and only me. She’s disappointed in me, and dare I say, a little ashamed. We have a civil as opposed to loving relationship, and I’m okay with that.

I’m okay, just like Theodore, just like the song, said I would be.

~Theo~

“Did you buy mince?” I ask James as we stand outside Isobel’s school gates. I’m planning to cook my renowned shepherd’s pie with baked beans in for tea; a meal which earned instant approval from Izzy the first time she tried it.

“I thought you were buying it.”

“No. I asked you.”

“Well I didn’t.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” He looks hot as hell wearing his grey suit and a delicious smirk. Images of ripping them from his body take over my mind…and then I remember where we are and want to slap myself across the face for thinking inappropriate thoughts.

“We’ll take her to McDonald’s. Kids love McDonald’s.”

“Shepherd’s pie is healthier.”

“We’re the cool uncles. Let her parents worry about her vegetable intake.”

I can’t help but smile. We are the cool uncles, and I love it. Children bring a refreshing, carefree quality with them, one that is too easy to forget when you’re an adult with pressures and responsibilities. Isobel reminds us of the important things in life, like taking time out to ignore the stresses of the world and just…laugh. She doesn’t care that we have deadlines or bills to pay, and while she’s with us, neither do we.

My nephew, William, on the other hand, is a whole different level of scary. We had him for the first time last week and it was terrifying. He can’t talk, so I have to guess what he wants when he starts bawling the freaking house down, and unfortunately for him, Baby isn’t a language I’ve mastered yet.

He’s on the move, too, using his tiny arms to drag himself along on his stomach. Eighteen times I had to pull him away from danger – electrical sockets, low cupboards, doors – in just one hour. By the time Tom picked him up, I was exhausted.

That’s the best part of being a cool uncle – you get to send them home again.

“At least tell me you posted the passport forms?” I say. We’re going to Tenerife in two months. James is going to show me the places he saw as a child and I can’t wait. I’ve only been out of England twice in my life but that isn’t the main reason I’m looking forward to it. For two whole weeks James and I will be completely alone, away from all sources of stress and monotony. I can’t wait to relax with him, laugh with him, love him…all while trying to get a spot of colour on my pasty white skin.

“I got Helen to do it.”

Typical. At least the job is done so I can’t grumble.

“How’s my princess?” James sings, bending down to Isobel’s level as she runs towards him. The look on his face, the radiant smile, when he’s with this precious girl is priceless. I never tire of seeing it.

“Harley got in trouble for snapping Freya’s pencil today,” Izzy says, ever the busybody. “I dint. I never get in trouble.”

“Didn’t. And I should hope not, young lady.” James picks at an orange stain splattered across her white polo-shirt. “What did you have for dinner, little lady?”

“Pasta, and it was embarrassing,” she says, pulling a face.

“Do you mean disgusting?”

“Yeah. It was ‘orrible. I dint like it.”

“Didn’t, not dint.”

She literally rolls her eyes at him and turns to me. “Thedor,” she says. She struggles with my name, but refuses to call me Theo since James told her I was named after the chipmunk. Arsehole. “Can I play on your gotchi when we get home?”

After mentioning, just once, not long after we met, that I always envied kids with official Tamagotchi’s when I was little, James made it his secret mission to find me one, presenting it to me on my birthday. I’ve no idea how he got it – an original, boxed, nineties edition – but I assume he paid a fuck-tonne for it on eBay. It’s a crappy toy, but one of the most cherished things I own.