Page 1 of The Ties We Break

“What do you mean all the money's gone?!” I yell at the pathetic excuse for a father standing before me.

“Don’t yell at me, Issy. I didn’t know how to tell you. I know your grandma and mum left the inheritance specifically for you, but I needed it. You don’t understand,” he whines as I pace around the shithole we call home.

“No, you’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how anyone could blow thirty thousand Euros in two years. What the fuck have you spent it on? It sure as fuck isn’t us because we still live in a shithole, and I’m the one putting food on the table, working all the hours I possibly can. This money was my way out, my chance to better myself. I have plans, Dad,” I cry out as defeat spreads through my body, my muscles physically sagging.

Flopping down onto the old, ratty grey sofa, I pull my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and let my head flop onto my knees. I can’t hold the tears back, they run freely down my face, and I don’t even try to stop them. This is the first time I have cried in years.

When I was younger, tears used to be a regular occurrence. I would cry for all the things I didn’t have that other kids did, like money, food on the table that didn’t come from a fast food restaurant or out of a bag, and a mum. I craved all the normal things everyone else took for granted. Every time I got bullied for having ratty clothes or had to miss out on a trip because Dad didn’t have the money, I would cry. But then, one day, I asked myself why I was crying. What was I achieving by crying my eyes out every night? Sweet fuck all. That is when I decided I would do better, be better. I wanted to get out of Limerick and see the world. But mostly, I wanted to get an education and train to do something I loved to ensure I would always be financially stable.

I know that sounds weird and that most people would wish for riches, but unless you have been truly poor, you won't know this feeling. You won't know what it’s like to crave just enough money to buy food to last until the next payday. That is how I have been living. The week before my father gets paid his money from the state, if he’s had a shit time or spent it before I get a chance to take it off him, I know true hunger for at least a week. I know what it’s like to go to bed hungry and to wake up hungry, only getting something to eat because I qualified for a free school meal. How fucking sad is that? So, no, I have never craved riches, just stability.

“I’m sorry, Issy. I wanted to tell you, but I just never found the right time,” he whimpers as he sits down on the edge of the sofa next to me. He rests his hand on my knee, and I feel conflicted. I am so mad at him right now, I feel as though I could burst, but at the same time, he’s still my dad.

“The right time would have been when I told you I got offered a place at Queen’s College at the University of Oxford and that I’d turned down any offer of funding and support because I knew I had Gran and Mum’s money to use,” I reply sarcastically, raising my head to look into his chocolate brown eyes. They’re a replica of mine. In fact, they're the only thing I have in common with my dad; everything else is all Mum.

“I know, but you were so happy. I couldn’t ruin that for you.” His aged face wrinkles with sadness, and it occurs to me for the first time that my father really does look older than he actually is. I guess years of anxiety, depression, and booze will do that to a guy.

He didn’t always look like this; grey, shaggy hair, wrinkled, pale skin that sags from his bones, and a frame so thin he looks ill. He used to be strong, muscular, and proud of his appearance. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and I can see why my mum used to call him her Prince Charming. He really did look like all the Princes’ from fairy tales. That all changed when Mum passed, though. I was only eight years old, and even though ten years have passed, I remember it like it was yesterday. One day she wasn’t feeling well, coughing a lot and struggling to catch her breath. Thinking she probably had a chest infection, we took her to the doctor. They diagnosed her with pneumonia, and she went into the hospital for treatment. Over the next couple of days, she became septic, and her organs started to fail. We watched her slip away right in front of our eyes. I’ve never felt so helpless or alone.

When Mum went, she took a piece of my dad with her. The romantic side of me wondered if that’s what happens to soulmates when one dies. Do they take their partner's soul with them to ensure they will meet again? I have no idea if I believe in that type of thing. All I know is that Mum and Dad met when they were fourteen and have been together ever since. Childhood sweethearts who fell in love and beat the odds. Everyone said they wouldn’t make it, since Mum was from the rich side of town, and Dad was from the poor side, but they did, and then they had me.

My childhood was nothing compared to where I am now. I had a great house, good furniture, and food on the table. Mum was from a wealthy family, not like rolling in cash, but comfortable. She worked in a bookstore, and spending my weekends lazing around the bookshop and reading everything in stock is what started my love of reading. Then when I lost Mum, I used these fantasy worlds to help me escape my own. I turned to books for support, whereas Dad turned to alcohol and pills. I’ve tried to get him help. I’ve tried to make him see that he’s killing himself for ten years, but he never changes. Usually, I would forgive my dad for anything, but stealing the money left for me is unforgivable. Mum knew I wanted to do something with my life, so the money she set aside when Gran died was a good enough sum for me to go to a decent University. She wanted me to have a good education, and on her deathbed, that is what I promised her.

For the last ten years, I have worked my ass off to get the grades I needed. When I finally got that acceptance letter for Queen’s College at Oxford Medical School, I was over the fucking moon. I knew the thirty thousand Euros I inherited wouldn’t pay for all four years, but I was happy to get a job. I just wanted to go to England and start over. A new life, a new me. Now, that’s all gone. I’m supposed to leave in a month. I will never get the money in time.

“I-I’m s-sorry, Issy. P-please, forgive me. I-I have a little left. If you let me use that, I-I can go and t-try to make more,” he stutters, as he pushes up off the sofa.

Rage courses through my body, and I jump to stand in front of him. My dad isn’t a tall man, maybe five-foot-eight, but he looks bigger compared to my five-foot-two frame. Although, right now, he has never looked smaller to me. My voice is laced with anger as I place my hand firmly on his chest to stop him from moving. “Don’t make the situation worse. We need that money for food. That is if you want to eat for the next week,” I snarl.

He looks so deflated, but I can’t bring myself to care. All I feel is rage for the loss of the future I promised Mum I would have. He starts to speak, no doubt to come up with more excuses, but I don’t want to hear it. Walking towards me, as though to embrace me, I stop him, and before he can speak, I cut him off. “I am going out. I’ll be back later, and for fuck’s sake, do not spend that money.”

My threat hangs in the air as I grab my handbag and jacket off the sideboard where I left them. I throw on my well-worn converse and storm out of the house. There’s only one place to go to when I feel like this, Sian’s house.

* * *

The walkto Sian’s is short, thankfully, and having made it so many times before, I know all the shortcuts. I walk through the more deprived streets of Limerick, the ones I know so well that are littered with bin bags, random household items like mattresses, and even used needles. This area needs a lot of money invested into it, and some good paint jobs to get it looking anywhere near decent, but the town gave up on my neighbourhood a long time ago. Choosing instead to focus on the one nearby, the one Sian lives in.

Sian has been my best friend since I was five years old. She held my hand at my mum's funeral, lets me stay at her house no questions asked when I needed to escape from mine for a bit, and most importantly, she always has my back. We couldn’t be more different, but that works for us. I’m a shy bookworm who is quite happy going unnoticed in the background, whereas Sian loves to be centre stage. She’s a party girl, making friends with everyone everywhere she goes.

I’m still wowed when I walk up the driveway, towards the house I think of as my second home. The house is grand with white bricks and beautiful bay windows. Sian’s dad, Daryl, built the place just for his wife, Jill. I love watching them together; it’s like seeing a love story play out in real life. Every time I say that, Sian rolls her eyes at me. She isn’t at all a romantic like I am.

Daryl started with nothing, but he trained and worked hard to become an investment banker, which meant he could finally give his wife everything she ever wanted. But Jill isn’t the meek housewife you would expect. She has fire, and puts her kids in their place the second they fall out of line, even now. She used to joke that she has a third eye, one that nobody can see, but it sees everything. Especially when her kids were naughty, she always knew, and growing up, we had no idea how she did it. As adults, we now know it’s simply because we live in a small neighbourhood, and Jill was friends with all the neighbours. But at the time, we really thought she magically knew whenever we were naughty.

I love hanging out at Sian’s house; it always feels like a proper home. Sian and her two younger brothers are constantly arguing, and her mum is always pottering around the house doing some sort of hobby. Then, when it comes to dinnertime, they all sit down as a family and talk about their day. Even though I was always welcomed and treated like a family member, I still used to sit there and just watch them. I felt like the audience member of a show, watching Daryl and Jill. Even when they argue, it’s clear they love each other, like real love. The type that beats every hurdle and lasts for a lifetime. The love I dream about. The dream my parents had.

I don’t bother to knock on the large wooden door. Instead, I use the key I was given a few years ago and let myself in. As soon as I step foot into the entrance hall, I hear footsteps on the wooden floorboards heading my way. Jill appears in front of me, takes one look at me, and pity flashes through her eyes for just a fraction of a second before she pulls me into a giant hug. I embrace it, throwing my arms around my surrogate mum, and I let the floodgates open. As I rest my cheek against her chest, listening to the steadying rhythm of her heartbeat, my body is racked with sobs. Her hand rubs soothingly up and down my back, and I feel her guiding us into the living room. She breaks the hug for a second to sit us on the sofa before pulling me back into her arms. Her soft, gentle shush soothes me, but she doesn't speak. This is one of the things I have always loved about Jill; she never forces me to talk. She always gives me time and space and lets me talk when I’m ready. She doesn't question me or force me to talk when I don’t want to. It’s actually a brilliant tactic because I always tell her what’s wrong eventually.

Finally, I pull back and look up into her deep, forest green eyes. Jill gives me a small smile that I try to return as she wipes stray tears from my cheeks. Some people were just made to be mothers, they can’t help but mother people, and Jill is one of those. She loves her children fiercely, even when they don’t deserve it. Her youngest, Tom, is a little terror, but she idolises him. Just like a mum should.

“Sweetheart, please don’t cry. This is all new for me. I can’t remember the last time you came to me crying. I’m used to the hugs, but this is new,” she jokes, stroking my arm in comfort.

Slowly, I wipe the stray brown lock that’s sweeping over my face behind my ear before lounging back on the sofa to get comfortable. That’s when I noticed my best friend, Sian, standing by the entrance to the living room. Her bright red hair is scrunched up on the top of her head in a messy knot, and even in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie, you can see how voluptuous Sian’s body is. She is proud to call herself a curvy girl, and she embraces her body. Some people would call her fat, but they would be assholes. She is a healthy size, and given she is five-foot-seven, she is entirely in proportion. Sian just likes to say she has an extra portion of everything, giving her curves. I’ve always admired her body confidence; it’s something I’ve never had.

Once Sian knows I’ve spotted her, she gently walks in and sits down on my other side. As soon as her mum releases me, Sian pulls me in for a big hug. I hiccup and gulp down some big breaths, not sure I can manage any more tears. “Boo, what’s the matter? I haven’t seen you cry like this in years,” Sian asks softly when she finally releases me.

Releasing a big sigh, I start to explain. Both mother and daughter sit transfixed, hanging on my every word, and I watch the anger rising in both of them the longer the story goes. When I finish, Sian hugs me, but her mum leaps from the sofa and begins to pace across her beautiful, soft, grey rug.

“What fucking idiot gave that piss poor excuse for a father the ability to withdraw your money? Absolutely fucking crazy! I’m gonna give that eejit a piece of my mind!” she shouts, waving her clenched fist in the air. Her Irish accent gets a lot more pronounced when she yells, and it’s funny to see such a usually quiet woman jumping to my defence. I want to hug her again and have her tell me it’ll be alright, but she won't lie to me.

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