I still miss my ex's mum
- Published
She'll always be the mum that got away
I met my first love at 16. I’d go over to her house after school, lie on the sofa and watch Coronation Street. If she was doing the ironing, I’d keep her company, and tell her everything about my life.
She was Jo - my boyfriend’s mum.
I remember the first time we met. I’d gone round to my boyfriend’s house in our small town near Doncaster - and she promptly sent her son out on an errand so she could learn my intentions.
I was terrified. She was stern and straight-talking, but when she asked me questions, she really listened to my answers. She seemed to care a lot about my life, from the serious to the silly, and I realised very quickly that she was also very loving.
Gina Clarke when she was younger
Within a few months, I was visiting her house without my boyfriend. If we were in the park with friends, I’d leave early and tell him I’d see him back at his place. I just wanted to spend time with Jo.
She’d cook me a tea, or we’d order in a takeaway, and curl up on the sofa with a box of Maltesers in the middle. We were totally comfortable around each other, and would roll our eyes when my boyfriend came home and wrestled the remote away to watch Match of the Day.
My parents were both busy professionals and all my siblings are much older than me. I often felt more like an only child. But at Jo’s place, on a noisy, friendly estate, it was always really lively. My boyfriend and I would be bickering, with Jo telling us to kiss and make up. If he wasn’t around, she and I would have a fun girly gossip.
Because she wasn’t related to me, there were no boundaries. I could speak to her about anything – even her own son. I’d tell her how he was driving me crazy with his disorganisation and football obsession, and she’d immediately relate.
Jo would often drive me back to my parents’ house. We’d leave my boyfriend at her house, and sometimes stop for fried chicken on the way, singing along to the radio. In Jo, I had another mum figure.
I’d stop by the jewellery shop where she worked just to chat to her. Whether it was for some advice or just to show off my latest outfit, she always made time for me.
She became a second mother to me, to the point that I’d get both her and my mum a Mother’s Day card - it felt only right when I spent so much time with Jo. If I bought my mum a gift, I felt bad for not getting Jo one, too.
After almost two years together, I went to university and things fizzled out between my boyfriend and me. I was really sad, because it meant I wouldn’t get to see Jo anymore.Â
When I eventually ended it by text message, I felt guilty to learn he was in the car with his mum at the time. It was like breaking up with her by stealth and I felt ashamed for the next few weeks. But I couldn’t avoid walking past where she worked and one day I popped in to ask how she was doing.
She was lovely. She told me she knew what her son was like and she understood. “It’s happened, but we miss you.” There was no blame, and when she said I should come and visit her at the store when I could, my heart leapt.
I popped in a few times while I was around before university and it was the same as ever. But eventually I moved away for university, and she got a new job so I stopped seeing her around town. It felt awkward to go out of my way to contact her, so I didn’t.
It’s been a decade now since I last spoke to her, but I still think about her. If someone mentions Match of the Day, instantly I’m back with her on the sofa. Or when people talk about Disneyland, I can still hear her telling the story about how she walked round Florida for a whole fortnight with a broken ankle.
I’m married now and have a new mother-in-law, who is lovely. But I still stalk Jo on Facebook every now and then. I don’t get in contact, mostly because I worry I wouldn’t mean as much to her as she did to me.
She’ll always be the mum that got away.
This article was originally published on 9 March 2018.
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