A/N - Hello! Haven't written a simple son and mother romance in ages. Now you'll know what to expect going forward.
Check the tags as there might be one or two topics / themes that some readers don't enjoy, even in these stories.
Usual caveats. All editing and reviewing done the author with Microsoft Word. Spelling is usually spot on. Australian / British English. Definitely the occasional typo. Grammar can be ropey at times, but it's been a long time since I sat in a classroom. All mistakes owned up to by the author. Please remember this is only fantasy and I'm an amateur.
Comments and feedback appreciated as always.
*****
Working hard to make a living
Bringing shelter from the rain
A father's son left to carry on
Blue denim in his veins
Oh oh oh he's a working class man
- 'Working Class Man', Jimmy Barnes
*****
Mum gripped my hand tightly as we sat side by side, the celebrant droning on and on. We were surrounded by close friends and family. My grandparents on both sides. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters of my parents. A few cousins. Friends of my parents and my grandparents. I heard the soft sobbing of my father's mother. No parent wants to bury their child.
I was sixteen years old at the time. My father was thirty-three when he was killed. He'd been out for a couple of after work beers with a couple of close friends. CCTV later showed that, after a minor disagreement over a spilled drink, he was punched from behind by the person he'd had the disagreement. The hit alone may not have killed him, but when his head smacked onto the edge of the bar, it was thought he was already dead by the time he hit the floor.
The court case had barely started by the time we were ready to say goodbye to my father.
There would be no burial. We were not a religious family, and one of his requests had been for his body to be cremated upon his death. So as the celebrant droned on, my mother leaned into my side, feeling her body shaking as she cried. Letting go of her hand, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders with my left and took her hand again with my right.
"Thank you," she managed to whisper in between her sobs. I replied by kissing the top of her head, pulling her closer to me. Ever since the night the police had arrived at our front door to tell us, Mum had relied on me, having to be wiser beyond my years as my mother fell apart.
My parents were your oft talked about teenage parents. At the time we buried my father, Mum was only thirty-one years old. They'd only been dating a few months when Mum told him she was pregnant. Thankfully, unlike numerous other stories about young men running from their responsibilities, my father quit school and immediately went looking for a job. He found one easily enough, but with only his High School Certificate, having only complete four of six years at high school, his options were going to be limited for a long time.
Those first few years were difficult for our small family. My father moved in with my mother and her parents once she was about six months along. After I was born, the crib was placed in their bedroom, though my parents knew that situation couldn't remain for too long. Thankfully, the two sets of parents came together to assist our small family into our own apartment. It was a tiny two-bedroom place, but it was somewhere we could call home.
I don't remember too much from those early years. What I realised rather quickly when at school is that my family wasn't the only one struggling. I learned later as I grew up that my parents did what they could, but the most important things were a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in my belly. It was up to my grandparents and other relatives to spoil me, usually on my birthday and at Christmas.
One thing I realised as I grew up is that despite the circumstances, my mother and father were still deeply in love with each other, at least in those early years. When I was five years old, they wed in a very simple ceremony in the backyard of her parents' place, and although I did hear the occasional argument or disagreement while growing up, it was generally a happy enough household while I was growing up.
My mother did want another child, but considering life was a struggle, whenever I asked about a sibling, my parents would sit me down and explain that life was expensive, and with three mouths already to feed, a fourth one would make things even more difficult. By the time I was at primary school, my father was now working as a tradesman for an old friend from high school, who had his own business, while my mother managed to find work as a part-time receptionist, but she had only just completed her own High School Certificate by the time she gave birth.
By the time I entered high school, we'd managed to move into a larger three-bedroom apartment though things were still difficult. Dad managed to get a better job, making at least a little more money, but not even having a Higher School Certificate counted him out of many jobs, and he simply didn't have the time or energy to continue any studies. As for my mother, she did manage to complete some night classes to finish her High School Certificate, and she did fine herself a full-time job as a secretary. But even with two wages, things were still difficult after all the rent and bills were paid, leaving little money for any luxuries. Dad drove a beat-up used car. Mum relied on lifts to get around. My grandparents bought me a decent bike for me to ride around on, otherwise I'd rely on public transport or I'd walk.
Hitting my mid-teens, I'd long come to accept that life in the western suburbs wasn't always easy, my father a working class, blue-collar worker, doing his best to support his small family, I couldn't complain nor want for anything. Sure, I watched as friends were bought the latest technology, lived in their own homes, ate out more often, but my parents were still happy. I was content with my life, a typical teenager always wanting more,
A week after my fifteenth birthday, I sat down with my parents at dinner as always. "Dad, should I get a part-time job? Only a few of my friends are looking to work, but I'm thinking any sort of wage I can bring in to support myself..."
Both my parents smiled at me. "That's a mature outlook on life, Mark," my father stated, "Where are you looking?"
"Two options. I can either look at a fast-food restaurant, something like Macca's. Don't pay great but apparently it looks good on a resumé. If not there, then somewhere like a supermarket, stacking shelves and shit. Either way, it'll be working nights after school during the week, and I'd likely be required to work at least one day every weekend."
