TARA
Esther: I’m running late @Tara
Tara: Same here! Hopefully, we won’t get there so late that we lose our reservation.
Esther: Oh no! I’m leaving soon.
Tara: Me too!
Cleo: Have fun, girlies! I’ll get all the gist when I get back.
Tara was trying not to be upset. Today had already started off on a not-so-great note. Jem’s Mother’s Day gift to her was his credit card wrapped delicately in a bow.
“I don’t understand,” she said, blinking.
“I didn’t know what you wanted…so I decided to give you my card so you can splurge,” he said, beaming.
When Tara had first met Jem, the ten-year age gap between them had been thrilling. She’d heard that older men made better husbands and partners, plus she’d been burned one too many times by young men who just wanted to have fun and nothing serious.
Back then, Jem had made an effort, had treated her like his little princess, and she’d felt like royalty anytime she spent time with him. When had that changed? She had carried and borne his twins (twins!), and the only appreciation he could show was his credit card? She’d been expecting him to ask what she wanted for Mother’s Day, but he hadn’t, and so she had thought he planned to surprise her with something romantic.
“Jem,” she said in a levelled voice, “this is the barest minimum.”
Another downside of being with an older man was the fact that Tara was expected to have conversations rather than conflicts. There were moments when she wanted to scream, to let her emotions do the talking, but that was only effective when the person you were sparring with was actively participating. Jem had a way of shutting down whenever he was in the eye of the storm. His face went slack, and he affected a disinterested posture and said things like We can talk when you’re calm, or it’s not that big a deal which left Tara feeling stupid for bringing it up.
“Excuse me?” he said now..
“It’s my first Mother’s Day. The least you could have done was get me flowers. A card. Chocolates. Something romantic.”
“And then have you accuse me of being basic?” he was rubbing Rachel’s back so she could burp. “Besides, giving my credit card is kinda romantic. It’s basically me saying I trust you with my credit score, and with my money.”
And there it was, the reminder that they were still two people and not one.
“You also have a lunch date with your friends, right? You could order whatever you want with that. That’s pretty romantic to me, love.” He winked at her.
She hated it when he patronized her or dismissed her concerns. And she hated that she was so easy to appease.
“Thank you,” she said, eventually. “Next time, I’d appreciate a more thoughtful surprise.”
He raised an eyebrow at her as he set Rachel down in her Bumbo seat and picked Ruthie up.
“Noted, love,” he said.
It had grated on her nerves, but she’d let it slide, choosing to think about all the ways she could spend the money.
And then just before 11 am, he’d gotten called in to the store for something, and Tara was livid.
“Today is supposed to be about me,” she said, as he threw on his clothes.
“I know love, I’m sorry. I’ll be back before you need to go to your lunch date,” he said.
“Which is by 2 pm.”
“Yes. I’ll be back, promise.” He leaned forward and kissed her, then kissed the girls before he dashed out the door.
That was two hours ago, and he wasn’t back yet. She was supposed to be heading out to meet Esther, and Jem knew this.
The girls were napping, thankfully, though it had been a struggle for Ruthie to go down (Jem was better at soothing Ruthie), and she had nearly given up before she saw her eyes take on the telltale lull that came just before she passed out.
She was dressed carefully in a short blue pleated dress that hid her mum pooch, and she’d put on her bob wig; the same one she’d seen Esther wear a few times and always admired. Esther’s bob had a way of accentuating her face, and Tara had hoped hers might do the same. She’d dug it out from the back of her closet, half-expecting it to look tired, but surprisingly, it still looked pretty decent.
She’d put on a little makeup, brown powder, and a dash of nude lipstick, and finally, finally used the clip lashes she’d gotten herself as a birthday gift last year, and well, she was feeling confident and beautiful. She didn’t want anything to ruin her good feeling, not even Jem, who was still not back, even though it was nearly 2 pm, and the restaurant could only hold their reservation for half an hour.
Hey babe? Are you on your way? I’m ready to head out. She texted Jem.
She was not going to panic. She was not going to get upset. She was going to be very mature about this. Jem was busy working, except she’d told him about her lunch date two weeks ago, they’d talked about it, and he knew how excited she was about it.
But he obviously could not ignore work, right? (Right.)
Happy Mother’s Day, Mummy. She sent her mother a WhatsApp message while she waited for Jem to return.
Thank you. And you, too.
Tara’s eyes widened. It couldn’t be. Her mother had replied her message?! Was this even real? Had one of the twins gotten hold of her phone and replied to the message?
Without thinking, she immediately called her.
The call was declined, and Tara felt her heart crack again.
Why was her mother doing this to her? Why was Jem? Why did nobody seem to see her or appreciate her?
At that moment, Tara heard the key turn in the lock.
“I’m so sorry, babe,” Jem said as he came in. “That took longer than I expected.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Hey,” Jem reached for her, where she sat at the dining table holding her phone. “Are you mad at me? I’m sorry.”
Tara shook her head, already feeling the tears that were threatening to fall.
“Did something happen?” he pulled a chair to sit opposite her.
Tara held out her phone to him, showing him the message from her mum.
“I don’t understand. That’s good news, yeah? She’s talking to you, at least.”
“I called her right after,” Tara said. “She refused to pick up.”
“Well, maybe she wasn’t with the phone anymore…”
“She declined the call, Jem.”
“Oh,” he reached out and touched her face. “I see.”
“I’m just…tired. I’m tired of this silent treatment. Why don’t we just give her what she wants?”
Jem reared back, the posture he always took whenever the subject of marriage came up.
“Darling, your mother is…and no offence, but your mother is trying to manipulate you…us, into doing something we don’t want to do. Do you really want to get married just to give in to her pressure?”
“You don’t understand,” Tara said. “In my culture, marriage is really important, Jem.”
“I know…”
“Do you? Just because your parents got divorced early doesn’t mean marriage is the enemy. My parents are still together.”
“Whoa. What’s happening here? Are we having a conversation or an argument?”
Tara could sense that he was about to shut down and remove himself from the situation, so she grabbed his hand.
“I can’t keep living like this,” she said. “My family means the world to me, and I can’t keep living like…this.”
“We are building our own family, T, don’t you see?”
“No, Jem, a family starts with a husband and a wife, not a man and a woman.” Tara stood. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
Tara was reeling with energy from the conversation as she walked to the car. A small part of her felt…empowered. She hadn’t brought up the marriage conversation with Jem in a long while. She’d always respected his stance on it, even though she didn’t agree. Today, though, something had come undone in her as he spoke about her mother. Yes, her mother might be emotionally blackmailing her, but it was to do something Tara wanted anyway. She believed in the institution of marriage, and so did her family. Whatever Jem said didn’t count.
**
The restaurant was brighter and busier than Tara expected. Natural light spilled in through the windows, bouncing off gold-accented cutlery and ceramic plates that looked too expensive to touch. The air was fragrant with roasted garlic and something freshly baked, the gentle hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the space with a quiet energy that made her feel instantly underdressed and out of place.
This place had great reviews on Google, but she hadn’t expected the crispness of the waiters’ outfits or the smoky atmosphere that gave it a mysterious and charming feel.
She adjusted the strap of her dress and tried not to look like she’d just jogged in from the parking lot (she had). She had been worried she would lose their reservation and even more concerned that Esther was already waiting.
She scanned the room.
No Esther.
Tara had been sure she’d be the last to arrive. Her heart sank a little as the hostess led her to the table near the window, already set for two. There was something incredibly lonely about sitting at a table with two wine glasses and an untouched bread basket.
She settled into her seat, forcing herself not to check her phone too quickly. A waiter approached with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Would you like to order a drink while you wait?”
She hesitated. “Uh…just water for now.”
As he walked away, she took out her phone and opened their group chat.
Tara: I’m here. Any update?
No response. The screen stared back at her. She put the phone down.
She tried to relax, to absorb the energy around her. Other tables were full of life; mothers in floral dresses opening gift bags, babies in high chairs giggling while their fathers wiped drool from their chins. It was a Mother’s Day fantasy Tara didn’t know she’d bought into until this moment.
Her water arrived. She sipped it slowly, staring out the window at the couples strolling by. Maybe she should have come out with Jem and the girls. Maybe she should have communicated that she wanted to be spoiled on Mother’s Day, just like Cleo had with her husband. It was her fault for playing coy with Jem, for assuming that he would know what to do to make her feel appreciated on this day. Did he not think she was doing enough? Sometimes she worried she wasn’t doing enough, she wasn’t loving the girls enough. Or that she loved one more than the other.
Sometimes she had thoughts that were uncharitable about them–she looked at them and thought of them as the ones who had come between her and her mother. They hadn’t been planned, far from it. But when Tara saw those two lines on the test strip, she felt her chest drop. No.
Up until then, she’d kept details of her relationship with Jem to the barest minimum when speaking with her parents. Her mother asked polite questions, to which she offered vague answers, careful not to let anything real slip through the cracks. Jem was “fine.” Work was “good.” She was “taking things slow.” When she told Jem about the pregnancy, his face lit up, eyes widening with a boyish wonder that didn’t quite match the gravity of the moment.
“Move in with me,” he said, reaching for her hands across the kitchen counter, his thumb stroking her knuckles like he was calming a skittish animal.
“But…” she faltered, her voice barely above a whisper
“We can figure out the details later, babe. Don’t you see? This is all the confirmation we need.”
He made it sound so simple, like the universe had sent them a sign wrapped in two pink lines. Yes, he had been trying to convince her to move in with him; it was the obvious next step in their two-year relationship, but Tara had been resisting.
“I want to do things the right way, Jem,” she said, one hand absently resting on her belly, still flat beneath her cotton tee.
“And we will. At the right time. Do you really want to plan a wedding right now?”
“I mean, we could go to court and have a small ceremony,” she offered, her voice uncertain even as she said it.
“T, do you really want to do that? Get married that way? Is that the story you want to tell our child later?”
He was right. He was always right. So sensible and mature…some of the things she loved about him.
And so, when the spotting scare came at eleven weeks, just a faint pink stain on her underwear but enough to send her spiraling, she agreed.
She hadn’t told her parents she was pregnant. She hadn’t needed to. Her mother had called her one day on video and had taken one look at her and said: Omotara, are you pregnant?
Tara had burst into tears, hot and fast, spilling down her cheeks like a confession.
I’m sorry, Mummy. I’m so sorry.
Omotara, you’re pregnant? Ah! Her mother gasped, clutching her chest as if someone had struck her.
Tara bawled louder.
Is it that oyinbo man?
Tara nodded, her sobs shaking her shoulders.
Omotara! Ah! After everything we’ve done for you? You bring shame to us? Ah, ah!
And so it began: the shaming, the pressure to get married before the babies came, the cutting words that sliced into her like paper cuts she couldn’t explain.
“No more calls if they’re going to keep doing this to you,” he said, gently brushing her hair back as she cried into his chest. “Your pregnancy is already high-risk, babe. You don’t need this stress.”
But Jem came from a broken family, one where they barely spoke except on holidays, so of course he didn’t understand what family really meant. What it meant to need your mother, even when she was hurting you. That family was not about convenience, nor was it always pretty; family was about staying connected to the people who knew you best, even if that connection was fraught with disappointment and pain.
Her mother’s silence had begun when Tara crossed into her third trimester, and there was no sign of a wedding ring or even a marriage proposal. At first, it started small–her mother stopped picking up her calls, resorting to perfunctory WhatsApp chats How are you? I hope you’re eating. Rest. Sleep. But even then, Tara could feel her detaching. Soon, the messages narrowed to one agenda: has he proposed? When is the wedding? Are you still living in sin? And each time, Tara’s responses were disappointing.
Eventually, the chats stopped coming, as did the calls, and her mother began to use her father as the spokesman. Your mother told me to tell you to remember to send your address so she can send the pap to you.
After the twins were born, silence became a brick wall. Apart from a terse Congratulations on WhatsApp, her mother had not reached out or attempted to communicate with her.
Her Mother’s Day message today had been the first crack in the wall. And Tara, foolish or hopeful, had opened it again, rereading the plain, polite greeting like it held a secret code.
How’s it going? Jem’s text notification pinged her phone.
Tara ignored it. If he thought they were going to sweep the morning’s conversation under the rug, he was wrong. Something had to give.
But then, the question came. The one she hadn’t allowed herself to ask:
Do I really want to marry Jem? Or have I convinced myself it’s the only path now that we have children together?
The thought landed with a thud in her chest, unwelcome but immovable, like furniture you regret buying but can’t return.
Tara pulled out her phone again, opened the group chat, about to type “Are you okay?” when…
“Hey!” Esther appeared beside her table, flustered, winded, but smiling.
Tara felt a wave of relief crash over her, washing away the growing ache in her chest.