TARA
Cleo: Hey babe @Estee, just giving you a heads up that some of the mums at group were a bit uncomfortable with the whole YouTube content thing.
Esther is typing…
Esther: Thanks for letting me know Cleo. I don’t know what the big deal is anyway — it’s not like anyone’s faces showed in the video.
Cleo: Yeah I get it. You know how these people can be here. There were children in the space and privacy blah blah.
Esther: 🙄
Cleo: Hey, don’t shoot the messenger 🙌
Cleo: Also maybe next time give me a heads-up so I can show up all glammed up like you.
Esther: 😂😂😂
Tara rolled her eyes as she scrolled through the group chat, thumb hovering over her screen. She wished Cleo had come right out to say what needed to be said; that not every moment needed to be turned into content, that some spaces were sacred, or at the very least, personal.
Had any of the other mums complained directly? Not to her. But Cleo had that warm, knowing energy that made people open up, so maybe they’d gone to her instead. Maybe she was just relaying the message, like she said, though she had a funny way of softening Esther with compliments.
The rest of the Mum Group had gone as usual. Tara always found herself quietly observing the other mums, mentally sorting them into categories like a personality test.
Penny, frazzled with three boys under five, always arrived late, her kids in mismatched pyjamas. She smelled faintly of sweat and stale coffee. Her hair was in a perpetual frizzed ponytail.
Leslie was bland; she barely said much. She had a two-year-old daughter with a temperament similar to hers. Tara wondered if it was because English was not her first language.
Rose, with all her tattoos and piercings, whom Tara once saw smoking just outside the entrance. She had a baby on her hip and a four-year-old running circles around her. Tara didn’t like her.
There was Bridget from Australia with her clipped accent and posture like a ballet teacher. She acted all hoity-toity. Tara didn’t dislike her; she just didn’t trust her.
These were the regulars; others showed up once in a while, and then there was their trio.
Tara had to admit, as much as she wanted the warmth of a shared experience, she also resented the idea that simply being mothers was enough reason to connect with strangers. What if she didn’t want to know them deeply? What if she didn’t want to be known?
Take Esther for example. Esther was not Tara’s cup of tea on a regular day. She reminded Tara of the mean girls in secondary school. The ones who snickered and whispered when Tara walked past because her skirt was too long (it wasn’t! It was below her knees like a normal person’s).
She still remembered the sting of shame when they found her hidden love letters in her locker and read them aloud in a nasally voice during lunch break. That hadn’t been Esther specifically, but someone like her. And that was enough to make the feelings stick.
She hated that being around Esther brought back those memories, and she knew she was projecting on Esther. But how could she not? Esther with her perfect makeup and perfect body (how did she lose the baby weight so fast?).
Later, when the three of them sat side-by-side on the padded floor of the community centre, the kids sprawled out around them, Tara had tried to shift the vibe.
“So… Mother’s Day plans, anyone?” she asked, flipping Ruthie her Taiwo, onto her tummy. Ruthie gurgled in protest. “Let’s do something fun. One word that describes how you’d like to spend it. On the count of three…”
She moved Rachel, her Kehinde, next, smoothing the fine curls on her baby’s head. “One, two, three…”
“Food.”
“Spa.”
“Sex.”
“Wait, did you say sex?” Tara blinked at Cleo.
“Yeah. Long, uninterrupted sex with my man would be a great Mother’s Day gift,” she said, grinning wickedly. “I don’t know about you ladies, but sex after having kids is such a downer.”
“I agree,” Esther said, “it’s like a quickie without the thrill because…what if the baby wakes?”
Tara nodded along, feigning casual agreement. She didn’t mention that she and Jem had only had sex twice in five months. Did she miss it? She wasn’t even sure.
She turned to Esther. “Spa, huh?” She was eager to get away from the subject of sex.
She was not a prude, but she wasn’t the kind to initiate sex with Jem because somehow she could not seem to shake off the guilt and anxiety that came every time they slept together. Whenever they finished, she went into the bathroom to take a shower and…believe it or not, pray. It wasn’t exactly a prayer as it was mumblings under her breath as the water from the shower pelted her body. She only ever said one phrase: God, please forgive me.
Jem was her first, her only, because before Jem, Tara had been of the school of those who championed waiting till marriage. When had it all changed?
So for her, sex was…complicated.
“Well… It’s quiet,” Esther replied, stretching her legs in front of her as Dara unlatched from her boob. “It’s alone time. A chance to relax and let all the noise melt away.”
“I bet your husband can make that happen,” Cleo said.
Esther’s lips curled into a polite smile, but something in her expression flickered. “He’s a busy man.”
“I’m sure he could take Dara for a couple of hours,” Tara added gently.
“Hmm,” Esther said noncommittally. “If work lets him.”
“Oh, please.” Cleo scoffed. “It better. Jacob works crazy hours too, but he knows when to pull his weight at home.”
Esther nodded slowly. “Yeah… of course.”
Esther turned the conversation toward Tara. “How about you? Why food?”
Tara sighed. She’d always been a foodie and tended to put on weight, so her relationship with food was like a push-pull lever.
Tara exhaled, glancing down at her lap. “I just… miss it. Really enjoying food, I mean. Since pregnancy and breastfeeding, it’s like I have to constantly justify what I eat. Like I’m always making a case for why I deserve a burger or a slice of cake.”
She hesitated. “Sometimes even to Jem. It’s not like he says anything, but I feel like I have to explain. ‘Oh, I hadn’t eaten all day. I’m breastfeeding. I needed energy.’ I just want to eat without guilt. To feel like myself again.”
It was the most honest thing she’d said to them, and the second it left her lips, she regretted it. Would they think she was bitter? Would they judge Jem?
“I mean… Jem doesn’t comment or anything,” she added quickly. “That’s just me, being in my head.”
Cleo leaned over, nudging her gently. “Girl, you had twins five months ago, and you look amazing. If Jem ever says anything, tell him to strap on a fifteen-pound belly for nine months and see how he does.”
Tara laughed softly, blinking back sudden tears. “Thanks.”
“We should get massages and lunch,” Esther suggested. “Sorry, Cleo, we can’t accommodate your Mother’s Day fantasy. Although you should come give us tips about how you keep the bedroom fire burning after two kids.”
They had laughed at that,
“I’ll find a spa,” Esther said.
“And I’ll find a restaurant,” Tara said, smiling now.
**
Later that night, Tara sat in the nursery, scrolling through the chat again. Cleo and Esther were now swapping GIFs and memes about husbands and tired sex, and Tara felt the warmth of inclusion and also the gnawing ache of doubt.
“Babe?”
She looked up.
Jem stood at the doorway, one hand on the light switch. “Came to find you.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, rising to hug him. His shirt smelled like laundry detergent.
“I’ve been standing here for at least a minute.”
“I put the girls to bed,” she murmured. Her hand found his. “Do you want to…”
Why was she offering? It wasn’t like she particularly wanted sex. Maybe Cleo’s comment had gotten in her head. Maybe she just wanted to feel close to Jem again.
She liked Jem’s demeanour in bed; he was tender and gentle, and he said things like you’re the only one for me or you drive me crazy. She liked the words more than the act.
“You sure?” he asked.
She nodded. “We’ve got thirty minutes before one of them wakes up.”
They shut the door behind them, and Tara repeated the quiet prayer in her head.
God, please forgive me.