Mum’s Apology Was Heartbreaking

When I woke up on my 50th birthday in 2017, I decided to turn my life upside down.

I’d always wanted to be a novelist, but like so many who graduated in the angsty ‘80s, when I left university all my focus was on getting a ‘proper job’. I became a journalist, then a recruitment consultant and finally set up my own business in 2010 as a strategy consultant in the legal field.

At 50, I woke up in a panic, thinking “what the f*** am I DOING with my life??”.

I had been writing fiction in my spare time, but had never given it the time or focus required. So, I had one of my friends create an ID for my putative science fiction novel (more on that later…) and a corporate logo for my writing company – a gold Ψ on a black background.

I took myself off to a tattooist friend and had the Ψ tattooed on the back of my neck, a permanent reminder of my new course, and booked myself a five week sabbatical in Vancouver where I would challenge myself, finally, to “piss or get off the pot”.

Before I went to Canada, my mum came down to London to see me.

I’ve always been close to her and could tell something was troubling her. “What’s wrong?”

Her expression was a curious mix of relief, sadness, anxiety and guilt. “Something has been gnawing at me for a few years. I think I owe you an apology.”

I was flummoxed. What could this wonderful, loving woman possibly have to apologise for? A few years she’d been feeling bad? Yikes!

“Do you remember what I said to you when you left university and said you wanted to be a writer?” she said.

“Yes. You said you couldn’t see me as an ‘artist starving in a garret’. I agreed with you and went and got a job.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “It was the wrong advice.”

As my eyebrows struggled to return to the front of my face, I mumbled “what??”

“I was wrong. You’re my son. I know you and love you and I’ve always been able to see beneath your smile. I know you have been unhappy, underneath it all, for maybe the last 25 years. I’m so glad you’re pursuing your writing as I know it’s what you really wanted to do.”

“I was the closest person to you,” she continued,“and you listened to me. I knew you wouldn’t go against my advice but I was wrong. I should have backed you.”

I reeled. I couldn’t think what to say. I reassured her that she’d been a great mum, gave her a hug and waxed lyrical about everything my corporate career had taught me.

Inside, though, I was heartbroken. Mainly because I couldn’t stand the idea of her being consumed with guilt at having given what was sensible advice. But also for myself.

I could have done what I’m doing now at any point but life got in the way. Earning a living, the distractions of the big city, my own personal struggles, all contributed to stop me, or at least that’s what I told myself.

But at the heart of all that was fear, plain and simple. Fear of being penniless, fear of rejection, fear – and this is the biggest one – of not being good enough.

When I returned from the Pacific North West, with a solid 25,000 words on my laptop, I sold my place in London and moved to the south of Scotland, near to where Mum was born in fact, to pursue my writing ambition.

Mum’s apology, though devastating to me at the time, was what taught me that the best advice can be wrong, but that it’s never too late to go in the other direction.

You’ll be the judge, of course, but at least I’m not afraid anymore.