Call It Love

I have to admit that I've never much relished the irony.

“Love child” was their polite euphemism. Though I rarely heard it, I knew that the phrase was used to describe me, when I wasn't close enough to listen. An improvement, you might think, on “bastard” ?

Depending upon whether you prefer to be patronised or denounced. Either form of words confirmed my status. I had been pre-judged. Society had formed its consensus long before the time came for my mother to suffer the pangs of birth.

Mother: such a resonant title! Yet what was my mother but a senseless scrap of a girl, who hadn't  had the wit to keep her legs crossed, as good girls should always do. She had taken her interpretation of the phrase  “in service” to its outer limits; appreciated, no doubt, at the time, until “before” became “after”. After birth, that's me. After and disowned  by the dashing hero,who could easily dismiss the “wild oats” he had been so busy sowing.

For her, feckless child that she was, there was little enough after. Even with all the vigilance money could buy, the birthing process was high risk. She was almost alone. There's not much vigilance in charity. Hers was a short and wasted life; I, her only legacy.

So, you see, neglected orphans do not invariably die. Bitterness fuelled my determination to survive (though I might not have used exactly those words at the time!). I grew up with a heart I had closed against the world, at least until you, a gift of serendipity, came along. Your strength sheltered me, as patiently you showed me that what I thought was strength was nothing but weakness shouting in the dark.

Even to you, I cannot bring myself to speak of the security of your enfolding arms. I will not surrender to you, though you besiege the ruin of my heart for ever and a day. But, to confound me, you're not interested in my surrender.

“I love the way you fight” you say.