The mother I admired

When I was growing up, my friend’s Mum worked at a legal practice and I’m embarrassed to admit I thought she was a secretary, not a solicitor... her husband was a GP, they drove a Volvo, had an unused tennis court, treated my friend like her opinion mattered. I used to love going to their house, even though it was a mess, an opinion I hopefully kept to myself. Their Volvo was piled high with junk food wrappers and empty boxes of service station toys and a whole heap of lint. At her house we’d play keyboards in the lounge, the only room in the house suitable for visitors. We’d avoid the living room, a dumping ground for toys that R and her brother no longer liked, washed clothes never put away. We’d hang out in the kitchen where her Mum helped us make gingerbread people. We’d cut across the backyard, fence and vacant garden, to local “shops” (deli, hairdressing salon and that mysterious empty third shop front, a repository of failed small businesses). We’d hang out in her dad’s “study”, where he kept his playboy magazines in the third drawer down. Mostly we hung out in her room, which had twin beds, more toys, possibly her own television, probably a phone extension. Her younger brother kept to himself, which I preferred, since using the bathroom after him, a turd still floating. Her mum had a sign on the laundry warning us it was a hazard zone. She treated us with respect, told the truth (work parties were boring) but kept a filter on what was appropriate. She never wasted time cleaning if she could spend it on her family. She was very cool.