What goes around comes around (Lily’s Story) Read Free

up with any
derogatory comments he made about me when we were with friends, despite Emma
telling me in anxious tones that I shouldn’t, that he was too controlling, that
I was losing my own identity.  To be fair to him, at times he could be a model
boyfriend – mostly when we were alone.  He ‘rewarded’ me with sex every
night, although it always followed a similar routine to that first time, no
real foreplay, just functional sex until he came; but despite my lack of sexual
fulfilment from the physical relationship, just the fact it was me he wanted to
have sex with every night was enough to see me through. 
    The first fly in the ointment – and it was a massive,
bluebottle-sized fly – had come several months into our relationship when
Greg had pointed out that I was getting ‘even fatter’.  We had been out with
our main group of friends at the time, and he had made the comment as I had eased
back into my seat after having bought a round of drinks for everyone, narrowly
avoiding dropping the tray of full glasses as I squeezed back round the table. 
The comment had hurt a lot, especially seeing Greg laughing along with all the
others.  I laughed it off, saying it was probably contentment, but something
about the remark had niggled, and not just the cruelty coming from someone who
supposedly cared about me, made so very publicly about an issue he knew I was
sensitive about.  I was certain I wasn’t eating more; despite a bit more
alcohol in my life compared to my pre-university days, there really wasn’t any
reason for me to be putting on weight – and yet I knew subconsciously I
was. Only that morning I had changed into a skirt with an elastic waist because
my jeans hadn’t fit me.  It was the following day, while bemoaning the
unfairness of my life, and more particularly my weight, to Emma that she
tentatively asked if there could be any other reasons for my weight gain.  An
emergency rush to the chemist, followed by two pregnancy tests, and the reason
was depressingly clear – the rate of colour change on the little stick was
indisputable.  I was pregnant.  Worse was to come when, following a trip to the
GP, and then the antenatal clinic, I was found to be almost twenty weeks gone –
with twins.
    I remember Greg had flipped his lid when I told him.  I had
never before seen him so incredibly angry. “You stupid bitch,” he had yelled, “how
the hell did you let that happen?”
    “Well, how do you think?  We weren’t exactly as careful as
we could have been.  You didn’t always use a condom.”
    It was true, we had often had sex without any sort of
protection, like that first time.  When I would nervously question it, he would
say it felt better without and would promise he’d withdraw in time. Clearly that
hadn’t happened, or at least not often enough or soon enough in the proceedings
to make a difference.  He had ranted at me that I was a “stupid cow who didn’t know
how to take the pill”; I had “ruined his life”, and he demanded I have a
termination, but in truth it was far too late.  I was already nearly 20 weeks by
the time I had found out.  And besides which, I had seen my babies on the scan –
there was no way I could get rid of them when I already loved them. 
    My parents took it only marginally better than Greg when I
finally gathered the courage to tell them.  I had all the same “stupid girl”
and “ruined your lives” comments, combined with an extra dose of parental
disappointment and guilt, finishing with them telling me that if I was old
enough to behave like an adult, then I was old enough to face the adult
consequences which come along afterwards – like children.  After that
point they pretty much withdrew all financial and emotional support and have
barely had any involvement in our lives beyond the odd Christmas visit to see
the kids.
    That had all happened eighteen years ago, and now my babies
were men themselves, in age if not