The happy years (a short story)

I felt extraordinarily conflicted when Bella turned twelve five months ago because it appeared that I was being made redundant. We spent less time together, shared fewer laughs and fewer secrets. For the longest time, Bella had been at the forefront of my mind. She was the very thing that had given my existence purpose. To feel her slipping away caused a great deal of fear to bubble up inside of me.

It was a cold September morning, enough to make your skin prickle, and Bella had just returned home from her first day at school. Her smile that was so big it squashed her eyes almost shut was all the confirmation I needed to know that she had had a great day. I was overflowing with delight. I followed her into the kitchen where her father already was, chopping up some vegetables in preparation for dinner that evening, whilst she giddily threw her rucksack onto the table and pulled out a sketch of some fruit.

“Look! I did this today in our first art lesson,” she held the drawing up with pride, “Mrs Moore is already my favourite teacher, I can tell.”

The drawing was impressive with its soft, blended shading and well-placed shadows. I let her know with a smile to match her own and an encouraging, “I love it, Bella!”

Bella had always had a talent for art. If I recall, she had been drawing ever since she could hold a pencil. She loved watercolours too and we would often, on warm summer days, lazily lie down on the grass in the garden and fill notebook after notebook with watercolour paintings. Anything from trees and animals to stunning beaches and forests. Bella would always try and trick me into drinking the water that looked either like refreshing fruit juice or a bluish grey swampy substance, a mischievous cackle threatening to erupt from her each time.

I miss those days. I miss the warmth that would grace our backs as we lay on our front on the tartan picnic blanket. A warmth I haven’t had the pleasure of feeling for a while as Bella seems to prefer to be alone with her headphones when she paints and draws now. I also miss squeezing into a space on her bedroom floor, accompanied by her many cuddly toys as she stands before us with a mini whiteboard and stack of books. The excitement of trying to guess whether Bella would be teaching us English or maths that day is something I miss too. Sometimes she would also teach us what she had learnt at school about history or science, and she always made room for an art lesson. ‘Schools’ was one of her favourite games. I adored watching her call upon teddy bears to give her the answer to a mathematical equation or my favourite was when she would read a book to us and make up voices for each character. Her imagination was always my favourite thing about her. The times when she wanted me to play these imaginary games with her meant the world to me. Witnessing her get entirely lost in it was beautiful and even though I fear my time of being a part of it is on its last legs, I am grateful that she has let me be a part of her favourite worlds for so long.

I feel a great sense of protectiveness for Bella. I so desperately want her to explore new aspects of life and succeed in her ambitions. I’m proud of her and I share her exhilaration for life, I truly do. However, I can’t help but let a little pain seep in whenever I think about letting her go. Pain that makes my throat tighten as if I’m about to cry. Ever since she was small, she has looked upon me to be her provider, her fun, her safety net. And I have given her all these things in abundance.

I would like to say I have done these things selflessly but if I found Bella’s love and need for me as rewarding as I did, as I do, can that really be called selfless? Now that I am thinking about it, it seems quite selfish of me. Yes, I have been present and available for her at any time she has needed me, but I feel as though I owe her that for giving me a reason to live. I was nothing before Bella. My life has been so consumed by her and her joy of having me around that I never felt the need to obtain anything else in my life. I’m not even sure I could have even if I had tried.

I remember when she used to stay up late reading bedtime stories with me about fairies and mermaids and despite it being a school night, I often let her because perhaps I knew that this wouldn’t last forever. I remember her calling to me for comfort when she was scared of the dark or thought a monster was under her bed. I would stay with her until she felt safe enough to fall asleep and then I would stay a bit longer to make sure she wasn’t going to suddenly wake up, still terrified and say, “please don’t go yet.”

Bella has always been my number one priority and always will be. I believed I was hers too. That was until things started happening. For example, on her twelfth birthday, she had invited some friends over and instead of wanting me to be a part of her special day like she had every other year, she spoke to them all day and hardly spoke to me. I felt upset and left out, but I also couldn’t deny the happiness I felt seeing her having a good time. It hurt seeing her play games with her new friends and not with me but if Bella was happy then so was I. After all, it is my job as one of her caretakers to make sure she leads a happy life.

Although she wasn’t shy with me, she was around everyone else. She struggled to make friends at school and for many years hadn’t really had any, not any she felt comfortable inviting over at least. I think that is why I became so important to her. Everything she ever wanted she could find in me and therefore there was no need for anyone else.

However, I now realise that even though I don’t want to, I maybe, most defiantly, need to take a step back. I need to come to terms with the fact that she doesn’t need me as much as she used to. She doesn’t need me as much as I need her.

I can feel myself fading. My head is getting fuzzy. I can feel her grip on my hands loosening. The moments that have always been so intimately shared between just me and her, like bedtime stories and painting in the garden, have started to die out with no suggestion of returning any time soon. I suppose that is what happens to imaginary friends when children grow up.

From my observations of Mum and Dad, imaginary friends aren’t something grown up people have. I have been in denial that Bella, my Bella could ever possibly grow up. But now she has. My time may be up, and I might not know where I will go and whether or not I will ever see Bella again, but I will hold onto the knowledge that for these past twelve years, what me and Bella had was special.

We were made for each other. She made me. She needed me and I needed her. She loved me and I loved her. I smile for what might be the final time at a memory I have of Bella, age seven, tucked up in bed reading one of our favourite books to me. The Velveteen Rabbit. The pain in my chest and throat lightens as I remember the words she spoke to me.

“When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real.”

And I did.