I BLAME THE PARENTS

My name is Roz. I am 43 years old and have never been married. I am a vice president within a large international software company and I live in London.

The eldest of three, with two brothers, I was brought up in Hampshire by my parents, Harriet and Roger. My mother worked part time as a secretary, and my father worked his way up through the ranks of the army to retire as a major. Both my brothers are happily married, with five children between them. My parents now live in retired bliss in the Yorkshire Dales.

So far, pretty normal stuff, except the spinster bit. If I’d paid a bit more attention during my twenties and thirties, I would probably be married by now. I have always been disappointed by my inability to attract and secure a husband, and for years beat myself up as I tried to fathom out my fatal flaws in the relationship department.

But it was only recently, whilst staying at a meditative retreat in Italy, that I finally concluded (too late) exactly where I had been going wrong. I truly believe that my state of singledom was precipitated by my parents. It sounds fantastical, but it was in their interests to keep me single so that I would be on hand to assist when old age started to take its toll. Systematically, they destroyed every good relationship I ever had.

The writing was on the wall years ago. After a sheltered childhood and a boarding school education, I finally embarked upon the grown up freedoms of our town’s sixth form college to complete my A Levels. I quickly found myself part of a circle of new, energetic and bright friends, and enjoyed an exciting and varied social life.

After college, a group of us would often traipse back to one our houses for tea. For the first time in their lives, Harriet and Roger regularly came home to find a motley collection of students, sprawled over the sofas, sipping cups of coffee, smoking, laughing and burning toast. Books on history and art would be strewn across the floor and the discussions were surprisingly highbrow for a bunch of seventeen year olds.

My parents loathed my fellow students – my friends. They could never say a good word about them, and always found a negative focus on which to dwell: Charlie – the son of a socialist councillor; Petra – too tall for a girl, Mike – Chinese; Gabby – ‘born out of wedlock’; Sara – overweight; Simon – something very odd about him and Sandra – aloof and ‘not interested in us at all’ (what a surprise!). The list was endless. Whoever came in the door would be greeted with false warmth, and when they left the vitriol would spill forth.

This really didn’t bother me. I knew who my friends were and my parents’ animosity fuelled a rebellious streak running through me. Most parents disapproved of teenage antics. We were young, they were getting old and we had our futures ahead of us.

My parents didn’t want me to go to university and my father insisted that ‘coming up through the ranks hadn’t done him any harm, so I could work my way up the ladder too’. So I lost touch with my college friends, although I was surprised when Paul and then Jeremy, my younger brothers, were actively encouraged to take degrees at their chosen universities.

But my parents’ disapproval continued. It wasn’t just confined to my friends, but to me and everything I did. There was no joy or pride from my parents for any of my achievements. Promotions, new jobs and the purchase of my first house were all met with negativity: I had been moved sideways; the journey to my new job would take its toll; the house was in the ‘wrong area’ and the kitchen was too small.

On one occasion I won tickets to the men’s finals at Wimbledon and was told, “Ugh, tennis leaves me cold”. End of conversation. My adrenaline-filled holiday on horseback in Botswana’s Okavango Delta drew no comment, either. The photographs I had brought along to the restaurant (my treat) to show them remained in their folder. Nothing I did was worthy of their interest, curiosity, praise or admiration.

I wasn’t overly worried and I didn’t let it stop me doing what I wanted or believing in myself. However, I began to clam up whenever I saw them and provided only scant details of my life. This left them to freely discuss their favourite topic, themselves. It was as if they were the only people on this planet, or some kind of higher beings who stood in judgement of everything and everyone. I would sit at the dinner table when I visited them and would think to myself, “I have just spent two weeks working in New York. I had a front row seat at Chicago on Broadway and spent a weekend at a house party in The Hamptons, and you have absolutely no idea at all.” I began to cherish my secret life. It was far easier to present a bland and dull existence to my parents in order to safeguard the reality.

My mother was a great writer of letters of complaint – to broadcasters, retailers, companies, airlines –she shared her grievances and made no qualms about expressing exactly how she felt. As you would expect, their own social lives were a bit of a roller coaster. They would acquire NBFs (new best friends), usually on cruises or package holidays. After a few months they would fall out spectacularly, gushing forth more vitriol against their former NBFs

Odd as it might sound, my parents were actually good people. They were worthy citizens and gave up a lot of their time as volunteers for charity. My mother was a friend of the local hospital and spent hours of her week reading or talking to patients or working in the shop. She organised an annual sponsored walk between seven local churches while my father worked tirelessly to raise money for injured war veterans.

The contrast of their love of humanity and their attitude to their only daughter perplexed me. How could they be so passionate, dedicated and caring on one hand, and against me on every level on the other? Somebody pointed out to me that this was either a form of salvation from a life of damnation (unlikely) or the self-basting option - a way of looking good in other people’s eyes (most probably). “Oh, Harriet is an absolute angel! She enriches the lives of many people she comes into contact with.” “Our family is deeply indebted to you Roger, for all the wonderful help you have been able to give our family.” Naturally, all this worthiness only served to diminish how I felt in their eyes.

Whilst I found ways of managing my parents’ behaviour, I had to work hard to protect my relationships with men from this malaise. During my early twenties, I have to say, my parents weren’t too bad. They knew that I was fast-tracking up the corporate ladder and wasn’t ready to settle down, but by the time I reached my thirties, no boyfriend stood a chance.

Their ambushes were fierce and bloody and nobody survived. Let me run through a brief summary of my serious boyfriends and the circumstances of their demise:

1. When I was 30, I began seeing Hugh (34) who had just qualified as a consultant dermatologist. I had managed to ‘hide’ him from ‘them’ for five happy months. He had met and liked my brothers, and at Christmas invited my whole family to dinner at his house. If a talented script writer had tried to portray a dysfunctional family for a TV drama, then what was played out on that fateful night would have appeared totally unrealistic. First they rubbished the wine, then without any warning, my mother declared that she had become a vegetarian. My father went on to analyse Hugh’s career prospects and patronisingly advised him that by specialising in dermatology, he had taken ‘the wrong path’ within the medical profession. (My father didn’t even get O Level biology). They also let it be known that they felt that Hugh’s house had ‘a strange décor’ and my mother passed on some advice on paint colours as they left through the door. On leaving, my father whispered (too loudly) in my ear “Roz, you can do a lot better than that.”

Hugh and I had a blazing row and things were never quite the same.

2. When I was 32 I started seeing Jonathan, a city analyst, divorced with a two-year old son. He was dynamic, ambitious and an inspirational taskmaster for the twenty people who worked for him.

I managed to keep my parents out of sight for over two years, and Jonathan understood my reasons for doing so. But we were all compelled to meet up at my brother’s wedding and share the top table together. Strained as it was, the event passed without a hitch. Jonathan even found my parents ‘charming’ and wondered what all the fuss was about. ‘All the fuss’ came flying thick and fast when we went down to stay with my parents one bank holiday weekend.

After a bumpy start, my father and Jono went off to play golf together, but returned after only an hour. Jono gathered up his things, flung them in his car and said “Let’s go!” My mother was in tears and my father, red faced and angry, had gone down to the greenhouse. I felt duty bound to look after Mum, so Jono left. I never did find out what was said, but I knew that Jon on a professional level, never took any prisoners.

I went back to London on the train. He wouldn’t return any of my calls and sent round to my office a box of my things from his house, with a note that said, “Rozy, so sorry. The incompatibility was just too great. You’re right – they ARE complete tossers. Get away from them so that you can live the life you want to lead. Fondness always, Jono.

3. I had a few short-term relationships after that, always managing to keep my parents under wraps. These relationships died of natural causes, although I was beginning to lose confidence in myself as a girlfriend with something to offer.

4. My last relationship was a while ago now, when I was 38. I met Nick who was 45 and ran a classic car business. He was divorced, was a former wing commander in the RAF and had three children. He was successful, kind and very funny. Nick was as near to my idea of perfection as I could get. Although he wasn’t bothered by the legend of the terrible parents, I managed to keep everyone apart for eighteen months. Indeed, my parents had no idea at all that I was seeing Nick. We got engaged, and I wanted to marry in secret – just the two of us on a beach in the Maldives. But somehow, ‘they’ found out and demanded a ‘meeting’.

Things went badly and I they did their level best to tear us apart. Nick was wonderful and their insults and niggling was like water off a duck’s back to him. We didn’t see them, but they began to invite themselves down to London to stay with me, and started visiting Nick at his work. My father probed him endlessly about money, maintenance to his children, the fortunes of his business and the reasons behind his divorce. It sounds unbelievable, but they put such a strain on our relationship, that in the end Nick postponed our wedding holiday so that he wouldn’t have to put up with ‘visits from the Stasi. I mistakenly thought that the wedding would still go ahead, but as the impetus went, so, I think, did our love. We eventually parted and all these years later I am still struck by a kind of grief for all those happy times, gone for ever.

Men and women’s relationships with in-laws are never easy. Since the concept of marriage was invented, mothers-in-law have been the butt of jokes, and Christmas celebrations up and down the country are fraught with tensions as the in-laws pass judgement on the person their son or daughter married.

I know many women who, during their 30s and 40s, now have tricky relationships with their mothers. Why is it that so many grounded and successful women in the prime of their lives are treated like teenagers, given unwanted advice and are required to receive approval for everything? Mine is obviously an exceptional case, but there seems to be a generational affliction whereby middle class parents in their mid 60s develop a destructive streak, borne out of envy.

I genuinely believe that my parents made a decision years ago that they wanted me to be available to them in their old age. I think that my parents, and my mother in particular, are jealous of my youth, envious of the opportunities I had with my career, travel and the ability to live a full and abundant life. They grew up post war, during the austere 1950s and believe that people today have too much. There may be a grain of truth in that, but it shouldn’t mean the total destruction of a relationship just because both parties earn a good salary.

My parents are very alike and that is what I think has sustained their marriage over nearly fifty years. I don’t believe they are, or have ever been, particularly happy together, but as they have grown more and more alike, they seem to act as one. Most of the time they bicker, argue and seem to resent each other. They are uncaring over each other’s illnesses or operations, and its only when they can work as a team and turn on me or other people in their sights that they can work their malice in unison. The real challenge for me is not being drawn into that partnership when one of them dies and the other becomes infirm.

I have always been a source of disappointment to Harriet and Roger. I haven’t picked up the devoted daughter mantle. I don’t give up my free time to ferry them to hospital appointments and I haven’t moved to Yorkshire. I keep them at arms’ length and live my life in secret, as if I don’t have a family. I tell my brothers’ families nothing.

There is that old adage that men look at their girlfriend to see how they treat their father, because that is how they are going to treat their husband. And they look at their girlfriend’s mother to see how she will stand the test of time and what she will be like to live with a few decades down the line. A girlfriend of mine has a pact with her sister. Although they are both married, each has a solemn and imperative duty – a Code Red - to inform her sister if she begins to show any mannerisms, thought processes, tastes or attitudes that remotely resemble their mother.

In writing this, I know I come across as bitter (and not a little twisted too). My advice to anyone undergoing disapproval or outright relationship wrecking from her parents is – keep your distance. If you think you are being singled out (pardon the pun) keep your relationships under wraps. It’s a huge generalisation, but men rarely get on with their in-laws. If you think a proposal is in the offing from your man and he and your folks are not going to be best buddies after the nuptials, keep meetings short and sweet and in public places. Don’t go on holidays together and as a couple, act independently of them at all times.

I will never have a daughter of my own, but had I done so, she would have been the most precious thing. I would have been a good mother and would have loved, encouraged and adored her. This would have come from my heart, but would also have been an act of defiance against my parents’ own destructive relationship with me.



All names in the article have been changed.