The True Weight of a Promise

My Mum is mired in her bed. I stand next to her, begging, choking back tears.

I come from a childhood of broken promises.

Growing up, my Mum would make promises she often wouldn’t (or couldn’t) keep.

Favourite dinners. Pocket money. Birthday presents that never came.

When young people speak to me about the pain of exam season, my stomach knots as I remember the panicked days of my GCSEs.

The stress had covered my body in eczema. I went to school covered in cream and bandages. During lunchtime the sweat stung the open wounds beneath.

But my Mum promised a cash reward at the end of it. I clung to that promise.

(I will now reveal my generation)

• £100 for an A*
• £50 for an A
• £25 for a B

Revision was made all the more unpleasant by my Mum’s panicked screams in the evenings and on weekends. Her hysteria: Do more. Study harder. All while I hid in my room, poring over my textbooks.

Weeks of seemingly endless preparation.

Then: silent halls, the dull drone of invigilators, endless paper booklets to fill. My hand cramped and my neck grew stiff.

Do not think poorly of my Mum.

I love her dearly. I did not know then what I know now.

That she suffered from a mental illness beyond her control.

Some days she was the mother I loved dearly, who cooked me sausage sandwiches before the long journey to school, and asked me how my day was when I came home.

And then finally… the results.

• 5 A*s
• 2 As
• 2 Bs

I went to one of the top state schools in the country.

Many of my peers scored almost perfectly.

But I was jubilant.

£650.

My reward for weeks and months of toil and panic.

Late nights spent studying (and scratching myself raw).

But as I told her my results, my heart sank when she refused.

From her bed, she compared me to my peers, telling me I should have done better.

My heart broke as she changed the goalposts.

Her promise to me had meant everything.

Not two months later, I packed a single bag and left home. Sixteen, clueless, and full of fury at the promises she had broken.

This poem speaks so deeply to that disappointment I felt in my chest.

And years later, it would teach me about the promises that I make.

Promises to:

• Lovers
• Friends
• Family
• Clients
• Colleagues

That my word.

Is my promise.

When I say I will do something.

This may be the promise a person sets their heart on.

And abandoning that

May set someone on a course they may not return from.

Like I did.

A course plagued for many years with:

• Bad behaviour
• Drug addiction
• Self-destruction

So before I promise anything.

Before I agree to do something.

I think carefully.

Because once I agree, I cannot go back.

Which, by its nature, means a lot of the time, when asked to do something.

My answer is no.

Because if I cannot be reasonably sure that I would not break that promise.

I would rather tell you now.

Because the fear of being disliked, simply for saying “No” today, is easier than the possibility of breaking a person’s heart tomorrow.