BEL MOONEY:  What can I do to fix the rift with my brother and his new wife?

Dear Bel,

MY brother is older than me but we’ve always got on well. Several years ago he left his wife of 30 years to marry a Polish woman he had met in a hotel while working away on business.

It was a huge shock; I got on well with his first wife. I went to the second wedding and the new wife was welcomed and included in family events.

Everything went wrong at our son’s wedding a couple of years ago. At the evening function I told her she was part of my family, but that my brother’s ex (also at the reception), would always be part of my family, too.

She went quiet and when I asked if she was OK she said she was upset by what I’d said — and then ran out, followed by my brother, who had been at the bar. I went to see what the problem was. Outside, she was wailing hysterically. He shouted how dare I say his wife wasn’t part of my family?

I tried to explain it wasn’t what I had said, but he wouldn’t listen. Unfortunately, distracted by my sister-in-law, I told her to shut up, which obviously didn’t help. I later apologised by text. He had never spoken to me like that before and it left me shaken. A lovely day was spoilt for me.

We didn’t have any contact for several months. I emailed, again explaining what I had actually said and saying how the incident had ruined the day for me. He rang and apologised, although I’m not sure he believed my version, just saying that we’d all been drinking. I admit to a couple of drinks, but I certainly wasn’t drunk. We agreed to meet up sometime.

Fast forward to Christmas 2019. I hadn’t heard from him since that phone call so texted inviting them both to a family get-together.

No reply — so I emailed. He replied saying thanks but he’d be in touch after Christmas. No word. In October 2020, I heard our aunt had died (he’s her executor) and he hadn’t told me.

I emailed asking why and he replied he thought I knew! I’m worried that his wife is controlling him, because I’d never had thought he’d behave like this. It’s very hard to understand. What shall I do?

JANINE

DO YOU ever wish you could retrace your steps, undrink the wine, unblurt the words, unthink the thoughts?

‘Regrets, I’ve had a few,’ goes the famous song, but the next part is horribly smug: ‘But then again, too few to mention / I did what I had to do . . .’

For years I’ve wondered why it is seen as such a virtue to do everything ‘my way’ and to warble ‘no regrets’.

Believe me, the world would be a much happier place if people — and nations — admitted fault, expressed genuine regrets, and extended open hands in a heartfelt ‘sorry’.

You write with the kind of family problem that crops up again and again in this column: a misunderstanding, the wrong words spoken, communication (or lack of) by text and email, and plenty of self-justification.

The result? Parents angry or heartbroken, children estranged, a woman in real danger of losing her only brother.

And why? Usually because of the aggrieved ‘I’ running through the problem email — that selfish little pronoun that seems incapable of reaching out to the ‘you’.

The thing is, Janine, at no point in your email (which I had to edit) do you express real regret at the falling out you caused.

I’m not saying you don’t feel sad, but that you don’t seem to be able to see beyond how your day was ‘completely spoilt’ by this.

Reading between the lines, I see a far more complicated situation. Let me guess . . . you disapproved of the ‘Polish woman’ because she’d hurt the first wife you liked and therefore found it hard to accept her.

Then you not only invited the first wife to your son’s wedding (no reason at all not to, but it creates a situation that requires great sensitivity), but inexplicably threw it in the second wife’s face that you’d done so. You sound vaguely bewildered and affronted that she was upset!

And, to make things worse, because you’d had too much to drink (oh come on, this was the evening!) you responded to her distress by telling her to shut up. Not good.

Meanwhile, your sister-in-law heard blunt words (not in her first language) she understood to be rejecting, even hostile. Did she get it wrong? Maybe. Or perhaps she did grasp your real meaning: that, in effect, your loyalty remained with his first wife.

Your brother had to believe his wife because he had no choice. That’s where his loyalty has to lie.

What would your husband do in similar circumstances? Have ever truly acknowledged the fact that if you hadn’t blurted unnecessary things to the poor woman, none of this would have happened?

These horrid little family rows happen all the time — and the only way forward is for one person to take responsibility and utter a genuine apology. You won’t like me for saying this, but that’s now your job. If you want the estrangement to continue, you’ll stay on your high horse and believe all the wrong has been done to you.

If you want your brother back, you will talk to your sister-in-law, tell her you made a mistake but didn’t mean what she thought you meant, but that it was still your fault. And ask her if you can be friends.

This is the only way forward — and I hope you make it your way.

 I relish being a lockdown hermit

Dear Bel,

I was an only child and both parents loved me, but I was always close to my Irish mother. She’d lost her previous child, so was glad when I came to answer her prayers.

As a teenager, I couldn’t fit in and after university continued living with my parents. When my father died, I stayed at home, took temporary jobs but never felt like an adult. I also realised I was gay and in those days it was another world.

Eventually, I got a permanent post and then started a long- distance relationship with a man I met through online dating. My feelings for him are more platonic, but he gives me a sense of security and tolerates my neurotic ways.

In 2018 my mother was diagnosed with dementia, and I cared for her until she died in November 2019. Looking after her gave me direction. Now I’m totally unmotivated; my house is cluttered; I tidy then it ends up the same.

With lockdown I realised I wasn’t missing real-life contact. I love live chat online — I’m more relaxed there. The truth is, lockdown affected my motivation, but otherwise was a blessing. I love quiet roads and not having noisy kids pass my house. I also relish everyone else being in the same plight as me, inside.

I’m worried at the prospect of normality returning. I shall be more aware of myself as an oddity, and paradoxically feel more isolated.

I’m supposed to be going on holiday with my partner in June but feel anxious, not having been on public transport since last March. I’m guilty that I feel like this when lockdown has been so dreadful for so many. As I am in my 60s, can I change, or do I have to accept my odd personality?

PATRICK

This strange, modern world seems to be reducing us all to sameness. Young women turn themselves into clones — with big eyebrows and ‘contoured’ make-up. Middle- aged men cling to youthful clothing. And, like blue denim, we’re all expected to don the same thoughts — uniformity being the ‘consensus’.

Sociability is seen as desirable — for who wants to be mistrusted as a ‘loner’? I’ve lost track of the ‘syndromes’ that shrinks come up with to describe ordinary conditions such as sadness and anxiety.

What if there’s nothing really wrong with you at all? Centuries ago you might have been valued as a hermit. Tolerated as a genuine eccentric. Indeed, you might be far wiser than those whose hearts sink at party small talk but can’t say no to going out.

You aren’t the only one who has found relief and peace during the lockdowns, and I suspect your anxiety about public transport is shared by many.

Your uncut letter says you never missed siblings and loved playing with local children in your wonderful imaginary world. Who knows why home remained a place of safety and you felt happiest there and (later) online? But it happened and not everybody needs people.

Of course I could start an encouraging chorus, suggesting therapy and self-help books, etc.

But what if you are simply yourself: an unusual person who loves drawing the curtains on winter nights and keeping the world at bay? I don’t find that ‘weird’.

When this is over you will go back to work, see your few friends, go on holiday with your partner.

But of course you will still want a quiet life. If you’re feeling more anxious than usual it’s because long restriction has broken our habits and so ‘normality’ becomes hard.

In the meantime, it really will make you feel better to start a project: pack your mother’s clothes into bags for when charity shops open, and make a list to tell you which room to tackle each day.

Play music and daydream while you accomplish mundane tasks. Keep house as your mother would wish you to.

The key question is whether your chosen lifestyle (reclusive, if you like, but that’s allowed) makes you unhappy. If it doesn’t, then why beat yourself up for being different?

 And finally…Thank you for all your kind words

It was overwhelming to read so many sweet messages of condolence after last week’s column about my father’s death. I’d love to send a personal note to everyone, but know you understand that I have so much to do at this time.

I’ve been getting a bit behind with ‘admin’ for a while — and now you know why. But I send a million apologies and thanks, all crammed into this small space, like a big squashy hug.

It was uplifting to read your honouring of the wartime generation. As Catherine K wrote: ‘They were seemingly indestructible, the experiences and hardships they had, so different to those of the later generations. War, food shortages, etc . . . the longer they lived, the more “eternal” they seemed to be.

Gillian R echoed this: ‘A good life, well-lived, is always cause for commemoration and the gentlemen of your dad’s generation (and of course Captain Sir Tom Moore and my own dear late dad), were the best of the best. That generation really deserves our endless thanks and admiration.’

It’s usual for one death to prompt personal memories. I was touched by recollections and confidences you shared including sadness at being banned from care home visits.

But Christine S made me smile when she wrote that she was sure her late father (another Liverpool man) ‘will be waiting in Heaven for Mr Ted Mooney to buy him a pint when he gets there.’ Make that a Guinness . . .

The brilliant poet Brian Patten was born in Liverpool the same year as me and was made famous in 1968 with The Mersey Sound, the best-selling poetry collaboration with Adrian Henri and Roger McGough.

To all those who have written to me with their own memories, do look up Patten’s wonderful poem So Many Different Lengths Of Time. I treasure these lines: ‘A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us, for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams.’

Or, as another poet, Philip Larkin, wrote: ‘What will survive of us is love.’