Episode 91 – Promises, Plots, and the Great Fanny Farce…

You know, the older I become, the clearer it all gets. Hindsight really is a sarcastic little cow, sitting there with her cup of tea, smirking, going “Well, what did you expect, love?”

I was thinking last night about those last few days when my mother was still with us. Fragile, fading, but still sharp enough to see through most of us, most, I say, because even the sharpest woman can’t sniff out every snake in her own garden when the weeds are dressed up as roses.

Mam was lying in her bed, knowing she didn’t have much time left, and what did she do? She looked over at Franny, our very own Florence Nightingale of False Promises, and said, “I’m worried about Mae. She has no one in her life now. Who’s going to take care of her?”

Now, even then, I gave a little chuckle under my breath. Because anyone who knows me knows I’ve been taking care of myself since I could crawl. Probably before that, if we’re being honest. The art of self-preservation was practically handed to me in my baby bottle. But it was sweet of Mam, wasn’t it? In that moment, thinking of me while she was the one dying. That’s what real mothers do.

And then there was Franny. Clutching Mam’s hand, face painted in her best “oh how terribly tragic” expression, I swear the woman could’ve had a part in Fair City if she hadn’t been so bloody obsessed with local politics and parish lotto tickets.

She leaned in, all fake empathy and trembling voice, and said:

“Oh Mam, you don’t have to worry. We’ll always take care of her.”

We. Will. Always. Take. Care. Of. Her.

Ah lads, if I could bottle the sheer audacity of that moment and sell it, I’d be a millionaire by now, sipping margaritas somewhere far away from the land of betrayal and backstabbing siblings.

Because you see, while she was making that promise, the ink on the betrayal was already drying. The plan? Already underway. The ‘we’ll take care of Mae’ bit? Pure theatre. Designed for the deathbed audience. And what a show it was.

Turns out, taking care of me meant:

• Making sure I was left out of every decision.
• Shuffling papers and deals behind my back.
• Ensuring my name was nowhere near the spoils.
• Telling neighbors, and cousins half-truths, twisted tales and the kind of propaganda North Korea would be proud of.

Fast forward to now, and what’s the score? Fanny’s as loyal as a wet paper bag in a storm. Couldn’t even maintain the illusion past the graveside. Mam wasn’t cold before the first moves were made.

And it wasn’t just about the land or the house or the bits and bobs, no, it was about power. Control. Making sure Mae, the black sheep, the rebel, the one who always asked the wrong questions and refused to play nice, was pushed so far out that she’d need a telescope to see what was happening back at the homestead.

And here’s the kicker: I’m not even surprised anymore. Disappointed? Sure. Disgusted? Absolutely. But surprised? Not in the slightest. Because people like Fanny don’t make promises for you, they make them for themselves. To look good. To feel righteous. To be the hero in the story they’ve written in their own heads.

But you know what? I don’t need them. I never did.

I’ll take care of myself, like I always have. And frankly, I’d rather have a simple life with a few real souls around me than sit at a table of traitors playing happy families.

So here’s to Fanny, patron saint of deathbed lies, master of the double-cross, and living proof that some people’s loyalty expires the second it’s no longer convenient.

And here’s to me, still standing, still laughing, and still dangerous enough that they have to keep me at arm’s length.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to pour a drink, toast to my own damn self, and maybe teach a fox a few tricks.

Because it turns out, the lone wolves always survive.

Mae 🧡