Her daughter was about to give birth, yet all she could think about were salons and parties. As if she wasn’t preparing to bring a child into the world…
Margaret Hayes sat in the kitchen, gazing out the window as the first December snow began to fall. Her heart ached—not from the winter chill, but from worry. Worry for her daughter, for her unborn grandchild, for what tomorrow would bring. Emily, her only child, was nearing the end of her pregnancy—thirty-eight weeks along, with labour just around the corner. But instead of thinking of nappies and cots, milk feeds and sleepless nights, Emily’s mind was filled with manicures, spa treatments, photoshoots, coffee dates with friends, and even planning a New Year’s holiday.
Margaret couldn’t wrap her head around it. How could this be? Where was the maternal instinct? That deep, instinctive pull even wild cats felt when expecting their young? Where was the care, the nerves, even the fear? But all Emily cared about was her list of beauty appointments and a schedule that—much to Margaret’s shock—had *her* down as babysitter. Yes, *her*. She was expected to mind the newborn while the young mother rushed off to “get herself back in shape.”
“Mum, you’re free, aren’t you? Just watch the baby while I pop out for a blow-dry and nails. I can’t be photographed looking frumpy, can I?”
Margaret had nearly choked on her tea. *Sweetheart, are you having a child or a photoshoot prop for Instagram?*
Emily had been married for six years. They tied the knot fresh out of university. Her husband was decent—steady, respectful, with a stable job. They’d bought a flat with help from both sets of parents, worked hard to establish themselves, and only now, at long last, had they decided it was time for a baby. The grandmothers had been overjoyed, of course. But it quickly became clear that the expectant mother had approached this milestone with a very different outlook.
At first, Margaret thought it might just be nerves. Maybe Emily was scared, burying her anxiety behind jokes. But the truth hit hard when she caught her daughter scrolling through *nanny* listings—for a baby not even born yet!
“Emily, have you lost your mind? A *nanny* already? You’re meant to be there for your child—establishing routines, feeding, bonding! This isn’t a kitten you can just toss food at and walk away!”
“Mum, you’re so behind the times. Everyone in Europe hires help from day one. Mothers aren’t slaves, you know. I’m still a person—I deserve a life too. Baby-wearing exists for a reason. Women take their newborns everywhere now—life doesn’t stop!”
Margaret’s heart sank. In her day, women had children young—nineteen, twenty. But no one saw it as a burden. It *was* life. Sleepless nights, racing home from work, scraping pence together for formula and baby soap. No Instagram, no staged maternity shoots—just love, fear, responsibility. And happiness—*real* happiness, not something plastered with filters. But now…
All the baby essentials had only been bought because Margaret insisted. She and her son-in-law’s mother dragged Emily to shops, picking out prams, cots, onesies. Emily had gone along, but with indifference—just to shut them up. The washing, ironing, folding? All done by the grandmothers. And the daughter? She was busy planning her New Year’s outing.
“The girls and I were thinking—if everything goes smoothly, maybe we could book a table somewhere nice on the first? It’s not like I’ll be *in prison* after this!”
That’s when Margaret finally snapped. She told Emily straight—no softening the blow. That this wasn’t how mothers behaved. That motherhood wasn’t a shopping spree; it was a *responsibility*. That a newborn wasn’t an accessory. That photoshoots shouldn’t be the priority when labour, sleep deprivation, colic, and breastfeeding struggles lay ahead. That a mother was a child’s whole world, not just a convenient caretaker.
But Emily just shrugged it off.
“You’re being dramatic, Mum. Things are different now. We have different values. The most important thing is happiness—and happy mothers are *attractive* mothers.”
Now, every evening, Margaret wondered: *Where did I go wrong?* Had she spoiled her too much? Failed to teach her what mattered? Or was this just the way of the world now—women becoming mothers before they’d even grown up?
Still, she clung to hope. That when Emily held that tiny bundle for the first time, when those little fingers curled around hers, when she woke to his cries in the dead of night—something would *click*. The salons wouldn’t matter anymore. Only that tiny person who saw her as his whole world.
Until then… Margaret prayed. For her daughter. For her grandchild. And for the day her grown-up little girl’s heart would awaken to true motherhood—not the Instagram kind, but the kind built on love.
