Margaret Whitmore sat in her kitchen, gazing out the window as the first December snowflakes began to drift down. Her heart ached—not from the cold, but from worry. Her daughter, Emily, was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, due any day now. And yet, all Emily could think about were spa appointments, brunches with friends, and planning a New Year’s getaway—as if she weren’t about to bring an entire human being into the world.
Margaret couldn’t wrap her head around it. Where was the maternal instinct? The quiet, trembling excitement even alley cats seemed to feel before their litters arrived? Instead, Emily had a spreadsheet—salons, photo shoots, and, yes, her mother’s name penciled in for babysitting duty while she “got herself back in shape.”
“Mum, you’re retired anyway—you won’t mind watching the baby while I pop out for a blow-dry and a mani, will you? I can’t exactly post hospital selfies looking like a zombie!”
Margaret nearly choked on her tea. Sweetheart, are you giving birth to a child or an Instagram prop?
Emily had been married six years—met her husband, James, at university. He was decent, steady, had a good job. They’d bought their flat with some parental help, spent years climbing the career ladder before finally deciding it was time. Grandmas on both sides had been over the moon—until they realized the mother-to-be viewed the whole affair as an inconvenient interlude between brunch reservations.
At first, Margaret thought it might just be nerves. Maybe Emily was masking her fears with flippancy. But then she caught her daughter scrolling through nanny agencies—for a newborn. The baby wasn’t even here yet, and Emily was already outsourcing motherhood.
“Emily, have you lost the plot? A nanny? You’re supposed to bond with the baby! Establish routines, breastfeeding—this isn’t a goldfish you can toss flakes at and forget!”
“Mum, you’re so out of touch. Everyone in London hires help straight away. Mum guilt is so 1990s. I’m not signing up for martyrdom—I’m still a person!”
Margaret’s heart sank. Back in her day, women had babies young—twenty, twenty-one—and no one acted like it was the end of the world. It was the world. Sleepless nights, scraping together pennies for nappies, rushing home from work with milk stains on your blouse. There were no Instagram-perfect maternity shoots, just love and fear and nappies that never stayed on. Now?
All the baby gear had been bought only because Margaret and Emily’s mother-in-law dragged her to John Lewis, forcing her to pick out a pram and onesies while she scrolled through spa menus on her phone. The grandparents washed, ironed, and folded everything—while Emily daydreamed.
“The girls and I were thinking of booking a table at The Ivy for New Year’s—if I’m feeling up to it, obviously. I’m not about to become a hermit!”
Margaret finally snapped. She told Emily straight: motherhood wasn’t a side hustle. That newborns didn’t care about your highlights or your waistline. That sleepless nights and colic didn’t fit neatly between salon visits. That being a mother meant putting someone else first—before your Instagram feed, before your freedom, before yourself.
Emily smiled and patted her arm. “You’re so dramatic, Mum. Happiness is the priority now. Happy mum, happy baby—that’s what all the books say.”
Now, Margaret lay awake each night wondering where she’d gone wrong. Had she spoiled her? Failed to teach her what mattered? Or was this just the way of things now—women becoming mothers before they’d quite grown up?
Still, she clung to one hope: that when Emily held her son for the first time, when those tiny fingers curled around hers, when she woke to his cries at 3 a.m.—something would shift. Something real, deeper than filters and hashtags.
Until then? Margaret said a quiet prayer. For her daughter. For her grandson. And for the day Emily’s heart would finally understand—not the version of motherhood sold in magazines, but the messy, glorious, sleepless reality of it.
