Her daughter’s due any day now, and all she can think about is spas and parties. Like she’s not about to bring a child into the world…
Margaret Thompson sat in her kitchen, gazing out the window as the first December snow began to fall. Her heart ached—not from the cold, but from worry. For her daughter, for the baby, for what tomorrow might bring. Katie, her only child, was in her thirty-eighth week. Any day now, she’d go into labour. But instead of thinking about nappies or cots, about sleepless nights or breastfeeding, her mind was on manicures, massages, photoshoots, brunches with her girlfriends, and even a New Year’s getaway.
Margaret couldn’t wrap her head around it. How? Where was the maternal instinct? That quiet, fierce tenderness even a stray cat feels when she’s about to give birth? Where was the worry, the anticipation, even the fear? But Katie? She had a spreadsheet—salons, bookings, and right there in the schedule… “Mum.” Meaning *her*. She’d be the one holding the baby while the new mum “got herself together.”
“Mum, you’re free anyway. Just watch the baby for a bit—I’ll pop out for a blowout and nails. I can’t take newborn pics in a dressing gown, can I?”
Margaret nearly choked. *Love, are you having a baby or a prop for Instagram?*
Katie had been married for six years already—tied the knot right out of uni. Her husband was decent, steady, kind. They had careers, a mortgage, parents who helped. They took their time before having kids, wanted to be settled. And now, finally—the long-awaited pregnancy. The grandmas were over the moon. Only, the expectant mother had a very different idea of what came next.
At first, Margaret thought maybe it was nerves. Maybe the jokes were just her way of coping. But then she caught Katie scrolling through nanny agencies… for a *newborn*. The baby wasn’t even here yet, and she was already planning to hand it off.
“Katie, have you lost the plot? A *nanny*? You’re supposed to be with the baby—feeding, bonding, *mothering*! This isn’t a kitten you just toss kibble at!”
“Mum, you’re so old-school. On the Continent, everyone hires help from day one. Mum’s not a slave. I’m a person too—I want a life. Baby-wearing exists, you know? You can still go places!”
Margaret’s stomach dropped. Back in her day, women had babies young—nineteen, twenty. No one acted like it was the end. It *was* life. Sleepless nights, rushing home from work, scrimping for nappies and baby lotion. There were no Instagram shoots, no staged “birth reveals.” Just love, fear, responsibility. And *real* happiness—not the performative kind. But now…
All the baby gear only got bought because Margaret insisted. She and Katie’s mother-in-law dragged her round Mothercare, picking out prams, cribs, onesies. Katie went along, but blankly—just to get them off her back. The grandmas washed, ironed, folded everything. And Katie? She was planning her New Year’s night out.
“Me and the girls were thinking, if I’m feeling up to it, maybe we could book a table on the first? I’m not under house arrest!”
Margaret finally snapped. Laid it all out—no sugar-coating. That this wasn’t how mothers acted. That motherhood wasn’t a shopping spree, it was *work*. That a newborn wasn’t an accessory. That photoshoots shouldn’t matter more than colic, or night feeds, or the first drops of milk. That a mother was a child’s whole world—not just a meal ticket.
But it went in one ear and out the other.
“You’re overreacting, Mum. Things are different now. Our priorities aren’t yours. Happy mums are the pretty ones—that’s what matters.”
Now, every evening, Margaret wonders: *Did I fail somewhere? Spoil her too much? Not teach her the right things?* Or is this just the way it is now—women become mothers first, and maybe, just maybe, grow up after?
Still, she holds onto hope. That when Katie sees that tiny face in the hospital, feels those little fingers grip hers, wakes to his cries in the dark—something will *shift*. The salons won’t matter half as much as the tiny human who thinks she’s his whole world.
Until then? Margaret prays. For her daughter. For her grandchild. And for the real thing—not hashtag motherhood, but the kind that comes from love—to wake up in her grown-up girl’s heart.
