When I finally found a life of my own, my daughter called me mad and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
All my years had been given to my daughter, and then to her child. But it seemed my family had forgotten I, too, had a right to happiness, one that did not revolve solely around them. I married young—just one-and-twenty. My husband, Edward, was a quiet, steady man, a true grafter to his bones. One day, he was offered a fortnight’s work abroad—good wages, they said, hauling freight to another town.
He never came home. To this day, I don’t know what happened on that journey. One evening, a call came, and I was told Edward was gone. I was left alone with a babe of two, with no one to turn to. His parents had long passed, and mine lived in another county. I didn’t know how we’d survive.
At least Edward’s little flat became ours. Without it, Lord knows how we’d have managed. I’d trained as a teacher, and at first, I tried tutoring from home, but studying with pupils while a toddler clambered and wailed was near impossible.
A proper job was out of the question—how could I leave little Margaret alone all day? One afternoon, my mother saw my despair and took her away. For two years, Margaret lived with her grandparents while I worked myself to the bone—teaching at the school, taking extra shifts, giving private lessons. On Sundays, I’d visit her. Every goodbye tore at me.
Then came the wait for nursery. I dreaded falling ill and missing work, but luckily, Margaret was a hardy child. In time, it was just the two of us again. School, then university. I worked till my hands shook so hers could have the finest shoes, the neatest blouse. Never just one job—always two, sometimes three. But when Margaret finished her studies and found work, I breathed easy at last. And then, a shock—for now, I was needed by no one.
The endless shifts were over. My body ached, and my only friend was the old tabby cat. Sometimes Margaret visited on weekends, but amusing a lonely mother all day was hardly her idea of fun. I felt cast aside. Then came my granddaughter, Charlotte.
Months before her birth, I moved in with Margaret and her husband, William. The shopping, the scrubbing, the hospital bags—all fell to me. And once Margaret returned to work, the babe was mine to tend. But I didn’t mind—I felt wanted again.
This year, Charlotte started school. After lessons, I’d fetch her, feed her, help with sums, walk her to the park or dance class. And there, by the duck pond, I met Henry. He, too, was minding his granddaughter. We talked. Henry had been widowed young, like me, and now helped his daughter raise her little one.
When I came to know Henry, I dared hope for nothing. Not once in all those years since Edward’s passing had I dined out or taken a stroll just for pleasure. First the babe, then the work. After Charlotte was born, I’d called myself “Granny” with pride. But did grandmas have sweethearts? It turned out they did. Henry made me remember I was still a woman.
His first message—asking to meet just us two—left me stunned. With him, a new life began. We went to the pictures, the theatre, festivals. I tasted joy again.
But my daughter bristled at it. It started with a call one Saturday morning:
“Mother, we’re coming round—would you mind having Charlotte this weekend?”
“Sorry, love, but I’ve plans. We’re away. Next time, give me notice—I’ll gladly have her.”
Margaret scoffed and hung up. On Monday, Henry and I returned. I was bright-eyed, full of cheer. Even Charlotte noticed. All was calm till Friday, when the phone rang again:
“We’ve been invited out—can you take Charlotte?”
“We agreed—you’d tell me in advance. My day’s already set.”
“Off gallivanting with Henry again, are you? He’s addled your wits!” she snapped.
“Margaret, what’s got into you?” I tried to soothe her.
“You’ve forgotten Charlotte entirely! You always said you didn’t need happiness. What’s changed?”
“Yes, it has! I’m alive again. I wish you’d understand—woman to woman.”
“And how’s Charlotte to understand? You’ve traded her for some fellow!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m with her most days. Just forgive my sharp words—let’s move past this.”
“*I* should forgive *you*? You’ve lost your senses. I shan’t leave her with you again. Sort yourself out—then we’ll talk.” With that, she was gone.
I wept till my ribs ached. After a lifetime of striving, of living for them, my time had come—and I was cast out. Just like that. For daring to be happy.
I pray Margaret cools. She’ll call. She’ll see reason. For I cannot picture my days without her, without Charlotte.
