Evelyn Whitmore sat in her kitchen, gazing out the window as the first December snow began to dust the streets. Her chest ached—not from the cold, but from the gnawing worry for her daughter, her unborn grandchild, and the days yet to come. Charlotte, her only child, was weeks away from giving birth. Thirty-eight weeks, to be precise. Any day now. Yet Charlotte’s mind wasn’t on nappies or cribs, sleepless nights or feeding schedules. No—hers was a whirl of spa appointments, café meet-ups with friends, holiday getaways, and photoshoots.
Evelyn couldn’t fathom it. Where was the instinct? The quiet, primal fear—or even excitement—that should have seized her daughter by now? The kind even stray cats felt when they curled protectively around their bellies? But Charlotte’s planner was filled with salon slots and brunch dates—and, scribbled in the margins, *Mum’s turn to babysit*. Evelyn was to mind the newborn while her daughter *got herself sorted*.
*”Mum, you’re free anyway. Just watch the baby while I pop out for a blow-dry and nails. I can’t be photographed in a dressing gown, can I?”*
Evelyn had nearly choked. *Girl, are you having a child or an Instagram prop?*
Charlotte had been married six years—a university sweetheart turned steady husband. They’d built careers first, waited until the mortgage was manageable, the timing *just right*. And now, at last, the long-awaited pregnancy. Grandmothers had wept with joy. But the mother-to-be? She approached it like a lifestyle upgrade.
At first, Evelyn had wondered if it was nerves—if the jokes and distractions hid some deeper fear. Then she’d caught Charlotte scrolling through *newborn nanny* agencies. The baby hadn’t even arrived, and already, she was outsourcing it.
*”Charlotte, have you lost your mind? A nanny? You’re supposed to bond with your child! This isn’t some puppy you can hand off!”*
*”Mum, you’re so outdated. Everyone in London does this. Mothers aren’t martyrs. I deserve a life too.”*
The words had hollowed Evelyn out. In her day, women had babies young—twenty, twenty-one. The late-night feeds, the scrimping for formula, the running home from work—that *was* life. There were no curated Instagram births, no *maternity glam shoots*. Just love, terror, and a fierce, unphotographable joy.
Now? The baby’s things had only been bought because Evelyn and the other grandmother dragged Charlotte shopping. The pram, the cot, the tiny vests—all selected with detached indifference. *Fine, if it shuts you up.* The washing, the folding, the careful arranging? Done by grandmothers. And Charlotte? She was pricing ski trips.
*”The girls and I thought we’d book a New Year’s lunch—if I’m feeling up to it. I’m not *ill*, Mum.”*
Evelyn had snapped. No sugar-coating. *This isn’t how mothers behave. A child isn’t a lifestyle accessory. Sleepless nights, colic, cracked nipples—that’s the reality. Motherhood isn’t a photoshoot. It’s showing up.*
Charlotte had shrugged. *”You’re overreacting. Happy mums raise happy kids. And happy mums *look* happy.”*
Now, each night, Evelyn wondered—had she failed somewhere? Spoiled her? Missed a crucial lesson? Or was this just the age they lived in, where women became mothers before they’d grown up?
Still, she clung to one hope: that when Charlotte held her child for the first time—when those tiny fingers curled around hers, when the midnight cries pierced the dark—something would *shift*. That salons and brunches would blur, and this fragile, furious love would rewrite her priorities.
Until then? Evelyn prayed. For her daughter. For her grandchild. And for the day Charlotte’s heart would wake—not to the flash of a camera, but to the weight of a life in her arms.
