**December 12th**
Emily Whitmore sat by the kitchen window, watching the first December snow drift lazily from the sky. The ache in her chest had nothing to do with winter’s chill—it was worry, sharp and unrelenting. Her daughter, Bethany, was days away from giving birth, and yet all she could think about were spa days and brunches with friends. As if she weren’t about to bring a child into the world.
Thirty-eight weeks along, and not once had Bethany fretted over nappies or midnight feeds. Instead, her diary was crammed with hair appointments, facials, and a New Year’s getaway. Emily could hardly believe it. Where was the maternal instinct? Even stray cats knew to nest before birth. But Bethany? She’d already pencilled in… *her mother*. Emily was to mind the baby while her daughter “got herself together.”
*”Mum, you’re retired anyway. Just watch him while I pop out for a blow-dry and nails. I can’t be seen in a dressing gown for the first pics!”*
Emily had nearly choked. Was this a child or a prop for Instagram?
Bethany had been married seven years—tied the knot fresh out of uni. Decent lad, that husband of hers. Steady job, a semi-detached in Surrey, mortgage half-paid by both sets of parents. They’d waited, built careers, ticked boxes. Now, finally—the baby. The grandparents had been over the moon. Until it became clear the mother-to-be had other priorities.
At first, Emily thought it might just be nerves. Perhaps the laughter was armour. But then she caught Bethany scrolling *au pair* agencies—for a newborn. The child wasn’t even here yet, and she was already outsourcing.
*”Bethany, have you lost the plot? You’re his mother! Bonding, routines—this isn’t a goldfish you drop flakes to and walk away!”*
*”Mum, you’re so old-fashioned. Everyone hires help now. Motherhood doesn’t mean martyrdom. I’ve a life too, you know. Baby-wearing’s a thing—we’ll manage.”*
The words had lodged like a stone in Emily’s throat. In her day, you had them young—twenty, twenty-two. No one called it *”giving up your life.”* It *was* life. Sleepless nights, rationed wages on formula, no glamorous “postpartum shoots.” Just love, terror, and a happiness too raw for filters.
The nursery? Stocked solely because Emily and the other grandmother dragged Bethany to John Lewis. She’d picked prams and onesies with the enthusiasm of someone selecting office supplies. The washing, folding, organising—left to the grandmas. Meanwhile, Bethany daydreamed of bottomless prosecco lunches.
*”The girls have booked a NYE table at The Ivy—just in case I’m up for it. I won’t be *locked away*, surely?”*
Emily finally snapped. Told her straight: motherhood wasn’t a lifestyle hashtag. A newborn wasn’t an accessory. Sleepless nights, colic, cracked nipples—*that* was the reality. A mother’s soul belonged to her child first.
Bethany shrugged. *”You’re overreacting. Happy mums raise happy kids. And happy mums get their highlights done.”*
Now, each night, Emily wonders—where did she fail? Too soft? Too proud? Or is this just the world now, where women become mothers before they’ve grown up?
Still, she clings to hope. That when Bethany holds her son—feels his warm weight, his fingers curling round hers—something will *shift*. The salons, the selfies, all of it paling beside this heartbeat in her arms.
Until then? Emily prays. For her daughter. For her grandson. And for the day Bethany’s heart learns a love no filter could ever brighten.
**Lesson learnt**—Motherhood isn’t taught. It’s awoken. Sometimes painfully, always fiercely. And no amount of concealer hides that truth.
