Long ago, when I finally dared to seek happiness for myself, my own daughter called me a madwoman and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
All my life, I had given everything to my daughter, and later—to her child. Yet somehow, they forgot I, too, had a right to joy beyond them. I married young, at one-and-twenty. My husband, Edward, was a quiet, steady man, a hard worker through and through. One day, he was offered a fortnight’s work—supposedly good pay—hauling freight to another region.
He never returned. To this day, I don’t know what befell him on that road. One evening, a call came—Edward was gone. I was left alone with a two-year-old, utterly adrift. His parents had long passed; mine lived another county over. I didn’t know how to survive, how to care for a child.
At least his small flat remained ours. Without it, I shudder to think where we’d have been. I was trained as a teacher, and at first, I tried tutoring from home—but how could I manage pupils who needed quiet when little Charlotte fussed and toddled about?
Proper work was impossible. Who leaves a toddler alone all day? My mother came once, saw my despair, and took Lottie away. For nearly two years, she lived with her grandparents while I laboured without rest—teaching at the school, taking extra shifts, private lessons.
On Sundays, I’d visit. Every parting near broke me. Then came the nursery queue—I feared I’d be trapped again, nursing a sick child, but fortune smiled: Lottie stayed sturdy. In time, it was just us once more. Then school. Then university.
I worked myself ragged so she’d have the best shoes, the neatest blouse. Rarely just one job—always two, sometimes three. When at last Charlotte finished her studies and found work, I breathed easy—and then came the shock. Now, I was needed by no one.
No more scrambling for wages. My body ached; my only friend was the tabby cat. Charlotte visited some weekends, but amusing a lonely mother all day plainly wasn’t her aim. I felt discarded. Then my granddaughter, little Alice, was born.
Months before her coming, I moved in with Charlotte and her husband, Samuel. Shopping, scrubbing, readying for the birth—all fell to me. And when Charlotte returned to work, Alice became my world. I didn’t mind. I felt wanted again.
This year, Alice started school. After lessons, I’d fetch her, feed her, help with sums, walk her to the park or to her dancing class. There, by the duck pond, I met Peter. He, too, minded a grandchild. We talked. He’d been widowed young, same as me, now helping his daughter raise her girl.
When I first knew Peter, I expected nothing. Not once since Edward had I been courted. First a child, then work, then a grandchild—what place had I for sweethearts? Yet Peter showed me I was still a woman.
His first note, asking to meet without the children, near startled me senseless. With him, life bloomed anew. We saw plays, travelled to fairs, wandered galleries. I remembered what joy tasted like.
But my daughter took it ill. It began with a call one Saturday morn:
“Mum, we’re coming round. Mind Alice this weekend?”
“Ah, love, I’ve plans already. We’re away just now. Next time, give a bit of notice—I’ll gladly sit.”
Charlotte huffed and rang off. By Monday, Peter and I returned. My spirits were light, my step quick. Even Alice remarked how bright my eyes were. Peace held till Friday’s call:
“Friends have asked us round. Can you take Alice?”
“We agreed—you’d warn me ahead. My days are spoken for.”
“Off gallivanting with that Peter again? He’s addled your wits!” she cried.
“Lottie, what nonsense is this?” I tried to soothe her.
“You’ve forgotten Alice entirely! Always said you needed no sweetheart. What’s changed?”
“*I* have! I’m alive again. Can you not understand—as one woman to another?”
“And how’s Alice to understand? Traded for some stranger?”
“Have you lost your senses? I’m with her near every day! Take back those words—let’s mend this.”
“*I* should apologise? You’ve gone mad. Alice shan’t stay with you again. Sort yourself out—then we’ll talk,” she snapped, and the line went dead.
Then I wept—great, shaking sobs. All those years, living for them. And when my turn came, I was cast aside. Just like that. For daring to be happy.
I pray Charlotte cools. That she’ll call. That she’ll see. For I cannot fathom life without her. Without my Alice.
