“Our duty to raise you first, dear girl, now the duty falls to you for the baby,” I told my husband’s sister.
My daughter, Evelyn, faced grave health troubles, and now, on the brink of her second childbirth, I, Margaret Whitmore, stood before an unbearable choice. My husband and I had raised our eldest granddaughter, Charlotte, for three years, ever since Evelyn nearly lost her life bringing her into the world. Now, my sister-in-law, Beatrice Hartley, who had sworn to lend a hand, turned away again, leaving us in despair. We lived in a quiet village near Chester, and this sorrow weighed heavy upon my heart.
When Charlotte was born, my husband and I took her in straight from the hospital. Evelyn spent six months fighting for her life, and we could not leave the newborn without care. Beatrice had vowed to help, yet in three years, her promises amounted to nothing but empty words. There was always an excuse—her work, her affairs, her travels. Had I not insisted, she might never have laid eyes on Charlotte at all! I begged her to visit, and only then would she appear, though briefly and with an air of doing us a great favour.
Now, Evelyn carried her second child, and the doctors warned her health might fail again. After the first birth, she lay five months in the infirmary, and by some miracle, we saved both her and Charlotte. I near turned grey that day when the midwives rang, asking who would fetch the babe. Evelyn could not even nurse, and so, despite my age and my weak heart, I took Charlotte home. My husband and I were no longer young, and my youngest daughter, barely eighteen, still lived with us. But there was no choice—I could not abandon my grandchild.
Charlotte stayed with us, visiting her parents only on weekends. It suited all—Evelyn recovered, and we managed with the eldest grandchild. But a newborn? I had not the strength to endure sleepless nights, the cries, the colic again. When Evelyn asked us to take the second babe, I felt the ground give way beneath me. My blood rose fit to burst my veins, and Charlotte, especially when her teeth chafed, wore me to the bone with her weeping. On those days, I called Beatrice, pleading for her to take Charlotte but a single day. She would come, yet return her within hours, acting as though she’d moved mountains.
Beatrice was eight years my junior but carried herself like some society queen. Always polished, forever flitting—here to the seaside, there to the Continent. She had no need for men; freedom was her pleasure. After Charlotte’s birth, she pledged to help, yet in three years, she had taken the child but twice, and only at my urging. I near collapsed from exhaustion, my heart hammering in my chest, and she would return Charlotte sighing, “Gracious, how these little ones tire one!” As though I did not bear that weight upon my arms each day!
Now, as Evelyn entered her final months, the doctors feared the first ordeal might repeat itself. I was beside myself. I had not the strength to raise another babe, and Charlotte demanded all my care. I told Beatrice plainly, “If not for us, Charlotte would have had no home. Now the second is your charge.” Yet straightaway, she summoned a legion of excuses—her cats, her fine furnishings, her endless absences, work here, travel there. She had no desire for a child underfoot. She did not even trouble to hide that her grandchildren were burdens to her. What was I to do? Cast the babe into the workhouse?
My heart near broke with grief. Evelyn battled for her life, and I knew not how to save our family. Beatrice lived only for herself, blind to our suffering. I entreated her to keep the coming child but half a year, yet she waved me off like a buzzing fly. Charlotte was our light, but I could not walk that path again. The thought of the babe left wanting for care choked me with tears. Beatrice had vowed to stand by us, yet her words rang hollow. How to make her see this child was her own flesh and blood? If she did not relent, I feared our family would buckle beneath the strain—and that thought near crushed me where I stood.
