**Diary Entry – June 10th**
“Mum, please—we’ve talked about this already. We’ve got the mortgage, and Lily’s been poorly every other month. Where do you expect me to find thirty grand?”
Lily’s squeals echoed from the bedroom as Mark wrestled her into socks. Half past seven—just ten minutes until I had to leave for work. Another row about the car, right when I least needed it.
“So take out a loan,” Mum said breezily, reaching for a biscuit. “You’re young, both of you—good jobs, steady incomes. It’s not like I’m asking for a funeral wreath. Just something practical.”
I spun round, fists clenched.
“And who’s paying for it, Mum? Thin air? The mortgage barely leaves us breathing room.”
She scoffed and folded her arms.
“Right. Mark’s parents have a car, but I’m left scraping the barrel.”
That did it.
“Mark’s parents saved up. Sold their old one, didn’t beg for handouts. You just passed your test, and suddenly you need a brand-new Audi?”
Her face darkened. “And why d’you think I only got my licence now? Because I raised you! Every penny went on you—your education, your future. Now I finally have a chance, and you slam the door in my face!”
I glanced at Mark. He was tying Lily’s shoes, silent as ever. Exhausted. Over it.
“Mum, you used to say you were terrified of driving. We’re not monsters, but we’re not made of money. We pay your bills, your prescriptions, gifts—”
She clutched her chest like a bad actor remembering a heart condition.
“Oh, so now I’m a burden? Every quid held over my head?”
My throat burned. Lack of sleep, unpaid bills, Lily’s endless coughs—all of it boiling over.
Then Mum dropped the killer line:
“What if I look after Lily when she’s ill? You could work more, earn more. Then we’d manage the loan.”
I froze.
“Wait—you’ll only mind your granddaughter if we buy you a car? Suddenly your health permits it?”
“Don’t twist my words,” she muttered. “I’m trying to compromise.”
“A compromise means both sides bend. You’re just bartering.”
She spun on her heel and marched out.
“Fine. Have it your way. Don’t ring me next time you need a babysitter.”
I didn’t chase her. Just sat by the window, eyes shut, swallowing the bitterness.
Mark squeezed my shoulder. “You were right. Pity it came to this.”
The flat went quiet. Even Lily stopped whinging, staring at the door.
“Is Granny gone forever? Aren’t we seeing her again?”
I didn’t know. Fury and hurt churned inside me. We’d helped her endlessly—no strings. Now she’d walk away over a car?
—
Two months passed. Life stitched itself back together—Lily at nursery, Mark picking up extra shifts. No one mentioned Mum, but her absence lingered—in the toys she’d bought Lily, the knitted socks, the cake recipe only she knew.
And Lily missed her. First silently, then with questions.
“Mum, has Granny gone away?”
“No, she’s just… busy.”
“But she always rang when I was poorly. Now she doesn’t. Did she forget me?”
I fumbled excuses—her phone broke, the house was being done up—but my voice lacked conviction. Lily’s small face crumpled with worry.
One evening, as I washed up, Lily hovered in the doorway.
“Can I call Granny?”
I knew how it’d end, but I nodded. Maybe this time she’d answer.
The phone rang out. Again. And again. After the fourth try, Lily burst into tears—not a tantrum, but the quiet, confused crying of a child who doesn’t understand why they’re not loved anymore.
I held her tight, whispering empty reassurances.
“Granny still loves you, sweetheart. She’s just…”
Just what? There were no words.
Later, over cheap wine, my neighbour Kate sighed. “Elderly folk stew in their pride. Lonely, convinced the world owes them. Maybe you should reach out?”
“I can’t. Not after this. Lily tried. Look where it got her.”
Kate nodded. “But she’ll never bend first. Too stubborn.”
—
A month later, on a crisp Saturday, Lily dragged me to the park. As she clambered onto the slide, heels clicked behind me—a voice sharp with irritation.
“No, I don’t want your mobile deal. I’ve got a proper phone, not one of those internet gadgets.”
My chest tightened.
There she was—Mum—in her posh shearling jacket, lips pursed. She slowed, spotting Lily.
For a second, neither moved. Then Lily leaped off the slide, sprinting and sobbing.
“Granny!”
Mum stiffened—then melted, pulling her close.
I forced myself over, heart hammering.
“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello.” She didn’t smile, but didn’t let go of Lily. “She’s taller. Hair’s grown.”
“Kids do. Unlike some grudges.”
Mum sighed, stroking Lily’s hair but speaking to me.
“I thought you’d be angrier.”
“I am. But she isn’t. Why didn’t you call her?”
“I didn’t want to intrude. If you didn’t want me—”
“Mum.” I breathed deep. “We’re family, not a cashpoint. Be with us—without conditions.”
She nodded slightly, the frown easing.
“I missed her. You. Even Mark.”
“I know,” I said wryly. “We missed you too. Took us a while to admit it.”
The wind tugged at our coats. Lily kept glancing back, as if Granny might vanish.
—
Weeks later, the car wasn’t mentioned again. Mum came round to play, to listen to Lily’s chatter about cartoons.
One evening, as I cooked, they flour-dusted the kitchen rolling dumplings. Mark leaned in the doorway, grinning.
“Well, well. Peace at last. You get here on foot, Margaret, or did you nick that Audi?”
Mum didn’t look up. “One more word about cars, and you’ll knead this dough with your belly.”
We all laughed. Some wounds stay tender, but life moves on. Together.
**Lesson:** Pride costs nothing—until it costs you everything. Sometimes love means swallowing it first.
