Laughter Through Hurt
Margaret Williams placed a steaming bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat down across from her, watching as Emily poked at the thick gravy with her spoon, swirling patterns across the surface.
“Don’t like it?” Margaret asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been grimacing at every spoonful for days now.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered, refusing to meet her eyes. “Just not very hungry.”
“Not hungry,” Margaret echoed drily. “But last night, I saw you rummaging through the fridge, looking for something. Wanted those frozen pizzas, didn’t you? The ones I bought special?”
Emily sighed and put her spoon down.
“Gran, don’t start. I said it’s fine. Just had a long day at work, that’s all.”
“Long day,” Margaret shook her head. “At your age, I’d come home from work and still tend the garden, hand-wash the laundry, iron every shirt. You sit at a computer all day—what’s there to be tired about?”
Emily shoved her chair back. The plate clattered.
“You know what? Enough. Every single day, it’s something. The food’s wrong, the job’s wrong, the lads I date aren’t good enough. I’m sick of it!”
“Is that how you speak to your elders?” Margaret snapped. “Is that how your mother raised you?”
“My mother didn’t raise me at all!” The words burst out before Emily could stop them.
Silence. Slowly, Margaret stood and gathered the dishes. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“Right. So it’s all my fault, then. Taking you in after your parents split was a mistake. Feeding you, caring for you—that’s wrong too.”
“Gran, I didn’t mean—”
“What, then?” Margaret turned, and Emily saw the shine of unshed tears in her grandmother’s eyes. “That I’m some meddling old woman in your way? Maybe you’re right. Young people don’t want us around.”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret had already vanished into the kitchen. The sound of running water, the clatter of dishes. Emily stood frozen before retreating to her room.
Margaret scrubbed the plates, tears slipping into the soapy water, her chest tight with hurt. Had she really become a burden? Was every bit of love mistaken for nagging?
She remembered three years ago—Emily arriving with one suitcase and red-rimmed eyes. Her parents divorcing, her father off with his secretary, her mother drowning in gin. Where else could a twenty-year-old girl go? Of course, to her gran. Margaret had cleared out the best room, cooked, cleaned, cared.
And now it seemed none of it mattered. That all she did was irritate.
“Margaret!” A voice carried from the hall. “You in?”
She wiped her face quickly. Mrs. Thompson from next door stood on the step, holding a bag.
“Come in,” Margaret forced a bright tone. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Can’t stay. My granddaughter brought these back from London—thought I’d share.” She handed over the bag. “Fancy chocolates. Belgian, I think.”
“Thank you,” Margaret took it. “Is she staying long?”
“Just the week. Work won’t let her off longer. But the minute she arrived, she came straight to me! Brought flowers, perfume too. Said, ‘Missed you terribly, Nan!'” Mrs. Thompson beamed. “Such a love.”
Margaret nodded, smiling while her heart ached. Mrs. Thompson had a grateful granddaughter. What did she have? Criticism and resentment.
“And how’s your Emily? Still at that job?”
“Yes, yes. Good girl, helps me loads.”
“Course she does! Bright, pretty thing. You’re lucky.”
Once the door shut, Margaret leaned against it, eyes closed. How it hurt to lie, to pretend. She used to boast about Emily—top of her class, lovely dancer—
“Gran, who was that?” Emily hovered in the doorway, guilty.
“Mrs. Thompson. Brought chocolates.”
“Fancy a cuppa, then? With these?” Emily stepped closer. “I… I wanted to say sorry. Spoke out of turn.”
Margaret wordlessly put the kettle on. Emily laid the chocolates on a plate.
“Pretty wrappers,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Thompson’s granddaughter brought them. Knows how to treat her gran.”
Emily flushed.
“Gran, come on. I love you. It’s just… sometimes it feels like you’re nitpicking. Like with the stew.”
“Nitpicking?” Margaret turned. “I worry. You’ve lost weight. Pale as a ghost.”
“I’m fine. Just stressed—tight deadlines, new boss riding us all.”
Margaret poured the tea.
“Why don’t you talk to me? You used to. Now it’s like pulling teeth.”
Emily fiddled with a chocolate.
“Dunno… Thought you wouldn’t get it. Graphic design, websites—”
“Try me!” Margaret bristled. “I’m not senile.”
“You’re not. Just…” Emily sighed. “The new boss hates me. Thinks my work’s ‘frivolous.’ Wants everything dull and corporate.”
“Prat,” Margaret said bluntly.
Emily snorted.
“Gran!”
“Well, he is! You’ve got talent. That poster you did at school—still have it. And your diploma.”
“You kept those?”
“‘Course! You’re my pride.”
Emily stirred her tea, quiet.
“Always thought I disappointed you. No proper career, no husband…”
“Good lord, you’re twenty-three! You’re bright, beautiful—”
“But the lads never stay. And you never like them.”
Margaret paused. True, she’d made her opinions clear—too flash, too tight-fisted, no manners.
“Suppose I do meddle,” she admitted. “Just want you to find someone decent.”
“Maybe I’m not ready yet. Sort work first, maybe get my own place…”
“Don’t rush out,” Margaret said quickly. “I like having you here.”
“Really? Thought I drove you mad—music too loud, mates over, mess everywhere…”
“Rubbish! House feels alive now. Before, it was just me and the telly.”
They drank tea, ate chocolates. Emily talked about work—logos, ad campaigns. Margaret listened, asked questions.
“Show me some of your designs,” she said suddenly.
Emily blinked. “You really want to see?”
“‘Course! My granddaughter’s work—why wouldn’t I?”
Emily fetched her laptop. Margaret gasped at the vibrant colours, the clever shapes.
“These are brilliant! And that twit of a boss doesn’t like them?”
“Says they’re not ‘serious’ enough.”
“Well, he’s got no soul! Don’t listen to him.”
Emily laughed. “You’re brilliant. Thought you wouldn’t ‘get’ modern design.”
“I know beauty when I see it. Stick to your guns.”
“Thanks, Gran. Means a lot.”
Margaret patted her hand.
“I just want you happy. And not to resent me for caring.”
“I don’t. Just stressed. Shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Water under the bridge.”
That evening, they watched telly, laughed at dreadful soap operas. Emily curled beside her, just like when she was small, and Margaret’s heart warmed.
Next morning, Emily was up early—scrambled eggs, toast, coffee piping hot.
“What’s all this?” Margaret blinked.
“Breakfast. For the best gran in the world.”
Margaret took a bite. “You can cook?”
“A bit. You taught me, remember? I just never bothered much.”
“Said you’d rather eat out than slave over a stove.”
“Was daft. Now I get it—home cooking’s love. Time, effort…”
Margaret’s eyes welled. “Oh, pet…”
“Don’t cry! Tell me your plans today. Fancy a walk?”
“What about work?”
“Work can wait. You’re more important.”
They fed ducks in the park, sat on a bench. Margaret spoke of her youth, of Emily’s grandfather.
“Did he really write poetry?” Emily asked.
“He did. Lovely ones. I’ve got his notebook.”
“Show me later? And tell me about Mum. What she was like as a kid.”
Margaret’s smile faded.
“She was sweet. Kind. Then… life happened.”
“You’re still angry with her?”
“Angry. And sad. The divorce broke her too—just couldn’t cope.”
“I pity her. And I’m ashamed,” Emily admitted. “You took me in, and she can’t even call.”
“She might, one day.”
“And if not?”
“Then we carry on. We’ve got each other.”
Emily hugged her. “I’ve got you. And I won’t snap over silly things again.”
As they walked home hand in hand, the golden afternoon light wrapping around them, Margaret realized that sometimes love wasn’t in grand gestures, but in shared quiet moments and second chances.
