All my friends have young, pretty mums, but mine isn’t like that. She looks more like a grandma, and it really stings…
“Katie, Katie! Your grandma’s here for you!” Katie peered into the hallway and frowned—there by the wall stood her mum.
“Mum, why do you always have to come fetch me? I can walk home myself, you know. I’m not a little kid,” Katie muttered, glaring at her.
“Sweetheart, it’s dark out. It’s not safe for girls to walk alone at night,” her mum explained nervously.
“Mum, what night? It’s only seven! And we live practically next door… I’m nearly thirteen—I’m grown up!” Snatching up her bag, Katie stormed out of music school.
…Katie was born when her parents had almost given up hope. The first sign that Natasha was expecting caught her completely off guard—she and her husband, Nick, had been on their way to visit friends when she suddenly felt ill.
“Nick… I don’t feel well… Sick and weak. Maybe I ate something bad… I’ll just lie down. You go without me.” But of course, he didn’t.
She was bedridden for two days, trying home remedies—stomach cleanses, fasting, herbal teas—but nothing helped. By the third day, despite her weak protests, Nick called the doctor.
The medic listened carefully, tapped her back, checked her throat, took her temperature, and asked what seemed like odd, irrelevant questions. He even gave her a suspicious, almost amused look. She nearly snapped at him for being unprofessional—but she was too exhausted.
The next morning, on the doctor’s advice, they went to see a specialist. Nick waited nervously in the hallway, pacing back and forth. When Natasha came out, he was startled by her expression—first a trembling smile, then sudden tears as she handed him a slip of paper. He took it fearfully, bracing for bad news.
“Nick… Nicky… We’re having a baby,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. He held her tight, stunned, barely daring to believe it.
They were both 42. Natasha gave birth just before turning 43, making her the oldest mother in the maternity ward. The nurses whispered behind her back—”the late-bloomer from Room 8.”
But against all expectations, the birth went smoothly—easier than for many younger mums. The baby was big, healthy, and loud.
When Katie was little, she never noticed any difference between her mum and the other mums. A mum was just a mum. But as she grew older, the cruel truth found her in nursery.
“Mum, Katie’s mum’s really old—she’s gonna die soon, right? Old people die.”
Without thinking, Katie whacked the boy over the head with a plastic roly-poly toy. The lump was big, but the real drama came when his mum screeched at the staff.
“Having kids at their age! Should be collecting their pensions, not raising a child! And look how they’ve taught her—violent little brat! I’ll report this! Let social services deal with them!”
Katie got a stern talk at home, but from then on, she made sure to thump anyone who dared insult her parents. Still, the words stuck. Slowly, she began to feel ashamed of them.
School made it worse. Parent evenings were torture. She dreaded teachers addressing her grey-haired dad or her mum, who blushed at the slightest attention. So, she worked twice as hard—never gave them a reason to call her parents in.
Not that they weren’t wonderful. She loved them fiercely. But oh, how she wished her mum looked like Lisa’s—more like an older sister than a mum. Or her dad like Lenny’s, with his leather trousers and flashy car.
Instead, her parents were… unfashionable. Mum preferred books to heels. Dad adored his beat-up Land Rover and spent weekends tinkering in the garage, “perfecting” it. He read history books, talked politics, and made the best pickled cabbage.
Katie grew up, graduated with top marks, and became a dentist. Her dad jokingly called her “the commander of pearly-white smiles.”
Then one day, a young man walked into her clinic with a cracked tooth—he’d been gnawing nuts. Flustered by the pretty assistant, he barely spoke. But later, he waited for her outside work.
“Hello again, miracle worker! I found out when you finished—hope you don’t mind?” Tom, as he introduced himself, handed her roses.
They walked home together, talking like old friends. By the time they reached her door, neither wanted to leave.
A month later, he proposed. His parents—a nursery teacher and an engineer—were lovely. But then came the moment she’d feared all her life: introducing Tom to her parents.
“Mum, Dad… I’ve got news. I’m getting married. He’s coming for Sunday lunch—is that alright?”
“Katie, you never mentioned a fiancé! And you’re so young—”
“Natasha, love, she’s 24—just like you were when we married. Of course, bring him, Katie!” Dad hugged her.
When Sunday came, they brought cake, wine, and flowers. Mum fussed over the bouquet but softened when Tom kissed her hand. The evening was perfect—until Dad dragged Tom to the kitchen for a “man’s talk,” leaving the women to fret.
That night, Katie barely slept, certain Tom would think her parents too old, too odd. But the next evening, he set her straight.
“Your mum’s stunning—now I see where you get it. And your dad? Brilliant man. Arguing with him was the best fun I’ve had in years. Katie, you should be proud.”
She went home, stood in the doorway, and watched her mum reading by the lamp, her dad frowning at the telly. The guilt hit like a punch.
“Mum… Dad… I’m sorry. I love you—so much.” She burst into tears.
They panicked, thinking her ill. She blamed wedding nerves, never confessing the real reason. But that night, she learned something priceless—when the families met, she’d say with pride: “These are my parents.”
…The lesson? There’ll always be someone prettier, smarter, richer, younger. But fretting over it is pointless—especially with parents. After all, you don’t choose them.
