**Laughter Through the Hurt**
Evelyn Whitmore set a bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat opposite her, watching as Emily poked at the thick broth with her spoon.
“Don’t like it?” Evelyn asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been grimacing with every spoonful for days.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered without looking up. “Just not very hungry.”
“Oh, not hungry?” Evelyn sighed. “I saw you rooting through the fridge yesterday, looking for something. Those frozen chicken pies I bought specially, was it?”
Emily pushed the bowl away and exhaled.
“Nana, don’t start. I said it’s fine. Just tired from work, that’s all.”
“Tired, she says.” Evelyn shook her head. “At your age, I used to tend the garden, hand-wash clothes, and iron after work. You sit at a computer all day—what’s there to be tired about?”
Emily shoved her chair back hard, the bowl clattering.
“God, Nana, enough already! Every single day it’s something—this food’s wrong, my job’s not real work, my boyfriends aren’t good enough. I’m sick of it!”
“Is that how you speak to your elders?” Evelyn shot back. “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 fell. Evelyn stood slowly, gathering the dishes. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“I see. So it’s all my fault. Taking you in after your parents’ divorce—wrong. Feeding you, looking after you—wrong too.”
“Nana, I didn’t mean—” Emily stumbled over her words.
“What *did* you mean?” Evelyn turned, and Emily saw the glint of tears in her grandmother’s eyes. “That I’m just a silly old woman getting in your way? Maybe you’re right. Youth and age don’t mix, I suppose.”
Emily opened her mouth, but Evelyn was already in the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the air. Unsure what to do, Emily lingered before retreating to her room.
Evelyn scrubbed the bowl, tears falling into the soapy water. The sting of hurt sat heavy in her chest. Was she really a burden? Had all her care been nothing but nagging?
She remembered three years ago when Emily arrived with one suitcase, eyes red from crying. Her parents were divorcing—her father had run off with his secretary, her mother drowned her sorrows in drink. Where else could a twenty-year-old girl go? Of course, she came to Nana. Evelyn had cleared out the best room, cooked her meals, done her washing—never asking for thanks.
And now? Was all that love just irritation to her?
“Evelyn!” A voice called from the hall. “Are you home?”
Evelyn wiped her face quickly. Mrs. Thompson from next door stood on the step, holding a small bag.
“Come in,” Evelyn said brightly. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Oh, no time. My granddaughter brought these from London—some posh chocolates. Thought I’d share.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn took the bag. “How long’s she staying?”
“Just the week. Work never lets her rest. But first thing she did? Came straight to me! Brought flowers, perfume even. Said, ‘Missed you, Nan!'” Mrs. Thompson beamed. “Proper proud, I am.”
Evelyn smiled, but inside, her heart ached. Mrs. Thompson’s granddaughter adored her. And hers? Nothing but complaints.
“How’s your Emily? Still at that job?”
“Oh, yes. Good girl, helps me with everything.”
“Course she does! Clever, pretty thing. You’re lucky.”
When Mrs. Thompson left, Evelyn leaned against the door, eyes closed. How it hurt to lie, to pretend. Once, she’d bragged about Emily—her bright girl, talented, top of her class.
“Nana, who was that?” Emily peeked out, face sheepish.
“Mrs. Thompson. Brought chocolates.”
“Fancy a brew? With those posh ones?” Emily edged closer. “I… wanted to apologize. Said stupid things.”
Evelyn silently put the kettle on. Emily laid out the chocolates on a plate.
“Pretty wrappers,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Thompson’s granddaughter brought them. *She* knows how to treat her nan.”
Emily flushed.
“Come on, Nana. I love you. It’s just… sometimes it feels like you’re picking on me. Over stupid stuff, like stew.”
“Picking?” Evelyn turned. “Or worrying? You’ve lost weight—look peaky. Thought you might be ill.”
“Not ill. Just work stress. Big project deadline.”
Evelyn poured the tea and sat.
“Why don’t you tell me things anymore? You used to—work, friends. Now? Silence.”
Emily twisted a chocolate in her fingers.
“Dunno… thought you’d find it boring. Computer stuff, graphic design—not your thing.”
“Try me!” Evelyn huffed. “Might surprise you.”
“Not boring just… different.” Emily hesitated. “Work’s rough. New boss—young, pushy. Hates me because I don’t suck up.”
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing’s ever right. Projects ‘unprofessional,’ deadlines ‘missed,’ clients ‘mishandled.’ Three years I worked fine before him!”
Evelyn listened. So *that’s* why her girl was so snappy—not her, but that awful man!
“Spoken to coworkers?”
“They say he’s like this with all the women. Thinks we ‘don’t belong in design.’”
“Pillock,” Evelyn muttered.
Emily snorted.
“Nana! Language!”
“Well, he is! My girl’s brilliant—who’s he to say otherwise? Remember those posters you made in school? Stunners!”
“You remember those?” Emily smiled.
“Course! Still got that first-place certificate.”
Emily blinked.
“Really? Why?”
“Why? You’re my pride and joy! Thought you knew.”
Emily stirred her tea, quiet.
“Always figured… you were disappointed. No steady man, dead-end job…”
“Good grief, Emily! You’re twenty-three! Bright, beautiful, working hard—what’s to disappoint?”
“But you hate my boyfriends.”
Evelyn paused. True, she’d voiced opinions—this one too flighty, that one tight-fisted.
“Suppose I meddle,” she admitted. “Just want you to find someone good. Who treasures you.”
“Maybe I’m not ready?” Emily met her eyes. “Sort work first, save for a place…”
“Maybe.” Evelyn nodded. “But don’t rush moving out. I like having you—keeps me young.”
“Really? Thought I annoyed you—loud telly, mates over, mess…”
“Rubbish! House feels alive now. Before? Just me and the telly—dreadful.”
They drank tea, ate chocolates. Emily talked about work, her boss, her designs—logos, adverts, website layouts.
“Show me some,” Evelyn said.
“Really?”
“Course! Proud of you, love.”
Emily fetched her laptop, displaying her work. Evelyn gasped—bold colors, sleek lines, clever ideas.
“My word! You *made* these?”
“Yep. That restaurant logo? Client adored it.”
“And that twit of a boss?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “Says it’s ‘unserious.’ Wants everything plain, corporate.”
“Plain? Why suck the joy out of things? Bet his soul’s dry as toast.”
Emily laughed.
“Didn’t think you’d ‘get’ modern design!”
“I don’t ‘get’ a lot. But talent? Beauty? I spot that. Ignore that fool—trust your gut.”
“Thanks, Nana. Means a lot.”
Evelyn patted her hand.
“Just want you happy. And don’t bristle at my fussing—it’s love, not nagging.”
“I know. Work’s got me wound tight. Taking it out on you isn’t fair.”
“We’ve talked now. Thought I’d driven you off.”
“Never! Just… bad at showing I care.”
That evening, they watched telly, giggling at the daft plots. Emily snuggled close, like she had as a child, and Evelyn felt warmth return after a long chill.
Next morning, Emily woke early—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh coffee laid out.
“What’s all this?” Evelyn blinked.
“Breakfast for the best nan ever. Sit!”
Evelyn tried a bite.
“Lovely! Never knew you could cook.”
“You taught me—just lazed about instead.”
“Always said you’d rather get takeaway than cook.”
“Silly me. Now I get it—home-cooked means love.”
Evelyn’s eyes wellAs they washed up together, laughing over burnt toast and spilled orange juice, Evelyn realized that sometimes love meant stepping back—and Emily understood that growing up didn’t mean growing apart.
