But Now It’s Your Turn to Watch the Little One, Grandma!

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

And youll have to look after the little one, youre a grandmother, after all.

Lucy, are you sure this is the right moment for a baby?

Emma set her tea down and stared at her daughter, who had taken a seat opposite her with the look of someone already expecting bad news.

Mum, weve been over this before.
Exactly why we keep talking about it. You and Simon have only been married a year. Hes just starting to move up the ladder at his firm, while youre still stuck as a senior analyst, not even a manager yet. Youre just getting the ends to meet. And now you want a baby

Barb rolled her eyes a gesture Emma recognised from her teenage years. Back then it meant leave me alone, now it seemed more like what do you know?.

Everythings fine, Mum. Simons earning well. Well manage. And besides, remember that old rhyme about the bunny and the meadow?
Yes, Ive heard the meadow stories, but a child isnt a plush bunny you can put on a shelf when youre bored. Earning well only matters if you have a safety net. Well also means you dont have to wonder where youll get money for nappies and formula if the company does a layoff.

Barb shrugged and turned toward the window, signalling the conversation was over. Emma knew this tactic her daughter treated silence as a victory. She sighed. Twentyfive years old, a grown woman, still taking every piece of advice as a personal insult.

Lucy, Im not trying to control you youre an adult. Im just saying, think about it. A year or two wont change anything, but a bit of stability would help.
I know exactly when I want to have a baby.

The certainty in those words was so sharp Emma simply shook her head. Pushing further was pointless. Shed learned enough to know sometimes people have to learn their own lessons, especially when those people are your own children.

Exactly nine months later Barb called from the hospital.

Mum, its a girl! Two point five kilograms, fiftytwo centimetres! Shes gorgeous, you cant imagine!

Barbs voice rang with joy, and Emma didnt bring up that conversation from a year ago. Why? The baby was already born, healthy and welcome. Everything else was just detail that would sort itself out with time.

Or maybe not.

Emma visited them every week, bringing fruit or a readymade casserole Barb could barely find time to shower, let alone stand at the stove in the early weeks. Emma helped, but kept her distance: no unsolicited advice, no comment when they put the baby down for a nap at seven or ten oclock, no frown when Barb opted for pricey organic formula instead of the supermarket brand.

A neighbours house can feel like a foreign land, even when its your own daughters.

The little Molly cooed, learned to grasp her rattles with chubby fingers. Emma watched her and felt that odd sensation of loving someone so deeply while knowing youre just a guest a welcomed, pleasant guest, but still a guest.

Barb blossomed in motherhood. She lost a few pounds, thanks to sleepless nights and constant running about. Dark circles lingered under her eyes, but she smiled the way she hadnt since schoolgirl days. Emma was genuinely happy for her.

Then, six months after Mollys birth, Barb turned up at Emmas flat with a look that said, We need to talk, and it wont be pleasant.

Mum, weve got a problem.

Emma sat her down in the kitchen, switched the kettle on. Barb crossed her fingers and stared at the table.

Were short of money. Completely.
On what?
Everything. Bills, nappies, formula, groceries. You know how pricey everything is now!

Emma knew. Shed tried to explain the basics of budgeting to Lucy a year earlier, to no avail.

Simon got a promotion?
He did, but it still isnt enough. I need to start working again, Mum. We cant stretch this longer.
Makes sense.
The only problem is, theres nowhere to put Molly. The local crèche wont take children under eighteen months, and Ive called every nursery in the area. A nanny Barb forced a weak smile. A nanny costs so much I might as well stop working altogether.

Emma stayed quiet, already seeing where this was heading, a feeling tightening inside her.

Mum, could you look after Molly for a bit? While Im at work?
Lucy, Im working.
But you could quit or take leave. Youve got unused days, havent you?

Emma shook her head slowly. Barbs eyes were filled with such hope that Emma felt almost sorry for crushing it. Almost.

No, Lucy. Im not quitting my job to look after your child.
Why not? Shes my granddaughter!

Lucys tone turned demanding, almost childlike, like a fiveyearold in a shop when the dolls price tag is out of reach.

Because I have a life of my own. A job, plans.
What plans, Mum? Youre fiftyfive!

Emma didnt flinch. Shed long accepted that to Lucy, Mum belonged to a category of people who, by definition, shouldnt have personal ambitions.

Thats why Im not going to spend my remaining years changing nappies.

Barb pushed her cup so hard the tea splashed onto the tablecloth.

Youre selfish.
Possibly.
Youre a terrible mother!
And thats possible too.

Emma saw tears welling in Lucys eyes whether from anger, hurt, or a mix of everything. Barb never liked to lose. As a child shed slam checkers against the wall if she was losing.

The next few weeks turned into an endless loop of the same accusations: Youre a bad mother. Youre a bad grandmother. How could you? Im your daughter. Mollys your granddaughter.

One day Emma finally snapped.

Tell me exactly what Ive done wrong. Why have I suddenly become the bad one?

Barb froze midsentence, clearly not expecting that turn.

You wont help!
Thats not a fault, its my choice. And when you were growing up, what was I doing wrong?
You you Barb choked. You were always at work!
I was at work because I fed you, clothed you. Remember your childhood? Remember how you got a place at the best nursery in town? How you wore the Childrens World dresses while other girls were still in handmedowns?

Barb fell silent.

Remember university? The private one, mind you. I slaved for five years so you could have a decent degree.
Mum
Remember the twobedroom flat I gave you for your wedding? In a decent area? And the car?

Barbs cheeks flushed, half from shame, half from anger Emma couldnt tell which.

Thats another story.
No, it isnt. As a mother I did everything I could, maybe even more than I should have. And now, when I truly need help, you turn me away!

Emma took a deep breath.

Lucy, I warned you a year ago. I said, Hold on until youre on your feet. You replied you knew when you wanted a baby. That was your decision.
And now? Youre punishing me?
No. I just wont sacrifice my life for it.

Barb sprang from her seat, tears brimming, lips trembling as she tried not to sob.

Ill never forget how you behaved!
Maybe. Or maybe, one day, youll understand when youre a grandmother yourself.

Lucy left without a goodbye.

Two months of silence followed. Emma called Barb let the calls go to voicemail. Texts went unread. Emma only saw Molly in the occasional photo on social media, because Barb, oddly enough, never blocked her.

Emma flipped through those pictures in the evenings. Little Molly learning to sit, then to crawl, flashing a grin at the camera, reaching for toys. Growing up without her.

Was it painful? Absolutely. But Emma didnt regret her choice. She reflected on how quickly people get used to comfort, how swiftly requests morph into demands.

Barb had always been that way taking, receiving, demanding. While Emma gave, everything was fine. The moment she said no, Mum turned into a monster.

Time will tell if Lucy finally grasps responsibility for her own choices, perhaps by her thirties. Until then, Emma kept living: working, meeting friends, planning a summer break, and waiting. Patiently, without rancour, without a desire for revenge.

Just waiting for her daughter to outgrow that childish selfishness. Shed always been patient.

I Told My Husband to Invite His Mum Over for Dinner—Little Did I Know I’d Leave My Home That Very Night I’ve Never Been the Type to Make a Scene—Even When I Wanted to Scream, I Bit My Tongue; Even When I Was Hurting, I Smiled; Even When Something Felt Off, I Told Myself “Just Let It Go… No Point in Arguing.” Well, That Night, There Was No Letting Go. And the Truth Is, If I Hadn’t Overheard One Casual Comment, I Might Have Lived That Same Lie for Years More. It All Began With a Simple Idea—Just Dinner. Not a Celebration, Not an Occasion, Not a Grand Gesture. Just a Table, Home-Cooked Food, an Attempt to Gather the Family. I Wanted It Calm. I Wanted Conversation. Smiles. Something That Looked Normal. For Ages, I’d Felt Tension Between Me and His Mother—Like a Tightened Wire. She Never Flat-Out Said She Didn’t Like Me. No, She Was Smarter. More Subtle. Slipperier. She’d Say Things Like: “Oh, You’re Just… Different.” “I Can’t Get Used to These Modern Women.” “You Young People Think You Know Everything.” Always With That Smile—A Smile That Cut, Not Greeted. But I Thought If I Just Tried Harder—If I Was Sweeter, Politer, More Patient… Maybe Things Would Work. He Came Home Tired. Dropped His Keys, Started Undressing Before He Was Even Through the Hall. “How Was Your Day?” I Asked. “The Same. Chaos.” His Voice Was Flat. It Had Been That Way Lately. “I Was Thinking… We Should Invite Your Mum for Dinner This Saturday.” He Stopped. Gave Me a Strange Look—Like He Didn’t Expect Me to Say That. “Why?” “So We’re Not Always… Distant. I Want to Try. She’s Still Your Mum, After All.” He Laughed. Not Friendly—That Laugh That Says, “You Just Don’t Get It.” “You’re Crazy.” “I’m Not Crazy. I Just Want Things Normal.” “It’ll Never Be Normal.” “At Least Let’s Try.” He Sighed Like I Was Piling More Weight on Him. “Fine. Invite Her. Just… Don’t Make a Fuss.” That Last Bit Stung. Because I Never Made a Fuss—I Swallowed It. But I Kept Quiet. Saturday Came. I Cooked as If for an Exam—Choosing Dishes I Knew She Liked. Set the Table Nicely. Lit Candles I’d Saved for Special Occasions. Dressed Smartly, but Not Over the Top—Just Respectful. He Was Nervous All Day. Pacing, Checking the Fridge, Staring at the Clock. “Relax,” I Said. “It’s Dinner, Not a Funeral.” He Looked at Me Like I’d Said the Dumbest Thing Ever. “You Have No Idea.” She Arrived Right on the Dot. Not a Minute Early, Not a Minute Late. When She Rang, He Tensed Like a Wire—Straightened His Shirt, Glanced at Me. I Opened the Door. She Wore a Long Coat and the Confidence of a Woman Certain the World Owes Her. She Scanned Me, Head to Toe, Paused at My Face, and Smiled—not With Her Mouth, With Her Eyes. “Well, Hello,” She Said. “Please Come In,” I Replied. “Glad You Could Make It.” She Entered Like an Inspector Arriving for an Audit—Scanned the Hall, the Lounge, the Kitchen, and Me Again. “It’s Nice,” She Said. “For a Flat.” I Pretended Not to Hear That Little Jab. We Sat. I Poured Wine. Served Salad. Tried to Make Conversation—How Are You, Anything New? She Answered Short, Sharp, Prickly. Then She Began. “You’re Very Thin,” She Said, Eyeing Me. “That’s Not Good for a Woman.” “I’ve Always Been Like This,” I Smiled. “No, No. That’s Nerves. When a Woman’s Nervous, She Gets Either Fat or Thin. And a Nervous Woman in the Home… Isn’t Good.” He Said Nothing. I Looked at Him, Hoping He’d Step In. Nothing. “Eat Up, Dear. Don’t Be a Fairy,” She Prodded. I Took Another Bite. “Mum, Stop,” He Mumurmured—But It Was “Stop” for the Sake of Protocol, Not Protection. I Served the Main Course. She Tasted, Nodded. “It’ll Do. Not My Cooking, but… It’ll Do.” I Laughed Gently, Trying to Ease the Tension. “Glad You Like It.” She Sipped Her Wine and Peered Into My Eyes. “Do You Honestly Think Love Is Enough?” Her Question Threw Me. “Sorry?” “Love. Do You Believe It’s Enough? Enough to Make a Family?” He Shifted in His Seat. “Mum…” “I’m Asking Her. Love Is Lovely, but It’s Not Everything. There’s Reason, There’s Interest, There’s… Balance.” I Felt the Air Grow Heavy. “I Understand,” I Said. “But We Love Each Other. We Manage.” She Smiled Slowly. “Do You?” Then She Turned to Him: “Tell Her You’re Managing.” He Choked Slightly on His Food. Coughed. “We’re Managing,” He Said Quietly. But His Voice Sounded Hollow—Like He Was Speaking a Lie. I Stared at Him. “Is Something Wrong?” I Asked, Carefully. He Waved It Off. “Nothing. Eat.” She Wiped Her Mouth, Continued: “I Don’t Mind You. You’re Not Bad. But… There Are Women for Love, and Women for Family.” And I Understood—This Wasn’t Dinner. It Was an Interrogation—a Contest Over Whether I Was ‘Deserving.’ Only I Didn’t Know I Was Competing. “So What Am I Then?” I Asked—Not Aggressive, Just Clear, Calm. She Leaned Forward. “You’re a Woman Who’s Convenient So Long as She’s Quiet.” I Looked at Her. “And If She’s Not Quiet?” “Then She’s a Problem.” Silence Fell. Candlelight Flickered. He Stared at His Plate as if Seeking Salvation. “You Think That?” I Turned to Him. “That I’m a Problem?” He Sighed. “Please, Don’t Start.” That “Don’t Start” Was a Slap. “I’m Not Starting. I’m Asking.” He Got Edgy. “What Do You Want Me to Say?” “The Truth.” She Smiled. “Truth Isn’t Always for the Table.” “No,” I Said, “That’s Exactly Where the Truth Belongs. Because Here, Everything Shows.” I Looked Him Dead in the Eyes. “Tell Me—Do You Really Want This Family?” He Went Silent. And That Silence Was an Answer. I Felt Something Unravel Inside Me—Like a Knot That Finally, Finally Gives Way. She Chimed In Softly, Playing the ‘Sympathetic’ Card. “Listen, I’m Not Trying to Break You Up. But the Fact Is, a Man Needs Peace. The Home Should Be a Harbor—Not an Arena of Tension.” “Tension?” I Echoed. “What Tension?” She Shrugged. “Well… You. You Bring Tension. You’re Always On Edge. Always Wanting Conversation. Explanations. That Kills Things.” I Turned to Him Again: “You Told Her That?” He Blushed. “I… Shared a Bit. Mum’s the Only One I Can Talk To.” Then I Heard the Worst Part. Not That He Spoke—But That He Made Me Out as the Problem. I Swallowed. “So You’re the ‘Poor Guy’ and I’m the ‘Tension.’” “Don’t Twist It…” He Said. She Jumped In Firmly Now: “My Husband Used to Say—If a Woman’s Smart, She Knows When to Step Back.” “To Step Back…,” I Repeated. And At That Moment She Said the Line That Froze Me: “Well, This Flat Belongs to Him, Anyway. Doesn’t It?” I Looked at Her. Then Him. And Time Stopped. “What Did You Say?” I Asked Quietly. She Smiled Sweetly, As if We Were Talking About the Weather. “Well… The Flat. He Bought It. It’s His. That Matters.” My Breathing Changed. “Did You… Tell Her the Flat Is Only Yours?” He Flinched. “I Didn’t Say It Like That.” “How Did You Say It?” He Grew Agitated. “What Does It Matter?” “It Matters.” “Why?” “Because I Live Here. I Put In Here. I Built This Home. And You Told Your Mother It’s Yours, Like I’m Just a Guest?” She Leaned Back, Satisfied. “Oh, Don’t Be Angry. That’s How Things Are. What’s Yours Is Yours, What’s His Is His. A Man Needs to Be Protected. Women… Come and Go.” That Was the Moment I Stopped Being a Wife at Dinner—I Became Someone Facing the Truth. “So That’s How You See Me?” I Asked, “A Woman Who Can Just Leave?” He Shook His Head. “Don’t Be Dramatic.” “This Isn’t Drama. This Is Clarity.” He Stood Up. “Alright, Enough! You Always Make Something Out of Nothing!” “Nothing?” I Laughed. “Your Mum Told Me to My Face I’m Temporary. And You Let Her.” She Rose Slowly, Feigning Offence. “I Didn’t Say That.” “Oh, You Did. With Your Words. With Your Tone. With Your Smile.” He Looked from His Mum to Me. “Please… Just Calm Down.” Calm Down. Always That. When I Was Humiliated—Calm Down. When I Was Diminished—Calm Down. When I Saw Clearly That I Was Alone—Calm Down. I Stood Up. My Voice Was Quiet, But Firm. “Alright. I’ll Calm Down.” I Went to the Bedroom and Closed the Door. Sat on the Bed and Listened to the Silence. Muffled Voices. His Mum Speaking as Though She’d Won. Then I Heard the Worst: “See—She’s Unstable. She’s Not Wife Material.” He Didn’t Stop Her. And At That Exact Moment Something Shattered—Not My Heart, My Hope. I Got Up. Opened the Wardrobe. Grabbed a Bag. Packed Only What I Needed, Calmly, No Drama. My Hands Shook, but My Movements Were Precise. When I Walked Back Into the Lounge, They Fell Quiet. He Looked at Me Like He Had No Idea What Was Happening. “What Are You Doing?” “I’m Leaving.” “You… What? Where Will You Go?” “Somewhere I’m Not Called a Problem.” She Smiled. “Well, If That’s Your Decision…” I Looked at Her—and for the First Time, I Wasn’t Afraid. “Don’t Celebrate Too Soon. I’m Not Leaving Because I Lost. I’m Leaving Because I Refuse to Play This Game.” He Stepped Toward Me. “Come on, Don’t…” “Don’t Touch Me. Not Now.” My Voice Was Cold. “We’ll Talk Calmly Tomorrow.” “No. We Already Talked—Tonight. At the Table. And You Made Your Choice.” He Turned Pale. “I Didn’t Choose.” “You Did. When You Stayed Silent.” I Opened the Door. Then He Said: “This Is My Home.” I Turned. “That’s Exactly the Problem. You Use It Like a Weapon.” He Fell Silent. I Stepped Out. Outside Was Cold. But I’d Never Breathed So Freely. I Walked Down the Steps, Thinking: Not Every House Is a Home. Sometimes It’s Just the Place Where You’ve Endured Too Much for Too Long. And That’s When I Realized: The Greatest Victory for a Woman Isn’t Being Chosen—it’s Choosing Herself. ❓ What Would You Have Done in My Place—Would You Have Stayed and Fought for This ‘Family,’ or Walked Away That Very Night?

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