Forgive me, Mum, but please dont come over just now, all right? my daughter said, quietly and rather offhand, as she laced up her trainers in the hallway. Thank you for everything, truly, but just now its best if you stay at home and get some rest.
My handbag was already in my grasp, coat buttoned up, ready as ever to go and watch over my granddaughter while my daughter dashed off to her yoga class. Everything had always run like clockwork I would arrive, take care of things, then make my way back to my snug bedsit. Today, however, something was amiss. I froze where I stood after her words.
What had gone wrong? Had I put the baby down wrongly? Chosen the wrong babygrow? Fed her at the wrong time? Or simply looked at her the wrong way?
No. In truth, it was far more trivial, and yet cut all the deeper.
It was to do with her in-laws. Well-to-do, highly respected, full of well-earned pride, they had decided, all of a sudden, to pop by daily to see their granddaughter. With grave faces, they would hand out wrapped gifts and ensconce themselves in the sitting room, at the table theyd bought themselves. Even this very flat was a generous gift from them to the young couple.
The furnishings, the tea all chosen or given by them. They brought along a tin of special Darjeeling and made themselves completely at home. Seemingly, my granddaughter now belonged to them as well. And I was no longer needed.
Me, former railway worker with three decades behind me, a simple woman, no titles or trinkets, no designer polish or fancy outfits.
Look at yourself, Mum, my daughter sighed. Youve put on weight, your hairs gone grey. You look untidy. Those jumpers just dreadful. And honestly, you smell like youve come straight off a train. Do you see?
I said nothing. What on earth could I say?
Once shed gone, I drifted to the mirror. Yes, reflected back was a woman with tired eyes, lines round her mouth, a bulky old jumper, and cheeks burning with embarrassment. Self-loathing swept over me like a sudden English shower. I stepped outside for air, but the tightness in my throat made me blink away tears. Bitter, shameful tears ran down my face.
At length, I returned to my tiny flat at the edge of town. I sat on the threadbare sofa and took out my ancient mobile, still holding so many memories. Here was my daughter such a slip of a thing, with a ribbon on her first day at school. The school-leaving ceremony, her degree, her wedding and there, my granddaughter, beaming from her little crib.
My whole life was in those photos. Everything Id lived for, all my strength spent. And now, hearing her say dont come round, well, perhaps thats the way of it. My time had passed. Id played my part. Now, best not to interfere. Not to be a burden. Not to tarnish their life with my worn-out appearance. If I was needed, they could always call. Perhaps they would.
Time rolled by. Then one afternoon, the phone rang.
Mum My daughters voice was small, strained. Could you come over? The nannys left, the in-laws well, theyre being utterly impossible. And Andrews out with his friends. Im alone here.
I was silent for a moment before replying, calm and even:
Im sorry, love. Truly. Right now, I cannot. I must tend to myself for a while. Become proper again as you put it. When I am perhaps Ill come.
I set the phone down and, for the first time in ages, smiled to myself. Sadly, perhaps, but with a growing sense of pride.
