I never thought there were secrets between my mother and me. Well, almost never.
We always talked about everything: my childhood terrors, the thrill of minor trophies, the aching crack in my heart at sixteen.
When I married, our thread of trust felt unbrokenif anything, it grew stronger.
Mum liked my husband. Shed say Thomas was the real deal. When our little Charlotte arrived, she glowed. She brought round potatoes and rhubarb from her allotment, turned up with bagfuls of rompers, and cooed over her granddaughter.
I remember saying to Thomas:
See? Were blessed with the worlds best mum. Hed grin and nod.
And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, I discovered that this worlds best mum had been nursing a silent bomb, a mass of simmering let-down and bitterness. It shocked me.
It was autumn. Mum arrived, as usual, boot crammed with homegrown bountycarrots, parsley, Bramleys, pickled onions in old jam jars.
Why the mountain? I sighed, unloading the riches. Its just me and Charlotte, and Thomas is away on-site.
Pass them on to your neighbours or friends, said Mum, kissing the crown of Charlottes head. Only the finest for my granddaughter!
I slipped into the kitchen to put the kettle on, while Mum whisked Charlotte off to settle her for a nap.
Ten minutes later, I went to check on them and, pausing in the hallway, I froze. From the living room, Mums voice drifted out, low and trembling andoddly unfamiliar.
Im not really complaining, Jill, but it breaks my heart. How do they live like this? Hes always away, earns pennies. And her She just sits. Can you believe it? Daughters nearly two, she ought to be in nursery by now, and off to work. But shes here, fussing, Charlottes too little, shes not ready. Lazy! All of them, hanging round my neck, swinging their feet. What? Of course I help. I buy the clothes, bring the food. They dont say nogotten used to it. I get it. But honestly, its a dead end! And loveif only there were love But Thomas, hes changed. Cold, pays her no mind. She doesnt say, never complains, but its so plain
My ears rang. The floor seemed to give. I stood propped against the chilly wall, letting my mothers words grind my life into a grey, pulpy mush.
Pennies. Hanging round my neck. Cold. Each word lashed like a whip. I stared at my hands for no reasonhands that cuddled, fed, and soothed Charlotte, made meals, swept crumbs, pressed cotton, shaped elephants and horses from play-doughmy lazy hands.
But the poisonous stream from the sitting room didnt stop. Mum went on about her suspicionshow Id let myself go, lost my spark. At last, I couldnt bear it. I tiptoed away like a thief, shut myself in the bedroom, curled up, head in hands. Charlottes little breaths, steady in her cot, grounded me in a suddenly upside-down world.
What to do? Burst in, rage, weep? Throw her out? Inside, I was frozen: a deaf, icy void. So I did what two years of motherhood had taught meengaged autopilot: wiped my face, breathed deep, exhaled, steadied myself, and found my way to the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Mums chat ended. She came in bright-eyed, as if shed shrugged off a boulder.
Oh, forgive me, I got lost in natter with Jill! she said, sitting down. Charlotte nodded right off putting her dolly to bed. Oh, and the teas gone stone-cold
I made her a fresh brew. My hand was steady.
What did you two talk about for nearly forty minutes? I asked. Something up?
Mum perked up, eyes shining. That sparkle Id once taken for genuine warmth.
Would you believe, Jills daughter-in-lawthats Maisieshe wants a new car! Jill complains her son spends every penny on her; didnt even remember his own mother at Christmas. Kids these days, honestly
There was the syrupy empathy, the righteous outrage shed just lavished on me.
I nearly choked on the falseness.
Why do you gossip like that? I asked, quieter than I’d planned. Why make someones daughter-in-law your business? She might have a hundred things going on you dont know about.
Mums face switched in a flashfrom glowing to wounded to imperious.
What gossip? she said frostily. Shes my friend. Im supposed to support and listen. You know nothing about close relationships.
The irony felt lethal. Close relationships
I looked at herand for the first time saw not Mum, but some other woman. A woman who needs the drama to feel alive. Maybe a woman whod stockpiled resentment for my less-than-perfect life. That I refused to play the part she scripted for me.
And all that help! Those endless potatoes and ill-chosen jumpers! Not love but a down-payment, cashing in for the right to judge. I help, so I get to say.
I wanted to tell her all this, but bit my tongue. She seemed to realise shed been rumbled, anyway. She left, slamming the door, all affronted. I sat in the hush of my flat. Emptiness trembled into anger, then grief, then a strange, tender realisation.
I remembered her younger days. How shed scraped through alone after Dad left. How proud she was landing that office job. How she dreaded what would people say?
Shed built her world on striving for respect, for the look of success. My little familyhumble, brimming with warmth rather than cash, my choice to be present for Charlotte instead of chasing promotionswas a silent rebuke. A sign of failure. She couldnt wrap her pride in it for Aunt Irene or Jill. She wanted a story of triumph; I handed her a true, simple life
The next morning: Sorry if I upset you. You know I love you. The standard phrase. Before, Id have rushed to fix things. NowI put down the phone and didnt answer. The sequel I perhaps longed for came, in a strange way, a week later.
That same JillMums friend Mrs. Whitepopped round. Said she had errands in the neighbourhood. It was plain she was a dispatched peace envoy.
We drank tea, played with Charlotte. Watching my daughter stack rings, Mrs. White sighed:
Its lovely here Quiet. Homey. Not the dead end I’d been led to expect.
I didnt reply. She gazed at the window.
My son and his wife are successful, yes. Mortgages, car loans, always running. I see my grandson once in a blue moon. But you youre here. Living. You know, your mum shes scared.
Of what? I blurted.
That you dont need her. That all shes survivedher battlesmeans nothing to you. You chose a different path, and it unsettles her. It’s easier to poke holes in your life than admit you might, in fact, be happy. And those blasted spuds theyre her one frail bridge to being part-judge, not just spectator, of your world.
As I listened, I sawnot an enemy, but another tangled soul. Maybe she too was tired of feeding on my mothers little dramas.
Why are you telling me this? I whispered.
So you dont harden your heart. Your mums just lost. Be gentle. But set your boundaries. Firmly.
Mrs. White left. I realised the truth: her reality is hers. Mine is my own.
Mine is Thomas, returning from off-site, scooping us up and whispering, Missed you so much.
Its our modest flat, the mortgage we steadily pay without anyone elses hand. Its my right to choose when to work, whether to hand Charlotte over to nursery before Im ready. My right to livewithout peering over my shoulder for approval.
There were no drawn-out confrontations. I began, gently but firmly, to build new boundaries. I stopped sharing details Mum could twist against me.
At her jabs (Everyones gone back to work, you know!), Id reply calmly:
Dont worryweve thought it through, Thomas and I.
At offers for another heap of unneeded things, Id say, Thank you, but what about picking just one lovely puzzle and giving it to Charlotte when you see her?
I nudged her out of patron judge role and into simply being Nana. It isnt simple. Sometimes Mum sulks, pushes back.
But now and againvery rarelywhen were both dusted with flour, baking with Charlotte, I catch a glimpse. In Mums eyes, for a fleeting second, I see not a judge but simply a granny, glowing at her granddaughter.
Maybe this tiny bridgebuilt of flour, sugar, and a little girls laughtermight just save us.
***
That lessons gone bone-deep:
The worst wounds arent inflicted by enemies. Theyre cut by those from whom we expect shelter. And the vital thing, after such a wound, is not to harden, but to wrap yourself in truth: You are not the drawing somebody sketched in their head. You are a living, real person, with a right to an honestif imperfectlife.
***
When I told Thomas everything, he just pulled me close and said,
Right. Lets book a holiday next month. Charlotte deserves to see the seareal sea!
And in his eyes I found the little we supposedly lacked. An entire ocean.
