I’ve Done My Share — You might as well have sent him to a kennel, like a kitten. Why not? Pay someone and off you go—enjoy your freedom! — Galina Petrovna sneered with toxic sarcasm. Maria, lips pursed in irritation, yanked the zipper on her suitcase. Useless—it stuck, just like her mother-in-law’s broken-record speech every time they planned a holiday. — Mum, stop it, — Maria’s husband, Andrew, tried to settle his mother. — Timmy’s going on holiday too—just to the countryside. Not to strangers, but to my in-laws. Fresh air, a veggie patch, paddling pool, and fresh milk every day. It’s perfect at his age. — That’s not a holiday, it’s exile! — Galina Petrovna clapped her hands in outrage. — The child’s three! At that age, he needs his parents! And what about you? Off to London for museums! Like your son doesn’t need museums or any cultural development? Maria wrestled the suitcase zipper into place, straightened up, and glared at her mother-in-law. — Not right now, he doesn’t, — she replied icily. — What he needs is routine, an afternoon nap, and a potty within reach. Not a nine-hour flight with a layover, jet lag, and city tours. When’s the last time you, Galina Petrovna, took your grandson for a simple walk in the park? — I’ve done my share with my son! — her mother-in-law huffed, nose in the air. — Took him everywhere. And I made it through. You just want things easy for yourselves. It’s about thinking of others, not just yourself. — Exactly! — Maria nearly shouted. — Others! Like everyone on that plane listening to your grandson scream for two hours. Or the tour group trying to hear the guide over “I’m tired, I’m thirsty, I need a wee, my feet hurt, when are we going home?” A holiday with a three-year-old isn’t a holiday, Mrs Petrovna. It’s torture. For Timmy too. Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together and turned away. — I see. Done with the parenting game. Just want to palm him off. Why not just admit you don’t need your son anymore… If you wanted, you could always fit around your child. Maria shut her eyes, counting to a hundred in her head to calm herself. If only Galina Petrovna knew the hell they’d been through on their last trip, maybe she’d mind her tongue. But how would she, when she was hardly involved in her grandson’s life? Maria remembered it all too well. Her left eyelid had twitched for a month after that trip. …It was last summer. Naive as they were, they’d decided to visit friends in the country. Only sixty miles away. Their friends had a daughter, a playground, a huge garden. Sounded promising. But nothing went to plan. The car wouldn’t start—despite their friends marinating barbecue and waiting for them. They had to scramble for train tickets. And the weather betrayed them—a heatwave of 35°C. No working air con in their carriage, windows open but useless. Packed tighter than sardines—no space to breathe. Timmy lasted just ten minutes before whining. Complained about the heat, the boredom. Then tried to run about the train. — Let me go! — he shrieked while Andrew, red from exertion and embarrassment, tried to hold him still. — Timmy, love, you can’t. People are sitting there, — Andrew hissed. — I don’t want to sit! Aaaah! Timmy’s screams drowned out the clattering wheels. People started staring—first with pity, then with annoyance, and soon with outright loathing. A woman in a white blouse scolded them, and in righteous fury, Timmy wielded his juice box. It splashed on Andrew, Maria, and her. The scandal was epic. The woman raged louder than Timmy. Maria, near tears, apologized and tried to offer money. Timmy bellowed because he’d lost his juice. Andrew gritted his teeth. Ninety minutes in hell. By the time they reached the platform, they had no energy left for holidaying at all. Timmy, traumatized, skipped his nap, misbehaved all evening, nearly knocked over the grill. Getting home was a repeat performance. And that was just an hour and a half of travel. Galina Petrovna wanted to drag a child around on city tours for a week? No, thanks. That’s torture for everyone. — You’re just not raising him properly! — his grandmother loved to declare whenever Maria brought up arguments. Except Galina Petrovna was a Sunday-grandparent: a theoretical expert, she’d drop by fortnightly with bananas or chocolates (to which Timmy was allergic—she’d been told a hundred times), dote for twenty minutes, snap a picture “for Facebook,” and leave. — Why does it even matter to you who Timmy stays with? — Maria once asked during a similar row. — It’s not like he’s staying with you. — Well, I’m not obliged, am I? He’s got parents, let them look after him. If you were in hospital or had work, I’d help. But this… You just treat him like an unwanted pet no one wants to take. They tolerated the bickering, but it slowly wore away at them. Galina Petrovna was concrete-certain of her rightness and refused to hear reason. But life is the best teacher. Four years zipped by. Timmy turned seven. Talking in full sentences, off to school, after-school clubs—the works. Galina Petrovna’s life had changed for the gloomier: widowed, her flat grew silent. Perhaps to fill the emptiness, or to prove herself to the world (or especially her in-laws), she decided on a display of unexpected generosity. — Bring the boy to me, — she announced magnanimously. — He’s not a baby anymore, we’ll get along. — Are you sure? — Maria asked cautiously. — Timmy’s active, needs lots of attention. Or at least a computer. — Don’t try to teach your grandmother! — his grandmother snorted. — I raised a son, I can handle this. We’ll read books, play ludo, manage fine without computers. Bring him! With fingers crossed, they packed Timmy off—for two whole weeks! And off they went for a weekend break, feeling that time was short. Maria’s intuition didn’t fail her. Grandma imagined idyll—her neat, brushed grandson poring over an animal encyclopedia while she calmly knitted socks, offering occasional pearls of wisdom. Later, soup, then a dignified stroll, hand-in-hand. That dream shattered within half an hour of their departure. — Gran, I’m bored! — Timmy declared. — Have you got a tablet? — No. Why would I? — Then let’s play zombie apocalypse. You be the zombie, I’ll be the survivor! — What apocalypse? — Galina Petrovna was bewildered. — Timmy, why don’t you draw? Here, I bought a colouring book. — Don’t want to, that’s for babies! — Timmy began circling the sofa. — Let’s play! Please, graaaan! Play with me! Look at me! Look! LOOK! You’re not looking! He didn’t still for a second. Pretended to be a plane, banged saucepan lids, dragged Grandma into his wild games. He cared for neither Chekhov’s stories nor the box of old Lego. He wanted an audience, a playmate, an entertainer in one. Every three minutes: “Gran, why…?”, “Gran, let’s…?”, “Gran, look!” Galina Petrovna, used to a peaceful pace, by lunchtime felt as if she’d unloaded a train carriage full of coal. But that was the easy bit. The real fun began at lunch. Galina Petrovna proudly served beef soup—a treat she’d made just for Timmy. He peered into the bowl like it held garbage, wrinkled his nose. — I’m not eating that. — And why not? — It’s got boiled onion. Don’t like it. — What?! — Gran was indignant. — It’s healthy! Eat up, and stop fussing! — I won’t! — Then what will you eat? — Pasta with cheese. And a sausage—cut into an octopus, please. His gran’s eyebrows shot up. That she couldn’t do. — I’m not a flipping restaurant! — she replied. Timmy shrugged and went off to build a den with chairs, cushions, and the standard lamp. By evening, Gran’s blood pressure was like a rollercoaster. She couldn’t rest—Timmy would leap on her, bouncing and shrieking, “Get up, the enemy’s advancing!” She couldn’t watch the news—he demanded cartoons because “It’s boring!” And cartoons just wound him up more, not less. Meanwhile, Andrew and Maria had a lovely evening—watching the sunset from their cottage veranda, listening to the peaceful crackle of the barbecue. — Listen to that… silence, — Maria sighed contentedly, eyes closed. — Maybe we were too harsh on your mum? Just then, Andrew’s phone rang. — Hello, Mum? — Come home at once! — Galina Petrovna screamed. — Fetch your son this instant! — Mum, what’s happening? Is everything alright? — It’s a nightmare! Your son’s impossible! He’s destroyed half my flat, won’t eat proper food, bounces on me like a kangaroo! My heart’s about to give out! If you’re not here in an hour, I’m calling 999—they can take both of us away! I can’t take it! I’m waiting! She hung up. Maria put her glass down, her wine unfinished, barbecue ungrilled. — Pack up, — Andrew said morosely. — Our break’s over… They drove in silence, bitter and close to tears: she had insisted on this, now she was throwing a tantrum. At the door, Galina Petrovna opened up instantly. She was pale and smelled strongly of heart medicine. She looked fresh out of a warzone. Timmy, however, ran to his parents bright-eyed and beaming. — Thank heavens, — his gran sighed, pushing her grandson out. — Take him. And never ask me again! What have you raised? He’s not a child, he’s a monster! Onions aren’t right, everything’s boring, he has to bounce on poor grandma! — He’s just a child, Mum, — Andrew replied coolly, taking Timmy’s hand. — A normal, energetic kid. We warned you. You said you could handle it. — I thought he was normal! But he… He needs a doctor! — Galina Petrovna clutched her heart. — Go. I need to lie down or I’ll drop dead. …Back in the car, Timmy, settling in, asked: — Mum, when are we visiting Granddad John and Granny Liz again? — Soon, love. We’ll go soon. — That’s good… — he murmured, falling asleep. — Because Granny Gally… she’s weird. Shouts all the time, can’t play, and her food’s nasty. From that night, Galina Petrovna never raised the subject of childcare again nor asked why she wasn’t included in holidays. Now when they went away, she simply wished them a happy trip. Timmy spent every holiday with Maria’s parents—digging worms with Granddad, playing soldier, eating Granny Liz’s soup. No onions—because she knew her grandson’s tastes. Relations with the mother-in-law didn’t exactly improve, but that suited Maria fine. At least no one lectured her on parenting anymore. And Galina Petrovna was left alone with her unassailable rightness—and all those untouched encyclopedias nobody ever needed…

Ive had enough of it, honestly.

You might as well just put him in kennels, like a stray kitten! Sandra said, dripping with sarcasm. Pay someone and off you go, living the high life, enjoying your freedom.

Sophie pursed her lips, yanking at the zip on her suitcase. It was stucktypical. Just like the broken record Sandra always played every time they even thought about going away.

Mum, please, enough, Mark tried to calm his mother down. Jamies not being dumped somewhere. Hes going to the countryside, to Sophies mum and dad. Hell have fresh air, a vegetable patch, maybe even a paddling pool and real farm milk every day. Its perfect for him at his age.

Oh, come off it! Thats not a holiday, thats exile! Sandra threw up her hands in outrage. Hes three, Mark! He needs his parents right now. And what are you two doing? Running off to London to spend your days traipsing around museums! Doesnt your son deserve some cultural enrichment as well?

Sophie finally got the suitcase closed and stood up, glaring at Sandra.

He doesnt need museums right now, she replied coldly. He needs his nap, his routine, and a potty he can actually get to, not a nine-hour train journey with a change and a new time zone. When was the last time you even took Jamie to the park, Sandra?

I did my time with my son, thank you very much! Sandra replied, nose in the air. Took him everywhere with me. Managed just fine. You two just want the easy life. Should think about others for once, not just yourselves.

Exactly! Sophie almost shouted. Think about the other people on the train, or at the gallerydo they all want to listen to Jamie screaming, Im tired! I want a drink! Need the loo! My legs hurt! for hours on end? Going away with a three-year-old isnt a holiday, Sandra. Its torture. For all of us, including him.

Sandra pressed her lips together and turned away.

All right then, dont sugar-coat it. Youre basically saying you dont want your son anymore. If you cared, youd find a way to make it work.

Sophie closed her eyes, counting to a hundred in her head to stay calm. If only Sandra understood the nightmare theyd endured last time. But how could she, when she barely spent time with her grandson?

But Sophie remembered all too well. Her left eye twitched for a solid month afterwards.

It was last summer. Theyd foolishly decided to visit friends for the weekendonly a couple of hours away. Their friends had a little girl, a playground, a massive gardenit sounded great.

But nothing went as planned. The car wouldnt start, and their friends were waiting, the barbecue already smoking away. They had to scramble for train tickets at the last minute.

And, of course, there was a heatwave. The carriage felt like a greenhouse. The fans werent working, and there were so many people it was standing room only. Jamie lasted about ten minutes before he started to whine. Then he got bored. Then he decided to run amok.

Let me go! he yelled, wriggling in Marks arms. I want to go there!

Jamie, sweetheart, you cant. There are people everywhere, Mark hissed, red-faced and sweating, barely holding him still.

I dont want to sit! Arrghhh!

He was truly giving it 100%. His shrieks were louder than the clatter of the train on the tracks.

People started staringfirst sympathetically, then with growing irritation, and after half an hour, with real hatred. Some woman in a crisp white blouse finally snapped, and Jamie, in a fury, flung his juice pouch. The juice went everywhereon Mark, on Sophie, even on the angry woman.

The row was epic. The woman screeched nearly as loudly as Jamie. Sophie apologised nearly in tears, trying to hand her a £20 note for the cleaning, while Jamie bawled because his juice was gone and Mark clenched his jaw in frustration.

Ninety minutes of hell.

By the time they staggered off the train, they were in no state for fun. Jamie, overtired and frazzled, refused to nap, whined until bedtime and nearly toppled the barbecue. The journey home was just as bad.

And that was just a couple of hours away, let alone a whole week of dragging a toddler round tourist spots. No thanks. Thats a punishment, not a holiday.

You just dont know how to parent, Sandra liked to declare when Sophie explained.

Sandra, for her part, was all talk and no action. Shed pop round every couple of weeks, dump a bag of bananas or chocolate (never mind Jamies allergy, which theyd mentioned a zillion times), chat for twenty minutes, snap a photo for Facebook, and leave.

So, Sandra, Sophie finally asked during another row, why do you care where Jamie stays? Its not as if youll be looking after him.

Well I dont have to, do I? Hes got parents for that. If you genuinely needed mehospital or work emergency, sayId help. But youre basically trying to offload him like a puppy you cant manage.

You could put up with all thisjust aboutbut it wore you down. Sandra was utterly convinced she knew best, totally immune to reason.

But lifes the best teacher.

The years flew byJamie turned seven. Talking in full sentences, off to school, joining clubs

And Sandras life changed too, though not for the better. Her husband passed away, and while her flat had always been filled with the background noise of TV and her husbands mumblings, now it was silent. Maybe because of the emptiness, or to prove something to the worldor especially to Sophies parentsSandra suddenly decided to be the generous grandparent.

Bring my grandson to me, she announced magnanimously. Hes old enough. Well get along just fine.

Youre sure, Sandra? Sophie asked gently. Jamies a very lively boy. He needs attentionor at least a computer.

Oh dont be ridiculous, Sandra scoffed. I raised my son, didnt I? I can handle my grandson. Well read books, play bingo, no need for those fancy computers. Leave him with me!

With fingers crossed, they left Jamie for a whole fortnight, and dashed off to a countryside inn for a weekendSophie was sure it wouldnt last long.

She was spot-on.

Sandra imagined some sort of domestic blissJamie, neat and tidy, quietly reading an animal encyclopedia while she knitted socks, only pausing to give wise commentary. Then together, soup for lunch and a polite walk, hand in hand.

The fantasy lasted half an hour after they left.

Gran, Im bored, Jamie declared. Do you have a tablet?

No, I dont, Sandra said.

Lets play zombie apocalypse! Youre the zombie, and Ill be the survivor!

What on earth are you on about? Sandra blinked. Why not colour something? Heres a colouring book I bought.

Dont want a colouring book, thats for babies! Jamie started running laps around the sofa. Come on, play with me! Grandma, pleeease! Watch me! Watch me! Youre not watching!

He sat still for maybe five seconds at a time. He was a plane, then a noisy chef banging saucepan lids, then trying to rope Sandra into new games she didnt even understand. He didnt care for Chekhov storybooks or the old Lego box. He wanted an audience, a playmate, a personal entertainer all rolled into one. And every three minutes: Gran, why is?, Gran, lets?, Gran, watch me!

Sandra, whose pace of life was normally glacial, felt as if shed unloaded a freight train by lunchtime.

And that was just the start. When it came to lunch, she proudly served up beef stewnever made it for herself, had made a special effort for Jamie.

He peered in the bowl like hed discovered a sneezing slug and grimaced.

Im not eating that.

And why not?

Its got onions. I hate cooked onions.

What?! But theyre healthy! Just eat it now!

Im not eating it.

So what do you want?

I want pasta. With cheese. And a sausage. But cut the sausage so it looks like an octopus.

Sandra drew her eyebrows up. She had no idea how to do that.

This isnt a restaurant, young man! she snapped back.

Jamie just shrugged and marched off to the lounge to build a camp out of cushions, chairs and the lampstand.

By that evening, Sandras blood pressure was on a rollercoaster. She couldnt lie downJamie would immediately spring on her like a trampoline, shouting, Get up, the enemies are coming! She couldnt put the news on; hed beg for cartoons because he was boredand cartoons just made him wilder, not calmer.

Meanwhile, Sophie and Mark were having a blissful eveningsitting on the veranda, watching the sun dip over the fields, listening to the crackle of the barbecue.

Its so quiet, Sophie sighed contentedly, closing her eyes. Maybe weve been too hard on your mum.

Right then, Marks phone rang.

Mum?

You have to come backnow! Sandra screeched. Take him away this instant!

Mum, whats happened? Are you all right?

Were living a nightmare! Your son is impossible! Hes destroyed my living room, wont eat proper food, hes bouncing on me like a bouncy castle! My heart cant take it! If youre not here in an hour, Im calling an ambulance and the police! Thats it, Im done! Im waiting for you!

The line went dead.

Sophie put her glass down quietly. The wine went unfinished. The barbecue went ungrilled.

Grab your things, Mark mumbled darkly. So much for our break.

They drove back in silence, both fumingSandra had begged them to leave Jamie and now shed thrown a strop.

They barely touched the doorbell before it flew open. Sandra was pale as a sheet, reeking of lavender drops, and looked like shed been through a war. Jamie, meanwhile, came bounding out, full of energy.

Oh, thank the Lord! Sandra gasped, all but shoving him towards them. Take himplease. And dont even ask me again! What sort of child is he? Not a child but a terror! He hates onions, hes bored, he jumps on me like a monkey!

Hes just a child, Mum, Mark said flatly, taking Jamies hand. A perfectly healthy, lively child. We did warn you. You said you could manage.

I thought he was normal! He needs a doctor! Sandra clutched her chest. GoI need to lie down before I drop dead.

Back in the car, Jamie snuggled into his seat and said, Mum, when are we going to Granddad Peter and Nana Sues?

Soon, sweetheart. Well go soon.

Good, he mumbled, drifting off. Because Gran Sandra is strange. She shouts all the time. Doesnt know how to play. And her foods yucky.

After that night, Sandra never brought up looking after Jamie or going away together again. Any time they went on holiday after that, she just wished them a safe journey.

Jamie always spent school breaks with Sophies parents. There, hed dig for worms with Granddad, play soldier and eat Nana Sues special soupwithout onions, because she knew his tastes.

Sophies relationship with Sandra didnt get any warmer, but honestly, that suited her just fine. At least no one was lecturing her on how to live anymore. And Sandra was left with her encyclopaedias, which no one ever did openThe years unfolded, and life found its own natural groove. Jamie grew fast, his childhood carved from laughter under sunlit apple trees and muddy knees in his grandparents garden. On holidays, Sophie sent a postcard to Sandra from wherever they ended upnot out of obligation, but habit. All well. Jamie happy. Hope youre keeping well. Love, Sophie. The replies came, brief and benign.

One golden autumn afternoon as Jamie and Sophie wandered hand in hand through the lane by Nana Sues cottage, Jamie looked up. Mum, was Gran Sandra ever little?

Sophie smiled, taken off guard. She was, darling. Long ago.

Did she play games too, or was she always cross?

Sophie bent down and pressed a kiss to his messy hair. Maybe she just forgot how. Not everyone remembers what its like to be small, love.

Jamie pondered this, eyes wide as conkers. Ill remember, he said, so when Im big, I wont forget.

Sophie squeezed his hand. Thats the spirit, Jamie-bear.

Under the burnished leaves, Sophie let herself exhale. There would always be forceful Sandras in the world, with their critics voice and locked ways. But there would also always be children, brave enough to imagine octopus sausages and mothers who cherished the noise.

The world spun onsometimes messy, often imperfect, but on the whole, exactly as it should be.