For the past two decades, I lived with my daughter and her husband, but I no longer have the strength to endure it.
I am sixty-five now and the grandmother of seven grandchildren. No doubt there are plenty of people who might envy my position, and I suppose once I too would have said it was a blessingif only it didnt mean that I had to play nanny and be bombarded by their racket each day. My daughter, it seems, is completely unaware of just how many children she has brought into this world.
When my sixth granddaughter was born, I sat young Emily down for a serious conversation. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would be having a chat about birth control with my thirty-five-year-old daughter. When she and her husband, Thomas, announced they were expecting number seven, it made my head spin. There are only five rooms in our house, yet nine of us living here now.
My daughter ought to be gratefulmy late husband and I spent our whole lives grafting to build a larger home and buy our bit of land in the Kent countryside. Now Thomas works those fields and proudly calls himself a farmer. Emily throws herself into helping him, while I find myself stuck in the kitchen, feeding what feels like a whole class of children. The little ones are growing and demand more; no one is satisfied with yesterdays stew, only meals made fresh.
I had hoped, truly, that after the sixth little one Emily would finally see things from my side, and that perhaps Id snatch a rare moments peacesome time without colicky cries and endless nappies. But alas, things went awry yet again.
Throughout it all, I remained in touch with my brother, George, who lives alone in Surrey since his daughter married an Australian and set off abroad.
One evening, George wrote me a letter saying he wasn’t well and asked me to come stay for a spell. Of course, I fretted for his health, but I confess I was inwardly relieved for an excuse to escape my never-ending routine. Now that George is recovering, I truly dont know if I have it in me to return, where shrill voices and chaos await. While with George, I rediscovered my old joys: reading novels, listening to music, and watching my favourite films. At last, I am tasting the peace of my later years, not simply sitting, waiting for grandchildren to grow up. Yet I cant fathom how to tell my family any of this.
These days, Emily rings me and tells me to come home, that she cant manage on her own. What on earth am I to do?
