At long last, I found a life of my own—yet my own daughter calls me mad and forbids me from seeing my granddaughter.
All my days were given to my daughter. Then, to her child. Never did I complain, nor ask for anything in return. Yet it seems they both forgot I was more than just a free nursemaid and housemaid. I am a woman—with my own heart, my own hopes, and every right to happiness.
I was one-and-twenty when I married. My husband, Thomas, was a quiet, steady man, a hard worker. We hadn’t much, but we had peace. When our daughter was but two, he left on business—driving a lorry to deliver goods. Did he return? No. He was lost to us. How, I was never told. So there I was, alone, with little Beatrice in my arms.
His parents had passed, mine lived far off in another town. There was no help to be had. My only relief was the roof over our heads, left to me by Thomas. I tried my hand at teaching from home, for I was trained as a schoolmistress. But trust me, giving lessons while a fretful child tumbles about the house is no easy feat.
Then my mother took Beatrice to live with her. Near two years my girl stayed with her grandparents while I worked myself to the bone—teaching by day, tutoring by night. Every Sunday I made the journey to see her. And every time I left, my heart near broke in two.
When at last Beatrice began school, I prayed she’d stay hale, for I couldn’t afford idle days. Mercifully, she was a sturdy child. Then came grammar school. Then university. All the while, I bore the burden alone. From dawn till dusk I worked, to give her fine things, good shoes, wholesome meals, and lessons.
When she finished her schooling and took up work, I felt it for the first time: it was done. I was free. Yet freedom, I found, is but another word for loneliness. My parents were gone, I’d no friends left, only years of toil. Even the cat became my sole companion.
Then came little Caroline. I moved in with my daughter months before the birth—helping with errands, washing, meals, packing the hospital bag. Once the babe arrived, I took full charge, for Beatrice returned to work early.
Yet I never murmured. Nay, I thrived. I felt needed again. When Caroline started school, I fetched her after lessons. We took tea together, did sums, strolled in the park. On one such walk, I met Peter.
He, too, was a grandparent—raising his own granddaughter. His tale was much like mine: early widowed, aiding his daughter. We fell into talk. And the talks grew longer. Then one day he asked if we might meet… without the little ones. For coffee.
Truth be told, I was unsure. The last time a man asked me to step out was nigh thirty years past. Still, I agreed. And so joy crept back into my days. We took in the pictures, visited galleries, walked simply for walking’s sake. Once more, I felt myself a woman.
But my daughter could not fathom it. One morn, Beatrice rang me up:
*”James and I mean to visit friends this weekend. We’ll leave Caroline with you, aye?”*
*”Forgive me, dear, but I’m away for a day or two. You ought to have given word sooner.”*
*”What, off with that—that Peter again?”* she hissed.
I was struck silent.
*”Beatrice, what manner of speech is this? You know full well I’ve ever been at Caroline’s side. But I am not a nursemaid for all time.”*
*”You’ve forgotten the child altogether! Not a year since you swore you’d no need of a life of your own, now you’re traipsing about to concerts!”*
*”Aye, traipsing,”* said I, calm as I could. *”For I am living. For I am happy. And I had thought you’d be glad for me.”*
*”Glad? You’ve traded your granddaughter for some grey-haired fellow! Tend to yourself, Mother—you’ve gone quite mad! You shan’t see Caroline again till you come to your senses!”*
I sat, uncomprehending. These words—from my own child? All my years, given to her. All my strength spent for her comfort. Alone, I raised her. Cared for her. Stood by her. Tended her babe. And now—I was a “daft old granny,” with “roof tiles loose,” for daring to seek happiness?
I wept the evening through. To Peter, I said naught. He only held me and whispered:
*”You’ve the right to live. To love. To be loved.”*
Yet something within me withered. I cannot fathom life without Beatrice. Without Caroline. I fear one day they’ll be lost to me for good. I pray my daughter cools her temper and rings me. I pray she sees—her mother hasn’t ceased to be a grandmother. Only now, at last, she is also a woman who has found happiness after too many barren years.
And tell me—have I not earned that right?…
