Her daughter is due any day now, yet all she can think about are spas and parties—as if she isn’t about to give birth any moment…
Helen Walker sits by the kitchen window, watching the first December snowflakes drift outside. The ache in her chest isn’t from the cold—it’s from worry. Worry for her daughter, for the grandchild on the way, for what tomorrow might bring. Emily, her only child, is in her thirty-eighth week—any day now. But instead of thinking of cots and baby clothes, sleepless nights and feeding routines, Emily’s mind is full of manicures, massages, Instagram shoots, and café meetups with her girlfriends. There’s even talk of a holiday getaway over Christmas.
Helen can hardly believe it. Where’s the maternal instinct? That quiet, fierce protectiveness even wild animals feel when carrying their young? Where’s the worry, the care, the fear? But all Emily has is a list of beauty appointments—and a schedule that includes… her own mother. Helen. She’s the one who’ll be babysitting while her daughter “gets herself back in shape.”
“Mum, you’re free anyway. Just watch the baby for a bit—I’ll nip out for a blow-dry and nails. I can’t be posing in a dressing gown, can I?”
Helen nearly choked. Who was she giving birth to—a child or an Instagram prop?
Emily’s been married for six years now. They tied the knot in university. Her husband’s decent, steady, respectful. They’ve got jobs, a mortgage on a flat with some help from their parents. Kids weren’t a priority—careers came first. And now, finally, the long-awaited pregnancy. The grandmas were over the moon—until they realised the mother-to-be had an entirely different vision for this new chapter.
At first, Helen thought it might just be nerves. Maybe Emily was just masking fear with jokes. But the truth became clear when she found her daughter scrolling through nanny agencies… for a newborn. The baby wasn’t even here yet, and she was already looking for someone else to take over.
“Emily, have you lost your mind? What nanny? You’re the mother! You need to bond with your baby, establish routines, feedings—this isn’t a kitten you can just leave a bowl of food for!”
“Mum, you’re so old-fashioned. Everyone in Europe does it this way. Being a mum doesn’t mean being a slave. I’m still a person—I want a life. Baby carriers exist for a reason—people take their kids everywhere now. Life doesn’t stop!”
The words made Helen’s heart drop. In her day, people had children young—nineteen, twenty. But no one thought it ‘ruined’ their life. If anything, it was life. They lost sleep, rushed home from work, spent their last pennies on formula and baby soap. There were no Instagram shoots, no staged hospital photos—just love, fear, responsibility. Real happiness, not the posed kind. And now…
The only reason they had baby supplies at all was because Helen insisted. She and Emily’s mother-in-law dragged her to shops for a pram, a cot, onesies. Emily went along, indifferent—just to get them off her back. The grandmas washed, ironed, folded everything. Meanwhile, Emily daydreamed about New Year’s parties.
“Me and the girls were thinking—if all goes well, maybe we could book a restaurant for the first? I’m not in prison now, am I?”
Helen finally snapped. She told her daughter straight—no sugar-coating. That this wasn’t how mothers behaved. That motherhood wasn’t a shopping spree. That a baby wasn’t a prop. That photoshoots shouldn’t matter more than the sleepless nights, the colic, the first struggles of breastfeeding. That a mother was more than a food dispenser—she was the child’s whole world.
But Emily barely listened—in one ear, out the other.
“You’re overreacting, Mum. Times have changed. Our values are different now. Happy mums are the best mums—and happy mums look good.”
Now, every evening, Helen wonders—where did she go wrong? Did she spoil her too much? Did she forget to teach her something vital? Or is this just the way things are now—women becoming mothers before they’ve even grown up?
Still, she holds onto hope. That when Emily sees that tiny face in the hospital, when those little fingers wrap around hers, when she wakes to that first midnight cry—something inside her will shift. Something will click. And suddenly, it won’t be spas and selfies on her mind, but that tiny human who needs her more than anything.
Until then… Helen prays. For her daughter. For her grandchild. And for the day her grown-up little girl discovers what real motherhood is—not the Instagram kind, but the kind that comes from love.
