The dream began with a voice, distant yet familiar: “Edward, a christening in a fancy restaurant? We’ll have to buy a gift, won’t we?” I turned to my husband, my words floating like smoke. “Let’s visit the next day and congratulate our granddaughter at home, without all the fuss.” This was the strange tale of how Edward and I found ourselves lost in a labyrinth of tradition, unsure how to celebrate little Matilda’s christening without losing ourselves in the spectacle.
The invitation arrived like a puzzle wrapped in gold leaf. Our daughter, Eleanor, had given birth six months prior. Matilda was our first grandchild, and we adored her beyond reason. When Eleanor announced the christening, I was pleased—it was a sacred rite, after all. But then she described it: not just a quiet church service followed by tea at home, but a grand affair at The Rose & Crown, complete with a host, a photographer, and a guest list longer than the Thames. “Eleanor,” I murmured, baffled, “why so extravagant? It’s a christening, not a royal wedding!”
She insisted it should be memorable, a day to cherish. Her husband, William, nodded along—their first child deserved nothing less. I bit my tongue, but unease curled in my chest. Edward and I had lived modestly, our lives woven with simple threads. The thought of lavish spending on a christening felt like stacking coins on a sinking ship.
Then came the riddle of the gift. Traditionally, one gave something meaningful—a silver cross, an heirloom Bible, perhaps a trust for the child’s future. But Eleanor hinted that showing up empty-handed to the restaurant would be “tactless.” I ventured, “Shall we put money in an envelope, then?” She hedged: “Do as you like, but everyone else will bring something.” I calculated—£20 in an envelope seemed paltry, and £100 was beyond our pension’s reach, especially after fixing the leak in the roof.
Edward’s voice cut through the haze. “Let’s skip the restaurant altogether. Visit the next day, give Matilda a gift from the heart.” I agreed—home felt warmer, unburdened by envelopes and expectations. We settled on a silver cross and a illustrated children’s Bible, both sacred and sincere.
When I told Eleanor, her face crumpled. “Mum, you’re not coming to the christening? It’s Matilda’s special day!” I tried to explain—we weren’t rejecting the occasion, just the circus around it. But she took it as betrayal. “All the other grandparents will be there. Don’t you want to be part of the family?” The words stung. Of course we did—but must family be measured in restaurant bills?
Edward was unmoved. “If they want to burn through money, let them. We’ll have our time with Matilda.” Yet Eleanor’s sadness gnawed at me. Were we relics, clinging to outdated ideals? Should we have swallowed our pride and gone along?
In the end, we struck a compromise. Edward and I attended the church service, where Matilda, in her white gown, looked like a cherub floating in candlelight. The restaurant banquet we skipped, but the next day, we brought our gifts to Eleanor and William’s home. We sipped tea, dandled Matilda on our knees, and watched as Eleanor’s icy frustration melted into quiet acceptance.
I woke with the lingering question hanging in the air like mist over the moors: traditions shift, but must we bend until we break? Had we been stubborn, or had we held fast to what truly mattered? The dream left no answers, only the weight of choices—and the faint, distant sound of a child’s laughter.
