I dont want to be a mum! I want to leave home!my daughter told me, her voice echoing oddly through the hallway, where the clocks all ticked backwards.
My daughter found herself expecting a child when she was just fifteen. She kept it hidden for ages, as if the baby was an unwelcome shadow hiding in the corners of her room. My husband and I only realised the truth when she was five months alongby then, the truth had already woven itself into the fabric of our dreams. Of course, there was never any question of ending the pregnancy.
We never did learn who the childs father was. My daughter only mumbled that theyd seen each other for three months before everything vanished like mist on a damp London morning. She didnt even know exactly how old he was.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen Or nineteen, I suppose, shed say, as though numbers slipped through her fingers like loose change.
Naturally, my husband and I were startled by the news, as if the house itself had shuddered around us. We knew it would be difficult for us all. At first, my daughter insisted she longed for the child, that she wanted nothing more than to be a mother. I sensed she hadnt the faintest idea what that truly meant.
Four months later, with the rain pattering softly against the windowpanes, she gave birth to a beautiful boyhealthy and strong. The labour was hard, though; it left her thin and pale, her spirit dimmed. For four months, she was just a wisp of her former self. She couldnt have coped without me, so I left my job at the bookshop and devoted myself to her and my grandson.
When she found her strength again, something in her shifted. She stopped coming near her son, as if there was a pane of frosted glass between them. At night, she slept soundly. By day, she refused any care for him, drifting through the house like a silent spectre. I tried everything: gentle chats over endless cups of tea, pleading, reasoning, even sharp words when patience ran thin. At last, she snapped:
You love him, Mum. Why dont you adopt him? Ill be his sister. I just cant do it. I want to go out with my mates, go to parties and dance! I want to live, not be stuck here!
I thoughtperhaps this was a passing melancholy, a shadow of postnatal gloom. But no, it wasnt that. She didnt love her child in any way. The months ticked by, our lives suspended in strange twilight. My husband and I decided it was time to make things official, so we arranged for legal guardianship of our grandson. My daughter drifted further away, sneaking out to wander the city at night, coming home with the weak grey dawn. She scarcely seemed to notice her son at all.
The years unraveled in a blur. We didnt think anything would ever change. Yet the little boy grew, quick as a summer hedgerowtalking, walking, becoming himself beneath the uneven beams of our creaking old house. He was sunny, always quick to smile, as if he knew some secret joke that made everything lighter.
Whenever my daughter returned home, something miraculous happened. Hed dash down the hallway, arms open, stories tumbling from his lips. And slowly, like daisies pushing up through the cracks, my daughters heart softened. She began to spend all her time with himgiggling, cuddling, kissing his sandy hair. Often, Id hear her murmur, almost to herself:
Im so lucky to have you, my darling! Youre the most precious thing Ill ever own. I wouldnt give you up for all the gold in England.
Now, my husband and I sit by the fireside, feeling an unfamiliar peace settle over our home. In mornings hazy light, we watch them together and know our little family has finally found its way to calm.
