If only everyone received such help
Polly, Ill pop round today to help with the grandkids.
Polly wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear, jiggling a howling Max on her hip.
Mrs. Preston, thank you, but were managing
Click. The dial tone buzzed in Pollys ear; her mother-in-law had already hung up.
A crash echoed from the lounge little Alex had toppled a box of blocks, prompting Molly to shriek with delight as she threw them at the walls. Max squirmed and wailed as though he hadnt been fed in days, despite having finished his bottle barely twenty minutes before.
Polly glanced over at Anthony, who sat marooned on the sofa, face lost in the glow of his phone concentrating all too intently.
You called your mum.
Not a question. A statement.
Anthony gave a sheepish shrug, still not looking up.
Well yes. Youve got so much on, I see it. Mumll help
Polly wanted to say she managed fine. That she didnt need help. That, since Max was born three months ago, shed somehow kept the house decent, fed three children, and even managed the odd midnight nap. But Max howled louder, and she just slipped away to the bedroom, rocking her baby and bracing herself for the arrival of Mrs. Preston.
Her mother-in-law swept onto the doorstep at noon, trailing two massive suitcases like a battle flag, bearing the look of a person sent to rescue the Titanic.
Good heavens, Polly, you look a fright! Mrs. Preston breezed past her daughter-in-law, sharp eyes scanning the flat. And what a tip! Never mind, Im here now, well soon get this place ship-shape.
By evening Polly genuinely regretted not barricading the front door.
Whats that? Mrs. Preston eyed the chopping board suspiciously as Polly sliced courgette.
Vegetable stew. The children love it.
Stew? Mrs. Preston made it sound like Polly was about to poison the grandchildren. No, no, no. Anthony adores beef and dumplings. My recipe. Off you go, let me.
Polly stepped aside from the stove, clenching the vegetable knife a little tighter.
Next morning, Mrs. Preston woke Polly at seven though Max had finally settled at five.
Polly! What on earth are these outfits? Are we running away to the circus?
Alex and Molly stood in their favourite playsuits, one sunshine yellow, the other fire engine red. Polly bought them that way, just so she could spot the twins on the playground.
Its perfectly good clothing.
Perfectly good? You call this perfectly good? Mrs. Preston was already rummaging in her suitcase for grey trousers and beige jumpers. Theyre like parrots! And its a nippy morning theyll catch their death. I brought sensible woollies.
Honestly, theyre comfortable
Polly. Mrs. Preston straightened up, folded her arms, and tears glittered in her eyes. I came to help you, and you snap at me, argue with me. I raised Anthony. I know best. You just you dont appreciate me. You dont respect me.
She dabbed theatrically at her chest, slumped heavily into a chair, wounded to the core.
Anthony peeped out of the bedroom, glanced from his mother to Polly.
Come on, Polly, he whispered, Mum only wants to help. If only everyone got the help we have.
Polly said nothing. She changed the twins into sad little beige and grey, forced herself to smile at Mrs. Preston and felt another tiny shard of herself fracture.
By weeks end, the flat belonged entirely to Mrs. Preston. All the nursery furniture was rearranged: cots shifted according to what was proper. Bedtime and mornings followed her schedule now. Polly fed Max under Mrs. Prestons hawkish gaze, enduring lectures on the correct bottle angle.
Anthony vanished to the balcony every half hour, staring into the chilly garden, pretending nothing was happening.
Polly didnt sleep. At night, she lay blinking at the ceiling, body tensed, heart banging at every shuffle from the corridor as if her mother-in-law might come prowling to check the childrens blankets.
Mornings, she rose brittle-fingered, brewed coffee that did nothing for her exhaustion.
Thursday evening, Polly opened the cupboard for baby food and froze. The shelves were empty.
Mrs. Preston, she called through to the kitchen, where her mother-in-law chopped cabbage for yet another stew, wheres Maxs formula?
Threw out that muck, Mrs. Preston didnt bother to turn. All chemicals. Dreadful stuff I read about it. Got proper food now. Healthy.
She gestured to the table.
A cheap tin stood there the very kind that had given Max a rash last month.
Hes allergic to that one.
Nonsense, Mrs. Preston waved her knife, That only happens when you feed him wrong. This will be fine, youll see.
Polly stared at the tin. At Mrs. Preston, contentedly shredding cabbage. And thought of Anthony on the balcony again, as always. Something inside her shifted, quietly, but finally.
Forty minutes later, Polly sat in a black cab, Max pressed to her chest, Alex and Molly in their piratical coloured suits at her side, the essentials tossed into a bag in the boot.
She broke down as soon as her mother opened the door.
Mum, I cant do it anymore. I just cant be in that house one more day
Her mother took her in, sat her at the kitchen table, poured tea and stroked her hair as Polly sobbed into her mug.
Hush now, pet. You can stay here. All will be well.
Her phone began thrumming at eleven, vibrating into the small hours.
Polly, what are you playing at? Anthony thundered down the line. Mums in bits! She only wanted to help! She did everything for us and you just
All I want is some peace! Polly hissed back, not to wake the children. She threw away the formula! Max is allergic to what your mum decided was best!
Allergic? Youre always overreacting! Mum knows what shes doing she brought me up!
Then perhaps she should live with you!
Youre an ungrateful madwoman, Anthony spat. Youd be lost without my mothers help. Get back here at once.
Im not coming back while shes there.
A heavy silence. Then Anthony muttered:
Suit yourself, and disconnected.
In the morning, Polly filed for divorce at the registry office.
Three days later, she returned for her things, alone her mother watching the children. Mrs. Preston met her in the hall.
Polly, how can you do this to us? Youre tearing the children from their father! Depriving their granny! Its cruel! Inhuman! Ive given you everything, poured my soul into this family! If only everyone had help like Ive given!
Polly paused, her gaze steady upon her mother-in-law: the woman whod upended her life under the banner of help, whod binned valuable formula and forced Max to suffer rashes; whod rearranged the furniture, redressed the children, and banished Polly from her own kitchen. Driven her to the brink.
Youll survive, Pollys voice came out cold and unfamiliar, youll both be just fine.
Mrs. Preston recoiled, gasping for breath. Anthony charged from the study and grabbed Pollys wrist.
How dare you speak to my mum like that?
Polly shook him off. Looked at her husband this grown man forever running to his mother.
Dont touch me.
She packed the last of her things, zipped the suitcase, and left, never looking back.
The divorce went through two months later. Anthony tried ringing for a few weeks, then gave up. Mrs. Preston sent her a monumental message: Polly had destroyed the family and ruined Anthonys life. Polly deleted it unread.
It was cramped at her mums, but peaceful. Night after night, Polly would rock Max in the kitchen, gazing out at the lamp-lit street. By day, shed take the twins into the garden, feed them her vegetable stew, dress them in cheerful colours.
Six months later, Alex and Molly started nursery. Polly found freelance work as an editor sequestered at the kitchen table while her children slept. They had enough: not for grandeur, but for everything they needed.
Come evening, shed curl on the sofa, Max snuffling in his cot, the twins pressed against her flanks demanding a story. Polly would read about the Three Little Pigs, swapping voices Molly giggling, Alex nodding wisely at every page.
And at moments like that, Polly would lean back, gaze at her children and feel shed done the right thing. The years ahead would be hard, lonely sometimes and frightening, raising three by herself. But it was right.
