Ill turn him into a proper lad.
My grandson wont be a lefty, Pamela snapped, her cheeks flushed with annoyance.
I turned to look at my mother-in-law, my patience wearing thin.
And whats so wrong with that? Oliver was born this wayits just who he is.
Who he is! Honestly, Simon, dont be ridiculous. Thats not a trait, its a deficiency if you ask me. Its not how things are done. For generations, the right hand has always been the proper hand. The leftwell, thats never been right.
I stifled a laugh. Its the twenty-first century, and yet Pamela talks as if were living in a mediaeval English parish, full of old wives tales and superstition.
Pamela, any doctor will tell you by now
I dont care what your lot of doctors say, she cut me off, indignant. I trained my own son out of it, and look at him nowturned out all right. Youd best train Oliver too, before its too late. Youll thank me, youll see.
She whisked herself out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with a half-empty mug of tea and the bitter taste of our conversation.
At first, I didnt think much of it. Pamela and her quaint, outdated waysnothing unusual there. Every generation lugs around its own set of old prejudices. I watched as she gently moved Olivers spoon from his left to his right, and thought, childrens minds are resilientwhat harm could her little quirks really do?
Oliver had been left-handed from the beginning. I remembered how, as a toddler, hed always reach for his toys with his left handthen the crayons, clumsy at first, but always in the left. It seemed so natural, so right for him. It was just part of who Oliver waslike his blue eyes, or the dimple on his cheek.
Pamela couldnt see it that way. In her mind, being left-handed was a fault, one Mother Nature should have ironed out. Every time Oliver picked up a pencil in his left hand, Pamelas lips pursed as if hed dropped his peas in his lap.
Right hand, Ollie. Thats how its done.
Not this againno one in our family has ever been a lefty, nor will be.
I corrected Michael, Ill correct you too.
I once overheard her telling Sarah, my wife, all about her so-called achievement with Michael, her eldest. He was wrong-handed too, she recalled, but I nipped it in the budtied his hand if I had to, watched him like a hawk, took toys away, told him off when he disobeyed. And whats he now? A perfectly normal man.
She sounded almost proudunshakeably sure shed done what was best. I found it more than a little unsettling.
I didnt notice the changes in Oliver straight away, but gradually they crept in. At first, he hesitated before picking something up; his hand hovered in the air, a tiny pause, as if he had to do some mental arithmetic. Then, he started glancing sideways at his granjust checking whether she was watching.
Dad, which hand am I supposed to use?
He asked me that at dinner, fearfully eyeing his fork.
Whichever hand you like, son.
But Gran says
Dont worry about Gran. You do what feels right to you.
But it didnt feel right for Oliver anymore. He got clumsy, dropped things, froze midway through tasks. My confident little boy now moved with a painful caution, as if his own body was betraying him.
Sarah noticed too. I watched her bite her lip whenever her mum intervened at the table, or turned away when Pamela launched into her lectures about proper upbringing. My wife had grown up under the ironweight of Pamelas standards and learned the only way to copedont argue, just keep your head down and wait for the storm to blow past.
I tried to talk to her.
Sarah, this isnt normal. Look at him.
Mum only means well.
Thats not the point. Cant you see what shes doing to him?
Sarah just shrugged, retreating from the conversation. Years of compliance had blunted her ability to push backeven for her own son.
It got worse by the day. Pamela made it her missionnot just correcting Oliver, but policing everything he did. Shed praise him if he used his right hand by chance, sigh dramatically if the left came up.
There you are, Ollie! Seeyou can do it, just keep trying. I made a man out of your uncle, Ill do the same for you.
I decided enough was enough. I waited for Oliver to go up to his room before confronting Pamela directly.
Pamela, please leave the boy be. Hes left-handed, and that’s perfectly fine. Please dont try to change him.
Her response shocked me. She sniffed, hurt and cross.
Youre dictating to me? I raised three children, and youre going to teach me now?
Im not teaching, Im askingjust leave my boy out of this.
Your boy? Those are Sarahs genes too, you know. Hes my grandson as much as yours. And I wont let him grow up like that.
The way she said like that made it sound like Oliver was contagious.
I realised thenthis wasnt going to end quietly.
The house filled up with thick, sullen silence, punctuated only by frosty, clipped exchanges. Pamela ignored me, speaking to me solely through Sarah. I replied in kind. Sarah flitted between us with a haunted look, while Oliver buried himself behind his tablet on the sofa, desperate to be invisible.
My idea came to me on Saturday morning, while Pamela was bustling in the kitchen making her famous beef stew. She chopped potatoes with sharp precision, same way she always had.
I sidled up behind her.
Youre cutting them all wrong.
She didnt even turn.
Pardon?
You should slice them finer, and with the grain, not across.
She just grunted, carrying on.
No really, I pressed. Thats not how its done. Its wrong.
Simon, Ive made stew this way for thirty years.
And thirty years youve been doing it wrong. Let me show you.
I reached for the knifeshe jerked her hand away.
Are you out of your mind?
No, I just want you to do it the correct way. Look, theres too much water in the pot, the hobs too hot, and you shouldnt start with onions.
I’ve always done it this way!
Thats not a reason. Cant you change? Lets start again from scratch.
She froze mid-chop, genuinely bewildered.
What are you on about?
The same thing youre on about with Oliver, I said quietly. He should relearn, so should you. This isnt how its done. You need to use your other hand, too.
Thats different!
Is it? I dont see much difference.
She put the knife down; her cheeks flushed.
Youre comparing my stew towell! Ive always done it this way, because its what feels right to me.
And Olivers left hand feels right to him, but that doesnt stop you, does it?
Thats not the same! Hes a childhe can change!
And youre a grown woman stuck in your ways. But youre beyond help, arent you? What right, then, have you got to push him?
Pamela compressed her lips. Her eyes were wild with anger.
How dare you? I raised three children! I corrected Michael, and he turned out fine!
And is he happy now? Confident in himself?
Silence.
I knew Id struck a nerve. Michael, Sarahs older brother, hadnt visited in years, and phoned only at Christmas.
I only ever wanted the best, Pamelas voice wobbled. I still do.
I know. But your best is what you decide it is. Oliver is his own person, however little he is. Hes got his own ways. And I won’t have you breaking his spirit.
You think you can teach me?!
If you dont stop, I will. Ill comment on everything you doevery gesture, every habit. Lets see how long you like it.
We stood, staring at each other across the kitchen. Both of us taut with anger.
Thats petty, Simon. Cruel, even.
Nothing else gets through to you.
Something in her seemed to give way, the fierce confidence on which shed stood all her life showing its cracks. For a moment, Pamela looked suddenly frail and decades older.
I only wanted she started, but didnt finish.
I know. But pleaseenough. Or youll see less of him, simple as that.
The stew was bubbling over. Neither of us moved.
Later, after Pamela had retreated upstairs, Sarah came and sat beside me on the sofa, silent for a while, pressed close.
Nobody ever stood up for me like that when I was a girl, she whispered. Mum always knew best. And I just accepted it.
I put my arm around her.
In this family, your mum wont be telling anyone how to livenot anymore.
Sarah squeezed my hand gratefully.
From Olivers room came the gentle sound of crayon on paper. He was drawing, left-handed. Nobody would tell him he was wrong, not in this house again.
