I’ll Make a Real Man Out of Him “My grandson will NOT be left-handed,” declared Mrs. Tamara Smith indignantly. Denis turned to his mother-in-law, his eyes darkening with irritation. “And why is that so terrible? Ilya was born this way. It’s just who he is.” “Who he is!” sniffed Tamara. “It’s not some special trait, it’s a mark of underdevelopment. That’s not how things are done. For generations, the right hand is the proper hand. The left — that’s the devil’s work.” Denis nearly laughed. This was the twenty-first century, yet his mother-in-law talked as if they still lived in medieval England. “Mrs. Smith, doctors have long proven—” “I don’t need your doctors telling me what’s what,” she interrupted. “I retrained my own son, and he turned out perfectly normal! Retrain Ilya before it’s too late. You’ll thank me, just wait.” She marched out of the kitchen, leaving Denis alone with his lukewarm tea and an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. At first, Denis didn’t take it too seriously. The mother-in-law had old-fashioned ideas—what could you do? Every generation has its own bundle of prejudices. He watched as Mrs. Smith “gently” tried to correct her grandson at the table, moving his spoon from his left to his right hand, and thought: it’s harmless. Children are resilient—grandparents’ quirks can’t do real damage. Ilya had always been left-handed. Denis remembered him, just eighteen months old, always reaching for toys with his left hand. Drawing later, awkwardly, childishly—but always with his left. It felt so natural, so… right for Ilya. Just part of who he was. Like his blue eyes, or the dimple in his cheek. But to Mrs. Smith, it was a flaw—a blunder by Mother Nature that demanded fixing. Every time Ilya picked up a pencil with his left hand, his grandmother pursed her lips as if he’d done something shameful. “With your right hand, Ilya. Use your right.” “Here we go again! There have never been left-handers in our family, and there never will be.” “I trained your Uncle Simon out of it, and I’ll do the same with you.” Denis once overheard her telling Olga this “triumph.” The story of little Simon, who “started off wrong,” but whose mother took charge. Tied his hand back, watched his every move, punished him for disobedience. Now he’s a respectable man—“thanks to me.” There was such pride in her voice, such certainty in her “rightness,” it made Denis uneasy. At first, the changes in his son seemed minor. Ilya started hesitating before reaching for things. His hand would pause mid-air, as if solving a hard puzzle. Then he developed a habit of glancing around, checking: was Grandma watching? “Dad, which hand should I use?” He asked the question at dinner, staring nervously at his fork. “Whichever hand feels right to you, son.” “But Grandma says…” “Don’t listen to Grandma. Use whichever one you want.” But it no longer felt “right” to Ilya. He fumbled, dropped things, lost confidence. His once-decisive movements grew hesitant, as if he’d stopped trusting his own body. Olga saw it all. Denis noticed her biting her lip whenever her mum corrected Ilya yet again, or turned away when the lectures about “proper upbringing” began. Olga had grown up under the steamroller of her mother’s “will” and learned one thing: don’t argue. Just survive the storm. Denis tried talking to her. “Ollie, this isn’t healthy. Look at Ilya. Look at what’s happening to him.” “Mum means well…” “I don’t care what she means! Can’t you see what’s becoming of him?” Olga only shrugged and turned away—old habits of obedience beating even a mother’s instincts. The situation worsened. Mrs. Smith was now relentless—commenting on every move Ilya made. Praised him when he happened to use his right hand, made loud sighs when he didn’t. “See, Ilya, you can do it! Just try. I made your uncle a real man, and I’ll make one out of you.” Denis finally confronted his mother-in-law. With Ilya safely out of earshot, he began, “Mrs. Smith, please leave my son alone. He’s left-handed. It’s normal. Stop trying to change him.” Her reaction was explosive. “You’re telling me what to do? I raised three children! And you want to teach me?” “I’m not teaching. I’m begging—just leave my son alone.” “Your son? Isn’t he Olga’s child, too? He’s my grandson! I will not let him grow up… like that.” She almost spat the word “that”, dripping with contempt. Denis realized: this would not end peacefully. The next days settled into a cold war. Mrs. Smith ignored him, speaking only through Olga. Denis returned the favor. Olga ran between them, pale and exhausted. Ilya spent ever more time hidden on the sofa with his tablet, hoping to become invisible. Denis had an idea that Saturday morning, as Mrs. Smith performed her ritual making borscht in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the confidence of thirty years’ practice. He stood behind her. “You’re doing that wrong.” She didn’t turn around. “Excuse me?” “You’re supposed to slice it thinner. And not across the grain—along it.” She snorted and kept chopping. “I’m serious. No one does it like that. That’s not the correct way.” “I’ve made borscht for thirty years.” “And you’ve done it wrong for thirty years. Let me show you.” He reached for the knife. She pulled back. “Are you crazy?” “No. I just want you to get it right. Look, too much water. Too high a flame. And you’re adding the beetroot wrong.” “That’s how I’ve always done it!” “That’s not a reason. Time to relearn. Let’s start over.” Mrs. Smith froze, knife raised. Her face was a picture of pure disbelief. “What are you on about?” “The same thing you tell Ilya every day. ‘Relearn. This is wrong. That’s not the way. Use a different hand.’” “That’s completely different!” “Really? Not to me.” She put the knife down, cheeks flushed with anger. “You compare my cooking to… He’s just a boy, he can change!” “And you’re an adult set in your ways—you’ll never change, right? So what gives you the right to force him?” She pressed her lips together, eyes bright with fury. “How dare you? I raised three children! Simon, too—I retrained him. Look at him now!” “Is he happy? Really confident?” Silence. Denis knew he’d hit a nerve. Simon—Olga’s older brother—lived far away and only called Mrs. Smith twice a year. “I only wanted the best,” her voice trembled. “I know. But your ‘best’ means ‘my way or the highway.’ Ilya is his own person—as real as you or me. And I won’t let you crush that.” “You’re not going to teach me!” “I will, if you don’t stop. I’ll criticize your every move—every gesture, every habit. Let’s see how long you last.” They stood off—son-in-law and mother-in-law—angry, exhausted, unyielding. “That’s petty, mean-spirited,” Mrs. Smith hissed. “Any other way, you just don’t get it.” Something in her seemed to collapse then. Her certainty cracked. Suddenly, Tamara Smith looked older, smaller, deeply vulnerable. “I only ever did it out of love…” she trailed off. “I know. But this isn’t love the way Ilya needs it. If you can’t stop, you won’t see your grandson here again.” The borscht on the stove began to boil over. No one moved. That evening, after Mrs. Smith retreated to her room, Olga sat next to Denis, silent, leaning her head on his shoulder. “No one protected me as a child,” she whispered. “Mum always knew best. Always. I just… learned to live with it.” Denis held her close. “In this family, your mother doesn’t get to set the rules anymore. Not for any of us.” Olga nodded, squeezing his hand in gratitude. From the children’s room came the faint sound of pencil moving across paper. Ilya was drawing. With his left hand. No one told him he was wrong—ever again.

Ill make a proper man of him

– My grandson will not be left-handed, – protested Patricia.

I turned to my mother-in-law, gritting my teeth. My patience was running thin.

– Whats so wrong with that? Charlie was born a lefty. Thats just who he is.

– Who he is! – Patricia scoffed. – Its not a personality trait, its a flaw. Nothing good comes from being left-handed. Everyone knows the right hand is the proper one. The left is for the devils own business.

I had to choke back a laugh. In the twenty-first century, and yet she sounded like shed just walked straight out of a Tudor village.

– Patricia, modern science has shown

– I dont much care about your science, – she interrupted briskly. – I retrained my own son and he grew up perfectly normal. You ought to retrain Charlie before its too late. Youll thank me one day.

She spun on her heel and left me alone with my lukewarm tea and a nasty taste left from the conversation.

At first, I didnt worry much. So, my mother-in-law clings to old beliefs who doesnt? Every generation carries its set of funny ideas. I watched her quietly shift Charlies spoon from his left hand to his right at meals, and told myself: harmless. Children are resilient. A bit of grandmotherly interference wont do real harm, surely.

Charlie had always been left-handed. I remember, when he was only a little over a year, how hed reach for toys with that left hand, and later, when he began to draw clumsy, babyish squiggles it was always with his left. It just seemed right for him, like the blue flecks in his eyes or the dimple in his chin.

To Patricia, however, it clearly seemed something else. Left-handedness, in her world, was a defect to be corrected immediately. Every time Charlie picked up his pencil in his left hand, shed pinch her lips as though hed just sworn at the table.

– Right hand, Charlie. Use your right.
– Not this again. Weve never had left-handers in our family and we wont start now.
– I retrained Michael and Ill retrain you too.

Once, I overheard her telling Alice, my wife, about what she thought was a great achievement. Shed sorted out little Michael (Alices older brother) when he was wrong too tying his hand down, monitoring, scolding. And look, shed say proudly, now hes just fine.

There was such certainty and pride in her voice, it made my skin crawl.

I didnt notice the changes in my son off the bat. There were subtle signs: Charlie started pausing before picking things up, hovering his hand in the air as if picking sides in a test. Then hed sneak nervous glances at his grandmother, checking if she was watching.

– Dad, which hand am I supposed to use? he asked timidly at tea, staring at the fork.

– Whichevers comfortable, son.
– But Grandma says
– Dont mind her, do what feels right to you.

But it wasnt right anymore. Hed get confused, drop things, freeze mid-action. The confidence in his movements vanished, replaced by a painful hesitancy. It was as if he no longer trusted his own hands.

Alice saw it too. I noticed how shed bite her lip whenever her mother moved Charlies spoon. Shed look away when Patricia launched another tiresome lecture on proper upbringing. Alice had survived under her mothers thumb all her life, and it had taught her to do one thing keep quiet. Better to let the storm blow over than get drawn in.

I tried talking to her.

– Alice, this isnt normal. Look at him.
– Mum only wants whats best.
– Its not about what she wants! Cant you see whats happening to him?

Alice just shrugged and changed the subject. Lifelong habit had won out over maternal instinct.

It kept getting worse every day. Patricia seemed to relish it now; she no longer just corrected him but commented on his every move. Shed gush when he used his right hand by mistake, and sigh dramatically if he didnt.

– See, Charlie? You can do it, with a bit of effort. I made your uncle the man he is, and Ill make one of you yet!

That was too much for me. I decided to talk to her directly. I caught her alone while Charlie was playing upstairs.

– Patricia, leave him be. Hes left-handed, and theres nothing wrong with that. Please dont try to change him.

Her reaction was explosive, as if Id insulted her personally.

– Youre telling me what to do? Ive raised three children, and now you think you know better?
– Im not telling you. Im asking you to leave my son alone.
– Your son? Hes got Alices genes too hes my grandson. I wont allow him to be like like that.

She spat out like that with such disgust that it made my stomach twist.

I realised thered be no easy peace.

The next few days turned into trench warfare. Patricia wouldnt speak to me, except pointedly through her daughter. I responded in kind. Our house filled with a heavy, sticky silence, peppered with brief squabbles.

– Alice, tell your husband the soups on the hob.
– Alice, tell your mum Ill sort myself out.

Alice flitted between us, pale and exhausted. Charlie retreated into the living room corner with his tablet, trying to blend into the furniture.

Then, one Saturday morning, whilst Patricia was busy with her beloved Sunday roast, I had an idea. She was at her usual post, chopping veg in the kitchen, swift and sure as shed done for decades.

I stepped in behind her.

– Youre actually peeling that potato the wrong way, you know.

She didnt even look up.

– Sorry?
– You should peel them away from yourself, not towards. And thinner too.
She tutted, carrying on.

– No, really thats not the way. None of my friends do it like that.
– Ben, Ive been cooking for thirty years.
– Thirty years doing it wrong. Let me show you the right way.
I reached for the peeler. She jerked her hand away.

– Are you mad?
– Not at all. I just want you to do things properly. See look at the pan, too much water. And you should add the vegetables in a different order.

– Ive always done it this way!
– Thats not enough. You need to retrain. Come on, lets start from the top.

Patricia froze, peeler midair, mouth opening in disbelief.

– What are you on about?
– Exactly what you say to Charlie retrain. Your ways not right. Its not how everyone else does it. You should be using your other hand, too.

– Thats not the same thing at all!
– Isnt it? Looks pretty similar to me.

Patricia set the peeler down. She was red with anger now.

– Youre comparing my cooking to this? I do it like this because its comfortable!

– So does Charlie, but you dont care about that.
– Its different for a child! He can change!
– And youre an adult with set habits youll never change. So why force him?

She pressed her lips tight. Her eyes filled with frustrated tears.

– How dare you. I raised three children. I retrained Michael and hes fine.
– Is he? Is he happy now? Sure of himself?

Silence.

I knew where it hurt. Michael, Alices older brother, lived in Manchester and called Patricia twice a year, if that.

– I only wanted whats best, – her voice quivered. – I always have.

– I know you did. But your best always means my way. Charlie is his own person. Small, but his own. I wont let you squeeze that out of him.

– Are you going to lecture me now?

– I will, unless you stop. Ill comment on your every move, every habit. Lets see how you like it.

We stood there, facing off mother-in-law and son-in-law, both bristling, neither backing down.

– Thats petty, – Patricia hissed.

– Nothing else gets through.

In that moment, something in her cracked. I saw it: a collapse of whatever certainty shed always had. She suddenly seemed older, smaller, lost.

– I only ever meant well – she trailed off.

– I know. But you have to stop… or you wont see your grandson anymore.

The potatoes were left boiling over. No one moved.

That evening, after Patricia had retired upstairs, Alice sank onto the sofa beside me, nestling close.

– No one ever stood up for me as a child, – she whispered. – Mum always knew best. And I just accepted it.

I wrapped my arm round her.

– Your mum wont be running this household anymore, not over us or Charlie.

She squeezed my hand in silent thanks.

A soft scratching came from the study. Charlie was drawing with his left hand. And, at last, no one was telling him not to.

If theres one thing Ive learnt, its this: standing up for your child sometimes means standing up to your own family. Even if it means utterly breaking the old rules.