Ill make a proper person out of him!
My grandson is not going to be left-handed! Margaret Evans exclaims, her voice brimming with indignation.
David turns to his mother-in-law. His gaze darkens with suppressed irritation.
And whats so wrong with that? Harry was born left-handed. Thats just who he is.
Margaret snorts. Dont be ridiculous. Its not a special trait, its a flaw. Its always been the right hand thats important, never the left. That ones trouble, everyone knows it.
David barely manages not to laugh. It’s the twenty-first century, but his mother-in-law still thinks in terms that belong to some medieval Wiltshire village.
Margaret, theres plenty of good research”
I dont care about your research! she cuts him off. I made my Paul use his right hand, and hes grown up perfectly well. Train Harry out of it now, before its too late. Youll thank me eventually.
She spins on her heel and leaves him alone in the kitchen with a cup of unfinished tea and a heavy sense of frustration.
At first, David shrugs it off. His mother-in-laws outdated ideas whats new? Every generation lugs around its own odd prejudices. He watches her gently move Harrys spoon from left to right at the table and thinks, Hell be fine. Kids are adaptable no real harm done by a few of Grandmas quirks.
Harry has always been left-handed, ever since his first reach for a teddy. Later, when he picked up drawing awkward, with a chubby toddlers grip it was always in his left hand. For David, it was natural, the way brown eyes or a birthmark might be. Just part of who Harry is.
But to Margaret, left-handedness is a defect, a mistake of nature that must be fixed. Each time Harry picks up a pencil with his left hand, she presses her lips together as if hes done something unspeakable.
Right hand, Harry. You should use your right.
Again with this? Thereve never been any lefties in our family and there never will be.
I sorted Paul out, and Ill sort you out too.
David overhears her retelling this proud achievement to Jenny one night how she corrected young Paul, tying his left hand down and chastising him for disobeying. And now, look at him a proper man, Margaret crows, exuding absolute certainty in her own rightness, and it unsettles David deeply.
The changes in Harry are subtle at first. He hesitates before picking up his fork, his hand lingering in mid-air as if hes grappling with some complex question. He begins glancing at Margaret, checking whether shes looking.
Dad, which hand am I supposed to use? he whispers at dinner, eyeing his cutlery nervously.
Whichevers comfortable, mate.
But Grandma says
Dont listen to Grandma. You do what feels best.
But comfort has vanished. Harry begins fumbling, dropping things, freezing in the middle of simple actions. His once-confident toddler movements are replaced by a nervous caution. Hes lost his trust in his own body.
Jenny clearly sees what is happening. David notices how she bites her lip as her mother once again moves the spoon. How she averts her gaze when Margaret launches into another lesson on the right way to be. His wife grew up under her mothers crushing expectations, learning the art of silence and waiting out the storm.
David tries to talk to her.
Jen, this isnt normal. Look at Harry.
Mums only trying to help.
Its not just about intention cant you see whats happening to him?
She just shrugs and slips away from the conversation. Old habits, David realises, die hard.
The situation grows worse by the day. Margaret seems energised by the conflict. She doesn’t just correct Harry now she comments on every movement. She praises him when he accidentally uses his right, and sighs pointedly when he reverts to left.
See, Harry? You can do it! You simply must try. I made your Uncle Paul a proper person, and I’ll do the same for you.
Thats when David decides to talk to her directly. He waits until Harry is playing quietly upstairs.
Margaret, can we just let him be? Hes left-handed, and thats fine. Please stop trying to change him.
Her reaction is explosive. Margaret puffs up, as if shes been insulted.
Dont lecture me! I raised three children what do you know?
Im not lecturing you. Im asking you kindly to leave my son alone.
Your son? Has he not got his mothers side as well? Hes my grandson too. And I wont allow him to end up like that.
She says like that with such disgust, David almost recoils.
He realises then: there will be no easy truce.
The next days are a standoff. Margaret will only speak to him via Jenny. David responds in kind. Thick silence hangs over the house, broken only by sharp, terse exchanges.
Jenny, tell your husband the soups on.
Jenny, let your mother know Ill look after myself.
Jenny dashes between them, pale and worn out. Harry now retreats to the sofa with his tablet, desperate to be invisible.
On Saturday morning, inspiration strikes, watching Margaret at her sacred task making her famous roast. She chops cabbage with brisk familiarity, the same way she has done for decades.
David stands at her shoulder.
Youre cutting that wrong.
Margaret doesnt even turn.
I beg your pardon?
The cabbage ought to be thinner. And you should cut with the grain, not across it.
She just grunts and keeps chopping.
No, really nobody does it like you. Its wrong.
David, Ive been making Sunday roast for thirty years.
And youve done it wrong every Sunday. Here, let me show you.
He reaches for the knife. Margaret whips her hand away.
Are you quite mad?
No. Just want you to do it properly. Look, too much water, heats too high, and you dont layer the veg correctly.
Ive always done it this way!
Thats not a reason. Its time to retrain. Lets start from scratch.
Margaret freezes, knife raised. Bewilderment creases her face.
What are you on about?
Exactly what you say to Harry every day. Retrain yourself. This isnt the right way it never was. Try your other hand.
Thats not the same thing at all!
Isnt it? Looks identical to me.
Margaret slams the knife down. Anger flushes her cheeks.
Youd compare my cooking to Ive always done it this way its comfortable!
And Harrys comfortable with his left. But you wont let him be.
Thats not the same hes a child, he can change!
And youre set in your ways youll never change, will you? So why do you have the right to force him?
Margaret presses her lips together, eyes wet with rage.
How dare you? I raised three children! I corrected Paul hes perfectly fine now!
And is he happy? Confident?
Silence falls.
David knows hes hit a nerve. Paul, Jennys brother, lives far away and barely calls.
I just wanted what was best, Margarets voice trembles.
I dont doubt it. But your best is just what youve decided. Harrys his own person. Hes little, but he should be allowed to be himself. I wont let you crush that.
Youll give me orders?
I will if you dont stop. Ill point out every mistake, interrupt everything you do see how you like it.
They stand there, tense and exhausted.
Thats petty, Margaret spits.
Its the only way youll understand.
Something crumbles inside her. David can see it the certainty that held her together gives way. Suddenly, Margaret seems older, smaller, strangely fragile.
I only meant well she manages, her voice thin.
I know. But this isnt love, not anymore. If you keep this up, you wont get to see him at all.
The roast overcooks on the hob, bubbling up. Nobody moves.
That evening, with Margaret gone to her room, Jenny joins David on the sofa and leans against him in silence.
No one ever stood up for me, she whispers. Mum always knew best. I just went along.
David puts an arm around her.
In this house, your mum doesnt get to dictate any more. Not to you, not to Harry.
Jenny nods, squeezing his hand in relief.
Upstairs, the soft scritch of pencil on paper comes from Harrys room. Hes drawing with his left hand. No one is telling him hes doing it wrong anymore.
