Laughter Through Hurt
Margaret Elizabeth placed a bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat down opposite, watching closely as Emily poked her spoon through the rich, brown swirls on the surface.
“Don’t like it?” Granny asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been wrinkling her nose at every spoonful for days.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered without looking up. “Just not really hungry.”
“Oh, not hungry,” Margaret drawled. “Funny, that—because yesterday I saw you rifling through the fridge, looking for something. Those frozen chicken pies, was it? The ones I bought specially?”
Emily sighed and dropped her spoon.
“Gran, come on, why d’you always do this? I said it’s fine. Just tired from work, that’s all.”
“Tired, she says.” Margaret shook her head. “At your age, I was still watering the garden after work, washing clothes by hand, ironing till my arms ached. You sit at a computer all day, and suddenly you’re exhausted?”
Emily shoved her chair back, the plate clattering.
“You know what, Gran? Enough! Every single day, it’s the same thing. The food’s not right, the job’s not proper, the boys I date aren’t good enough. I’m sick of it, honestly!”
“Is that how you speak to your elders?” Margaret snapped. “Is that how your mother raised you?”
“My mother didn’t raise me at all!” Emily blurted—then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Silence. Slowly, Margaret stood, gathering the dishes. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“Right. So it’s all my fault, then. Taking you in after your parents split—bad idea. Feeding you, caring for you—wrong of me.”
“Gran, I didn’t mean—” Emily floundered.
“What *did* you mean?” Margaret turned, and Emily saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. “That I’m some daft old woman cluttering up your life? Suppose I am. Young folk don’t want old ones about, I understand.”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret had already vanished into the kitchen. The rush of tap water, the clatter of dishes. Emily hovered, lost, then slunk to her room.
Margaret scrubbed plates and cried quietly. Hot tears dripped into the suds, her chest aching. Had she really become a burden? Was all her care just nagging to Emily now?
She remembered three years ago—Emily arriving with one suitcase and red-rimmed eyes. Her parents divorcing, her dad off with his secretary, her mum lost to the bottle. Where else could a twenty-year-old girl go? Of course, to Granny’s. Margaret had taken her in without question, cleared out the best room, cooked, cleaned, cared.
And now it was all unwanted? Her love just irritation?
“Margaret?” A voice from the hall. “You home, love?”
Margaret rushed to dab her face with a tea towel before answering. On the step stood Dorothy, the neighbour, holding a bag.
“Come in,” Margaret said brightly. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Oh, no time. My granddaughter brought these from London—posh chocolates, some foreign brand. Thought I’d share.”
“Ta, darling. How long’s she staying?”
“Just the week. Work won’t let her off longer. But the minute she arrived, she rushed over—flowers, perfume, ‘Missed you, Nana!’” Dorothy beamed. “Proper treat, isn’t it?”
Margaret smiled while her heart twisted. Dorothy’s granddaughter was all affection and gratitude. And hers? Just complaints and scowls.
“How’s your Emily? Still at that job?”
“Yes, yes. Good girl, helps me loads.”
“Course she is! Clever, pretty—you’re lucky.” Dorothy patted her arm. “Right, off I pop. Enjoy the chocolates!”
When the door shut, Margaret leaned against it, eyes closed. The lie burned. But she *had* been proud once—bragging about Emily’s grades, her dancing, her bright future…
“Gran, who was that?” Emily peered out, sheepish.
“Dorothy. Brought chocolates.”
“Ooh, let’s have tea with them?” Emily edged closer. “I… I wanted to say sorry. Spoke out of turn.”
Margaret wordlessly filled the kettle. Emily laid out the chocolates on a china plate.
“Fancy wrappers,” she mumbled.
“Dorothy’s granddaughter brought them from London,” Margaret said pointedly. “Thoughtful, isn’t she?”
Emily flushed. “Gran, don’t. I love you—it’s just… sometimes it feels like you’re on at me. Like with the stew.”
“On at you?” Margaret turned. “I *worry*. You’ve lost weight, you’re pale—thought you might be ill!”
“I’m fine. Just work’s mad right now. Deadlines, stress.”
Margaret poured tea, sat beside her.
“Why don’t you talk to me? Used to tell me everything—work, friends. Now? Not a peep.”
Emily fiddled with a chocolate.
“Dunno. Figured you wouldn’t get it. Computer stuff, design…”
“Try me!” Margaret huffed. “Might surprise you. Not senile yet.”
“You’re not! It’s just…” Emily sighed. “Work’s a nightmare. New boss, all swagger and rules. I don’t brown-nose, so he’s got it in for me.”
“What’s he do?”
“Picks at everything. Projects ‘unprofessional’, deadlines ‘missed’, clients ‘mishandled’. Three years I’ve been there, never a complaint—till *him*.”
Margaret listened. So *that* was why Emily was so prickly—not her, but work!
“Spoke to colleagues?”
“Yeah. They reckon he’s just like that—worse with the women. Thinks design’s ‘not a girl’s job’.”
“Prat,” Margaret declared.
Emily snorted. “Gran! Language!”
“Well, he *is*! Fancy bullying a clever lass like you. Your school posters were gorgeous—remember that competition you won?”
“You kept that?” Emily gaped.
“Course! In my scrapbook, with your diploma.”
Emily toyed with her spoon.
“Really? Thought… thought you saw me as a letdown. No proper job, no steady bloke…”
“Emily Elizabeth!” Margaret gasped. “You’re twenty-three! Bright, lovely—”
“But you *hate* the boys I bring home!”
Margaret paused. True, she’d vetoed a few—too flash, too rude, too tight-fisted.
“Maybe I’ve been harsh,” she admitted. “Just want you with someone *good*.”
“What if I’m not ready? Sort work first, get my own flat…”
“Fair enough. But don’t rush to move out. I like having you here.”
“*Really*? I thought I annoyed you—loud telly, mates over, mess…”
“Rubbish!” Margaret waved her off. “House felt like a tomb before. Now it’s alive!”
Over tea, Emily chatted about work—designing ad graphics, logos, website art. Margaret asked questions, genuinely interested.
“Show me some?” she ventured.
“You *want* to see?” Emily fetched her laptop. Margaret oohed at the vibrant designs.
“This one’s for a café—clients loved it.”
“And that boss twit doesn’t?”
“Says it’s ‘unserious’. Wants everything bland.”
“Sounds like *he’s* bland!” Margaret sniffed. “You’ve got talent—ignore that plank!”
Emily grinned. “You’re brilliant. Thought you wouldn’t ‘get’ modern art.”
“I know beauty when I see it. Stick to your guns.”
That evening, they watched telly, scoffing at the silly plots, laughing together. Emily curled up beside her, like she had as a child, and Margaret’s heart thawed.
Next morning, Emily cooked breakfast—scrambled eggs, strong coffee, the good china.
“What’s all this?” Margaret blinked.
“For my favourite gran.” Emily grinned. “Dig in!”
Margaret’s eyes watered at the first bite.
“Didn’t know you could cook!”
“You taught me! I just lazed about.”
“Said takeaways were better than slaving over a stove.”
“I was daft. Home cooking’s *love*—time, effort…”
Margaret dabbed her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart…”
“Don’t cry! Tell me your plans today. Fancy a walk?”
“What about work?”
“Work can wait. *You* can’t.”
They fed ducks in the park, chatting about everything—Margaret’s youth, Grandad (who’d written poetry, Emily learned), even Mum.
“You keep Mum’s childhood stuff?” Emily asked.
“Some. She was sweet, once. Then”And as they walked home hand in hand, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot, Margaret realized that sometimes the hardest storms make the deepest roots grow.”
