Laughter Through Hurt
Margaret Williams set a bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat down opposite, watching as Emily listlessly stirred the thick gravy with her spoon.
“Don’t like it?” Margaret asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been pushing the same food around her plate for days.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered without looking up. “Just not that hungry.”
“Oh, not hungry,” Margaret said dryly. “Yet I saw you rummaging in the fridge last night. Looking for those frozen chicken pies, weren’t you? The ones I bought specially?”
Emily sighed and put her spoon down.
“Dad, really, must we do this? I told you—it’s fine. I’m just exhausted from work. No appetite.”
“Exhausted, is it?” Margaret shook her head. “At your age, I’d come home and still tend to the garden, hand-wash clothes, iron until midnight. You sit at a computer all day and claim you’re worn out.”
Emily stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor.
“You know what, Dad? Enough! The same thing every day. The food’s wrong, my job’s not real work, my boyfriends aren’t good enough. I’m sick of it!”
“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 fell. Margaret slowly got up, collecting the plates. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“Right. So it’s all my fault. Taking you in after your parents’ divorce—that was wrong too. Feeding you, looking after you—also a mistake.”
“Dad, that’s not what I meant…” Emily faltered.
“Then what did you mean?” Margaret turned, and Emily saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “That I’m just a meddling old fool in your way? Maybe you’re right. Young people never want the old hanging about.”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret had already disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of running water and clattering dishes followed. The girl hesitated, then retreated to her room.
Margaret scrubbed the plates, crying quietly. Hot tears dripped into the soapy water, her chest aching with hurt. Had she really become a burden? Was all her care just nagging now?
She remembered three years ago—Emily arriving with one suitcase and red-rimmed eyes. Her parents divorcing, her father running off with his secretary, her mother drowning in drink. Where else could a twenty-year-old girl go? Of course, to her dad. Margaret had taken her in without question, cleared out the best room, cooked, cleaned, cared.
And now it seemed none of it mattered. That her love only grated.
“Margaret? You home?” A voice called from the hallway.
Margaret quickly dried her face and opened the door. Their neighbor, Grace Bennett, stood there with a small bag.
“Come in,” Margaret said brightly. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Oh, no time. My granddaughter brought these down from London,” Grace said, handing over the bag. “Fancy chocolates—thought I’d share.”
“Ta ever so,” Margaret said. “She staying long?”
“Just the week. Work won’t let her off longer. But the minute she arrived—straight to me! Flowers, perfume, ‘Granny, I missed you!'” Grace beamed. “Bless her heart.”
Margaret smiled and nodded, her chest tight. Grace had a grateful, loving granddaughter. And hers? Nothing but complaints.
“How’s your Emily? Still at that job?” Grace asked.
“Oh, yes,” Margaret said quickly. “Good girl, always helping out.”
“Course she is! Clever, pretty—you’re lucky.” Grace patted her arm. “Off I pop. Enjoy the chocolates!”
When the door shut, Margaret leaned against it, eyes closed. How it hurt to lie, to pretend all was well. Once, she’d boasted about Emily—how bright she was, how talented at art, how beautifully she danced.
“Dad? Who was here?” Emily appeared, looking guilty.
“Grace. Brought some chocolates,” Margaret said flatly.
“Listen… fancy a brew with them? I, uh… wanted to apologize.” Emily fidgeted. “Said stupid things.”
Margaret silently put the kettle on. Emily laid out the chocolates on a plate.
“These look posh,” she murmured. “Gold wrappers.”
“Grace’s girl brought them. Shows she cares,” Margaret remarked, setting out cups.
Emily flushed at the jab.
“Dad, come on. I love you, it’s just… sometimes it feels like you’re on my case. Like with the stew.”
“On your case?” Margaret turned. “Or maybe I’m worried. You’ve lost weight, look peaky. Are you ill?”
“No, just… work’s mad right now. Tight deadlines, everyone’s stressed.”
Margaret poured the tea and sat.
“Why don’t you talk to me? You used to—about work, your mates. Now you’re like a spy. Silent.”
Emily fiddled with a chocolate.
“Dunno… Thought you wouldn’t get it. Design software, logos—not your thing.”
“Try me!” Margaret huffed. “Might surprise you. Not senile yet.”
Emily smiled faintly. “Course you’re not. Just… work’s a mess. New boss—young, flash. Riding everyone. I don’t suck up, so he’s got it in for me.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Nothing’s ever right. Projects are ‘unprofessional,’ deadlines missed, clients unhappy. Three years I was fine—now suddenly I’m rubbish?”
Margaret listened. So that was it—not her, but work.
“Talked to your colleagues?”
“They say he’s like it with everyone. Worse with the girls. Thinks women can’t design.”
“Prat,” Margaret said succinctly.
Emily laughed. “Dad! Language.”
“Well? He is!” Margaret threw up her hands. “You’ve got talent. Those posters you did in school—stunning!”
“You remember those?”
“‘Course I do! Kept them in my album. And your certificates.”
Emily blinked. “Why?”
“Why? You’re my pride and joy! Thought you knew.”
Emily looked down.
“Didn’t. Always felt I disappointed you. No proper job, no serious boyfriend…”
“Emily, love!” Margaret gasped. “You’re twenty-three! Clever, beautiful, working hard…”
“But the boyfriends never last. You never like them.”
Margaret paused. True enough—she’d called one lazy, another tight-fisted, another rude.
“Maybe… maybe I overstep,” she admitted. “Just want someone good for you.”
“Or maybe I’m not ready?” Emily met her eyes. “Sort work first, get my own place…”
“Maybe,” Margaret agreed. “But don’t rush moving out. I like having you here.”
“Really? Thought I annoyed you. Music too loud, mates over, mess…”
“Not a bit of it!” Margaret waved a hand. “House feels alive. Before, just me and the telly. Dreadfully dull.”
They drank tea, ate chocolates. Emily talked about work, her projects—designing ad graphics, logos, website art.
“Show me some?” Margaret asked.
“Really?”
“‘Course! My girl’s work—I’m interested.”
Emily fetched her laptop, displayed her designs. Margaret oohed—bright, bold, clever.
“And that boss calls this rubbish?”
“Says it’s ‘unfocused.’ Wants everything corporate and boring.”
“Well, he’s wrong,” Margaret declared. “Why dull down beauty? Got no soul, that one.”
Emily chuckled. “You’d hate his ‘minimalist’ style.”
“Pah! Trust your gut. Your talent’s real.”
“Thanks, Dad. Means a lot.”
Margaret squeezed her hand.
“I just want you happy. And… not to resent me caring.”
“Don’t. Just work’s got me snappy. Shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“Water under the bridge. Main thing is—we talked.”
That evening, they watched telly together, joked about the silly plots. Emily curled up beside her, like she’d done as a child, and Margaret felt a warmth she’d missed.
Next morning, Emily got up early and cooked—scrambled eggs, toast, strong coffee.
“What’s all this?” Margaret blinked at the set table.
“Breakfast for my favorite dad,” Emily said. “Dig in.”
Margaret tasted it.
“Lovely! Didn’t know you could cook.”
“Taught by the best,” Emily grinned.
Margaret’s eyes watered.
“Em, love…”
“Don’t cry! Tell me your plans today. Fancy an outing?”
“What about work?”
“Work can wait. Time with you is rarer.”
They went to the park, fed ducks, talked. Margaret sharedThey walked home hand in hand, the weight of unspoken words finally lifted, and for the first time in years, Margaret felt certain that everything would be just fine.
