Laughter Through Hurt
Margaret Williams set a bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat opposite, watching intently as Emily prodded at the carrots with her spoon, tracing swirls in the gravy.
“Don’t like it?” Margaret asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been grimacing at every bite for days.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered without looking up. “Just not that hungry.”
“Right, not hungry,” Margaret drawled. “Yet yesterday, I saw you rummaging through the fridge—looking for those frozen chicken pies, weren’t you? The ones I bought specially?”
Emily sighed and pushed her spoon away.
“Nan, why do you have to start? I said it’s fine. Just tired from work, that’s all.”
“Tired, is it?” Margaret shook her head. “At your age, I was still watering the garden after work, hand-washing clothes, ironing. You sit at a computer all day, and you’re *tired*?”
Emily shoved her chair back, and the bowl clattered.
“You know what, Nan? Enough! Same thing every day. First it’s the food, then my job, then the boys I date. I’ve had it, honestly!”
“Is that any way to 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 hung between them. Slowly, Margaret rose, 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—that was wrong too. Feeding you, looking after you—also a mistake.”
“Nan, I didn’t mean it like that—” Emily stammered.
“What *did* you mean?” Margaret turned, and Emily saw the glint of tears in her grandmother’s eyes. “That I’m some daft old woman getting in your way? Maybe I am. Young people don’t want us around—I get that.”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret had already vanished into the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes followed. Frozen in place, Emily eventually slunk to her room.
Margaret scrubbed the plates, tears slipping into the soapy water, her chest tight with hurt. Was she truly a burden? Had all she’d done—every meal, every load of laundry—been seen as nagging?
Three years ago, Emily had arrived with a single suitcase and red-rimmed eyes. Her parents’ divorce had shattered everything—her father off with his secretary, her mother lost to the bottle. Where else could a twenty-year-old go but to her nan? Margaret had cleared out the best room, cooked, cleaned, cared—without a word.
And now it all seemed unwanted.
“Margaret!” A voice called from the hallway. “You home?”
Quickly drying her face, Margaret opened the door. Neighbour Judith stood there, holding a bag.
“Come in,” Margaret said, forcing brightness. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Oh, no time. My granddaughter brought these from London—posh chocolates. Thought I’d share.”
“Ta ever so,” Margaret took the bag. “She staying long?”
“Just a week. Work, you know. But the minute she arrived—straight to her nan! Brought flowers, perfume, kept saying, ‘I’ve missed you, Nan!’” Judith beamed. “Proper joy, she is.”
Margaret smiled, her heart aching. Judith had a granddaughter who adored her. And her own? Just complaints and resentment.
“How’s your Emily? Still at that job?”
“Oh, yes. Lovely girl, helps me loads.”
“Course she does! Clever, pretty—lucky, you are.”
When Judith left, Margaret leaned against the door, eyes closed. Lying hurt—pretending everything was fine. Once, she’d boasted about Emily to everyone—her grades, her dancing, her sharp mind.
“Nan, who was that?” Emily peeked out, guilt written plainly.
“Judith. Brought chocolates.”
“Let’s have tea, then. With these?” Emily inched closer. “I… I’m sorry. Spoke out of turn.”
Silently, Margaret filled the kettle. Emily arranged the chocolates on a plate.
“Fancy wrappers,” she murmured.
“Judith’s granddaughter brought them. *She* thinks of her nan.”
Emily flushed. “Nan, come on. I love you. It’s just… sometimes I feel criticised. Like with the stew.”
“*Criticised*?” Margaret turned. “I worry, that’s all. You’ve lost weight—look peaky. Not ill, are you?”
“No. Just work’s mad right now. Big deadline, everyone’s stressed.”
Margaret poured the tea and sat beside her.
“Why don’t you tell me? You used to—about work, your mates. Now you clam up.”
Emily fiddled with a chocolate.
“Dunno… Thought you wouldn’t get it. Design software, branding—it’s not your thing.”
“Try me!” Margaret huffed. “Might surprise you. Not *completely* thick.”
“You’re not. It’s just…” Emily hesitated. “Work’s a mess. New boss—young, arrogant. Loves micromanaging. I don’t brown-nose, so he’s got it in for me.”
“And?”
“Nothing’s ever right. Projects ‘lack professionalism’, deadlines ‘slipped’. Three years I worked fine—now I’m useless?”
Margaret listened. So *that* was it—not her, but work poisoning Emily’s mood.
“Talked to colleagues?”
“They say he’s like it with everyone—especially the women. Thinks design’s ‘not a girl’s job’.”
“Pillock,” Margaret muttered.
Emily snorted. “Nan! Language!”
“Well, he is! Fancy belittling a talent like yours? Remember those posters you made at school—stunning!”
“You remember those?”
“‘Course! Kept the best in my scrapbook. Still got your certificate, too.”
Emily blinked. “Really? Why?”
“Why? *Pride*, love. Thought you knew.”
Emily stirred her tea.
“Didn’t. Always felt I disappointed you. No proper career, no steady boyfriend…”
“Goodness, Emily! You’re twenty-three! Bright, beautiful, working hard—what’s to disappoint?”
“But you never like the boys I date.”
Margaret paused. True—she’d vetoed plenty. Too immature, too rude, too flashy.
“Suppose you’re right,” she admitted. “Just want someone worthy of you.”
“Maybe I’m not ready for serious yet,” Emily said. “Sort work first, save for a flat…”
“Fair enough. But no rush to move. I like having you here.”
“Really? I thought I annoyed you. Loud telly, mates over, mess…”
“Rubbish! House feels alive now. Before, it was just me and the telly—proper gloomy.”
They sipped tea, Emily sharing work woes. Margaret listened, asking questions. Turns out, Emily’s job *was* fascinating—creating ad visuals, logos, website designs.
“Show me some?” Margaret asked.
“*Really*?”
“‘Course! My granddaughter’s work—why wouldn’t I care?”
Emily fetched her laptop, displaying projects. Margaret gasped—bold colours, clever layouts.
“Blimey! You did all this?”
“Yeah. This café logo was a hit.”
“And that twit boss? What’s *his* take?”
Emily pulled a face. “Says it’s ‘unprofessional’. Wants everything corporate and dull.”
“Because he’s got no soul!” Margaret declared. “Don’t listen—your designs are smashing!”
Emily laughed. “Nan, you’re brilliant. Thought you’d hate modern stuff.”
“Don’t get half of it, true. But *talent*? That’s clear. Trust your gut.”
“Thanks, Nan. Means a lot.”
Margaret patted her hand.
“Just want you happy. And not to resent my fussing. Comes from love.”
“Know it does. Work’s made me snappy. Not fair on you.”
“Water under the bridge. Talk’s what matters.”
That evening, they watched telly, scoffing at silly plots, Emily curled beside Margaret like a child. Warmth seeped back into Margaret’s heart, thawing a long chill.
Next morning, Emily rose early—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, strong coffee laid out.
“What’s this?” Margaret blinked.
“Breakfast for my favourite nan. Sit!”
Margaret took a bite. “Lovely! Didn’t know you cooked.”
“Learnt from you. Just was lazy before.”
“*Lazy*? You swore takeaways were better.”
“Was daft. Now I see—home cooking’s love. Time spent, effort made…”
Margaret teared up.
“Emily, love…”As they walked home hand in hand, the last golden light of the day washing over them, Margaret realized that love—in all its messy, imperfect forms—was simply a matter of showing up and trying again, day after day.
