“All my friends have mums who look young and beautiful, but not me. Mine looks more like a grandma, and it’s just so unfair…”
“Katie, hey Katie! Your gran’s come to pick you up!” Katie glanced into the hallway and frowned—there by the wall stood her mum.
“Mum, why do you always have to come get me? I can walk home myself, you know. I’m not a little kid,” Katie grumbled, glaring at her mother.
“Love, it’s getting dark out. It’s not safe for girls to walk alone at night,” her mum said gently, trying to explain.
“Mum, what night? It’s only seven! And our house is just round the corner. I’m practically thirteen—I’m grown up!” Snatching up her bag, Katie stormed out of the music school.
…Katie was born when her parents had already given up hope. The first sign that Natalie was expecting caught her completely off guard—she’d been getting ready to meet friends with her husband when it happened.
“Colin… I don’t feel right. Sick, weak… Maybe I ate something dodgy. I’ll just lie down. You go without me…” Of course, he didn’t go.
She was down for two days, trying home remedies—stomach flushes, fasting, herbal teas. But by the third day, with no improvement, Colin overruled her weak protests and called the doctor.
The paramedic listened carefully, tapped her back, checked her throat, took her temperature. Then he started asking odd questions—completely irrelevant, she thought. His expression seemed almost amused, and she nearly snapped at him for being so unprofessional, but she just didn’t have the energy.
The next morning, following the doctor’s advice, they went to see a specialist. Colin stayed pacing the corridor, nervous. When Natalie came out, he was shocked by her expression—first a wobbly smile, then sudden tears as she handed him a slip of paper. His stomach dropped as he took it, bracing for bad news.
“Colin… love… we’re having a baby.” Natalie burst into full-on sobs, covering her face. He just held her, stunned, terrified to breathe in case this moment shattered.
They were both forty-two. Natalie gave birth just before turning forty-three—the oldest in the maternity ward. The nurses whispered about her: “That late mother in Bay 8.”
But when the time came, Natalie had an easy delivery—smoother than some of the younger mums. The baby was big, healthy, and loud.
When little Katie was small, she never noticed anything different about her mum compared to her friend Emily’s mum. A mum was just a mum. But as she grew older—and she was a clever girl—the first cruel truth came at nursery.
“Mum, mum, Katie’s mum’s so old she’ll die soon. Old people die, don’t they?” piped up Oliver from her class.
Katie, without thinking, whacked him over the head with a roly-poly toy. Luckily it was plastic. Just a big bump, but Oliver’s mum screeched loud enough for the whole nursery to hear.
“Having kids at their age! She should be retiring, not raising a child! And look how they’re bringing her up—hitting other kids! I’m reporting this! Let social services deal with it!”
At home, Katie got a stern talk from her parents. But from then on, she made it a habit to thump Oliver—or anyone else—who dared say such things. Still, their words stuck. Without realising, she started feeling ashamed of her parents.
School was worse. Parents’ evenings were torture. She’d dread the teacher calling on her mum or grey-haired dad, imagining them standing there awkwardly, blushing. The one upside? She never gave anyone a reason to single them out—she studied hard, stayed out of trouble.
Of course, her parents were wonderful. She loved them deeply. But oh, how she wished her mum looked like Emily’s—more like an older sister than a mum. Or her dad like Leo’s, with his leather jacket and flash car.
But no. Hers were older, unfashionable. Mum preferred books over high heels. Dad loved his battered Land Rover, tinkering in the garage every weekend, “perfecting” it. He was a thinker—history books, politics, and the best homemade pickled onions you’d ever taste.
Katie grew up, aced her exams, and got into med school. That hard-working habit paid off—she graduated top of her class and landed a dentistry residency. Dad joked she was the “commander of pearly-white smiles.”
One day at the clinic, a young man walked in with toothache—he’d cracked a nut the wrong way. He seemed embarrassed by the pretty assistant, but they fixed him up. Later, she bumped into him outside the hospital.
“Hello again, magic hands! I waited to catch you. Hope that’s alright?” James—that was his name—handed her roses. She blushed but liked him instantly.
They strolled home together, chatting like old friends. It felt so natural that by the time they reached her door, neither wanted to say goodbye.
A month later, James proposed. His parents—a nursery teacher and an engineer—were lovely. Then came the moment she’d feared and anticipated her whole life: introducing James to her parents.
“Mum, Dad… I’ve got news. I’m engaged. James is coming for Sunday lunch—is that okay?” She blurted it out, bracing herself.
“Darling, you never mentioned a boyfriend! Why wait so long? And isn’t it too soon?” Mum looked startled.
“Natalie, relax,” Dad cut in. “She had her reasons. Too soon? Love, she’s nearly twenty-four—you were already married at her age! Of course he’s welcome.”
Sunday arrived. They brought wine, cake, chocolates, and flowers for Mum. The evening was warm, full of laughter. At one point, Dad whisked James off to the kitchen for a “manly chat”—much to the women’s amusement.
Next morning, Katie was a wreck, dreading James’s verdict.
“Last night was amazing,” he beamed as they met after work. “Your mum’s gorgeous—no wonder you’re so beautiful. And your dad? Brilliant man. Arguing with him was a joy. Katie, you should be proud.”
That night, she stood in the doorway, watching her parents—Mum reading by the lamp, Dad frowning at the telly. Familiar, comforting. Her throat tightened.
“Mum… Dad, I’m sorry. I love you so much.” Tears streamed down her face.
They rushed over, bewildered. She never explained, blaming wedding nerves. But she’d learned her lesson. When their families met, she’d say with pride: “These are my parents.”
…The moral? Someone will always be prettier, smarter, richer, younger. It’s pointless to fret over it—especially about parents. After all, you don’t choose them.
