“My friends have young, pretty mums, and I don’t. Mine looks more like a gran, and it’s so unfair…”
“Emily, Em! Your gran’s here for you!” Emily peeked into the hallway and frowned—her mum stood by the wall.
“Mum, why do you come to pick me up? I can walk home myself, you know. I’m not a baby,” Emily said, glaring.
“Love, it’s already dark out. It’s not safe for girls to walk alone at night,” her mum defended.
“Mum, what night? It’s seven in the evening! And we live just round the corner. I’m practically grown—almost thirteen!” She snatched her bag and stormed out of music school.
…Emily was born when her parents had all but given up hope. The first sign caught Natalie completely off-guard, just as she and her husband were about to leave for a friend’s house.
“Paul… I don’t feel well. Sick, dizzy… Maybe it’s something I ate. I’ll lie down—go without me.” But of course, he didn’t.
She was bedridden for two days, relying on home remedies—stomach teas, fasting, herbal brews—but nothing helped. On the third day, despite her weak protests, Paul called the doctor.
The GP listened carefully, tapped her back, checked her throat. He took her temperature and asked odd, irrelevant questions, glancing at her in a way that felt mocking. She nearly snapped—but lacked the strength.
The next morning, on the doctor’s advice, they visited a specialist.
Paul paced the hospital corridor nervously. When Natalie emerged, her expression terrified him—first a trembling smile, then sudden tears as she handed him a slip. His hands shook as he took it, bracing for bad news.
“Paul… darling… we’re having a baby.” She burst into sobs, hiding her face. He held her, stunned, afraid to breathe lest the moment vanish.
They were forty-two. Natalie gave birth just shy of forty-three, the oldest on the maternity ward. The nurses whispered—*the late mum from Room Eight*.
But Emily arrived right on time, surprising everyone—healthy, loud, with an easy birth, smoother than many younger mothers’.
For years, Emily saw no difference between her mum and her friend Lucy’s vibrant young mum—a mum was a mum. But as she grew sharper, the first cruel truth came at nursery.
“Mum, Emily’s mum’s ancient—she’ll die soon, won’t she? Old people die!” piped up Jake from her class.
Without hesitation, Emily whacked him with a stuffed bunny. The toy was soft, leaving just a bump—but Jake’s mum screeched across the nursery.
“Having kids at their age! She should be collecting her pension, not raising a daughter! No wonder they can’t teach her manners—I’ll report them!”
A serious talk followed, but from then on, Emily thumped any kid who dared mock her parents—yet their words festered. Slowly, shame took root.
School was worse. Parent evenings became nightmares—she’d flinch, picturing the teachers addressing her grey-haired dad or blushing mum. It drove her to excel—no complaints, top marks.
Of course, her parents were wonderful. She loved them fiercely. But she ached for a mum like Lucy’s—youthful, stylish—or a dad like Oliver’s, who rocked leather jackets and a flashy car.
Hers? Mum lived in books, not heels; Dad tinkered endlessly with his old Land Rover, swore by historical novels and home-brewed beer, and could debate politics for hours.
Emily grew up, aced medical school, and specialised in dentistry. Dad joked she was the *Commander of Pearly Whites*.
Then one day, a patient—a guy who’d cracked a tooth on walnuts—walked in. Flustered by the pretty assistant, he stammered through the appointment. Later, he waited outside the clinic.
“Hello again, magic hands! I hope you don’t mind—I waited to ask you out.” William—that was his name—handed her roses.
Blushing, she agreed. Walking home, they talked effortlessly—like old friends. By her doorstep, neither wanted to part.
A month later, he proposed. His parents—a nursery teacher and an engineer—welcomed her warmly. Then came the moment she’d dreaded: introducing him to her parents.
“Mum, Dad… I’m getting married.” The words tumbled out.
“Darling, you never mentioned him! Isn’t it too soon?” Mum gasped.
“Natalie, stop—if she didn’t tell us, she had reasons. Too soon? She’s twenty-four—you were married by then!” Dad hugged her. “Of course bring him—we’d love to meet him.”
Sunday dinner arrived. They brought wine, a cake, chocolates, and flowers. Mum flushed when William kissed her hand but warmed instantly.
The evening was perfect—until Dad whisked William to the kitchen. The women eavesdropped, shushed away.
That night, Emily tossed and turned. What if he thought her parents frumpy, outdated?
Next morning, William beamed outside the clinic.
“Last night was brilliant! Your mum’s gorgeous—no wonder you’re so lovely. And your dad? Sharp as a tack—I could talk to him for hours. You should be proud!”
Emily froze.
At home, she stood in the doorway, watching Mum read under the lamp, Dad scowling at the telly—his thinking face.
“Mum… Dad… I’m sorry!” She burst into tears.
They rushed over, alarmed.
“What’s wrong, love? Are you ill?”
She couldn’t explain. But she’d learned: pride wasn’t in having perfect parents—it was in loving yours.
…And the lesson? There’ll always be someone prettier, cleverer, richer—younger, older, thinner. No point fretting. Same with parents. Besides—you don’t choose them.
