All my friends had young, pretty mothers, but mine was different. Mine looked more like a grandmother, and it hurt deeply…
“Katie, Katie! Your gran’s come to fetch you!” Katie peered into the corridor and frowned—it was her mother standing by the wall.
“Mum, why do you have to collect me? I can walk home by myself, you know. I’m not a child,” Katie snapped, glaring at her.
“Darling, it’s dark out. It’s not safe for girls to walk alone at night,” her mother argued softly.
“Mum, it’s not night! It’s seven in the evening, and we live just down the road. I’m nearly thirteen—I’m grown up!” With that, Katie snatched her bag and stormed out of the music school.
…Katie was born when her parents had long given up hope. The first sign that something was amiss struck Natalie as she and her husband, Colin, prepared to visit friends.
“Colin… I don’t feel well… Sick and weak. 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, treating herself with home remedies—fasting, herbal infusions, stomach remedies. Yet she only grew weaker, and by the third day, Colin overruled her protests and called the doctor.
The physician listened carefully, tapped her back, checked her throat, and took her temperature—asking odd, seemingly irrelevant questions. His knowing glances unsettled her. She nearly scolded him for his unprofessional manner, but she lacked the strength.
The next morning, on the doctor’s advice, they visited a specialist.
Colin paced the corridor, nerves gnawing at him. When Natalie emerged, her expression frightened him—lips trembling between a smile and tears as she handed him a slip of paper. His hands shook as he read the words.
“Colin… Colin, love… We’re going to have a baby.” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. He held her, stunned, afraid to breathe, lest this miracle vanish.
She was forty-two. By the time Natalie gave birth, she was forty-three—the oldest mother in the ward. The nurses whispered behind her back: “The late mother from Ward Eight.”
Yet, when her time came, the birth was swift, easier than for many younger mothers. The baby was healthy, loud, and robust.
When Katie was little, she saw no difference between her mum and her friend Lucy’s. A mother was just a mother. But as she grew older, the cruel truth struck her in nursery.
“Mum, Mum, Katie’s mum is old—she’s going to die soon, isn’t she? Old people die!” young Thomas blurted.
Katie didn’t hesitate—she whacked him over the head with a toy. Thankfully, it was plastic. The lump was big, but the real damage was the screeching from Thomas’s mother, who raged through the nursery.
“Having children at their age! She should be collecting her pension, not raising a child! And now this brat assaults mine! I’ll report them! Let the authorities sort it!”
That evening, Katie faced a stern talk with her parents. But from then on, she fought anyone who dared mock them. Yet their words lingered—a slow, creeping shame took root.
School brought new trials. Parent evenings were agony. She dreaded the moment her teacher might address her parents—imagining her mother flushed with embarrassment, her father’s silver head bowed. So she never gave them reason to. She studied hard, excelling in every subject.
Of course, her parents were wonderful. She loved them deeply. But oh, how she wished her mother looked like Lucy’s, more like an older sister than a mum. Or her father like Ben’s dad, arriving at school in a sleek car, clad in leather.
Instead, hers were older, unfashionable. Her mother preferred books to high heels. Her father adored his battered Land Rover, spending weekends tinkering in the garage, muttering about “perfecting her.” He read history books, debated politics, and made the best pickled cabbage.
Katie grew up, graduated, and pursued medicine. Her diligence paid off—she qualified with honours, specialising in dentistry. Her father teased her as the “commander of the pearly-white brigade.”
Then one day, a young man entered her clinic with a toothache. It was simple—he’d cracked a nut. Flustered by the pretty assistant, he stumbled over his words. But the procedure went smoothly, and he left with a fixed smile.
Later, she bumped into him outside.
“Hello again, magic hands! I waited—hope you don’t mind?” Edward, as he introduced himself, offered her roses.
Blushing, she found herself drawn to him. They walked home together, talking effortlessly. By the time they reached her door, neither wanted to part.
They dated, and a month later, he proposed. Meeting his parents—a kind nursery teacher and an engineer—was effortless.
Then came the moment she’d feared all her life: introducing Edward to her parents.
“Mum, Dad… I have news. I’ve accepted a proposal. He’s coming for Sunday lunch—is that alright?” The words tumbled out, her heart racing.
“Katie, you never mentioned a beau! And isn’t it too soon?” Her mother looked bewildered.
“Natalie, love, she’s nearly twenty-four! You were married by then. Of course he’s welcome!” Her father kissed her forehead.
“Oh, darling, bring him! What joy!” Natalie dabbed her tears with a handkerchief.
Sunday arrived. They brought wine, cake, chocolates, and flowers. Her parents welcomed them warmly. When Edward kissed Natalie’s hand, she wavered—but warmth flickered in her eyes.
Dinner was lively. At one point, her father spirited Edward away for a “man’s talk,” leaving the women to fret.
Afterward, Katie lay awake, dreading Edward’s verdict. Surely he’d find them outdated, odd…
The next day, he met her outside the clinic.
“Last night was marvellous,” he said warmly. “Your mother’s beautiful—now I see where you get it. And your father! What a brilliant man. Arguing with him was a privilege. Katie, you should be proud.”
…She stood on her doorstep that evening, guilt heavy in her chest. Years wasted on shame, when she should’ve cherished them. Lost time, gone forever.
Inside, her mother read by the lamp; her father frowned at the telly. A familiar scene.
“Mum… Dad! Forgive me!” Tears streamed down her face. “I’ve been so wrong. I love you—so much!”
Her mother rushed over, alarmed. Her father sat frozen.
“What’s wrong, darling? Are you ill?”
She couldn’t explain—not fully. Blamed it on pre-wedding nerves. But the lesson etched itself into her heart.
Next time she introduced them, she’d say with pride: “These are my parents.”
…And the moral is this: someone will always be prettier, cleverer, richer. Younger, older, taller, thinner. But fretting over it is pointless. Especially about parents. After all, we don’t choose them.
