**Diary Entry**
It always stung a little—my friends’ mums were youthful and pretty, while mine looked more like a grandmother. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
“Emily, Em! Your nan’s here to pick you up!” I glanced into the hallway and frowned. There stood my mum, shoulders slightly hunched, clutching her handbag.
“Mum, you didn’t have to come. I could’ve walked by myself—it’s not even properly dark yet,” I grumbled, shooting her an irritated look.
“But love, it’s already past seven! It’s not safe for girls your age to walk alone after sunset,” she protested, her voice gentle but firm.
“Sunset? Hardly! The flat’s just round the corner. I’m nearly thirteen, Mum, not a child,” I snapped, grabbing my schoolbag and storming out of the music school.
…I was a late surprise for my parents. Mum—Eleanor—had all but given up hope until that evening when she suddenly felt ill.
“Thomas… I don’t feel right. Sick, dizzy. Must be something I ate. You go ahead to the pub without me.” But he stayed, of course.
For two days, she tried old wives’ remedies—ginger tea, dry toast, endless cups of weak broth. By the third day, Dad called the GP, ignoring her feeble protests.
The doctor listened, tapped her back, frowned at her throat. Asked odd questions—whether her perfume smelled different, if she’d been unusually tired. She almost snapped at him for wasting time until he sent her for tests.
The next morning, Dad paced the hospital corridor like a caged bear. When Mum finally emerged, her face was unreadable—first a wobbly smile, then sudden tears as she thrust a slip of paper at him.
“Tom… Tommy… We’re having a baby.”
They were both forty-two. By the time I arrived, Mum was forty-three, the oldest on the maternity ward. The nurses whispered—”the geriatric mother in Bed Six.”
Yet against all odds, the birth was easy. I was big, loud, and perfectly healthy.
When I was small, Mum was just Mum—no different from Sarah’s or Lucy’s. The first cruel whisper came at nursery.
“Mum, Mum, Emily’s mum’s ancient. Old people die soon, don’t they?”
I whacked the boy with a Beanie Baby. He got a lump; his mum got hysterical.
“Having kids at their age! Should be drawing pensions, not raising toddlers! No wonder she’s feral—I’m reporting them!”
That night, I got a stern talk. Afterward, I thumped anyone who dared mention it. But the seed was planted. Slowly, shame took root.
School was worse. Parents’ evenings were agony. I dreaded teachers addressing Mum and Dad—her in her sensible cardigans, him in his ancient waxed jacket. So I studied relentlessly, never giving them reason to speak.
I loved them, truly. But oh, how I wished Mum looked like Lucy’s—sleek-haired, in designer jeans—or that Dad drove a flashy Audi instead of tinkering with his battered Land Rover.
At uni, I aced my dentistry degree. Dad dubbed me “Captain of the Pearly Whites.”
Then one day, a patient—Oliver—came in with a cracked tooth (walnuts, of all things). He was sweetly flustered by my presence. Later, he waited outside with roses.
“Hello again, magic hands. Hope you don’t mind? I wanted to thank you properly.”
A month later, he proposed. His parents—lovely people, a primary teacher and an architect—welcomed me warmly.
Then came the moment I’d dreaded. Introducing Oliver to mine.
“Mum, Dad… I’m engaged. He’s coming Sunday. Is that alright?” The words tumbled out.
“Darling, you never mentioned a beau! And so young—you’re only twenty-three!” Mum fretted.
Dad chuckled. “Ellie, love, she’s older than you were when we married. Of course he’s welcome.”
Sunday arrived. We brought wine, a Victoria sponge, and flowers. Dad grilled Oliver in the kitchen (loud debates about politics, from what I caught). Mum blushed when he kissed her hand.
The next morning, Oliver beamed. “Your mum’s gorgeous! Now I see where you get your looks. And your dad—what a brilliant mind! Arguing with him was *fantastic.*”
That night, I stood in our doorway, gut churning. All those years wasted on shame.
“Mum… Dad… I’m sorry. I love you. So much.”
Mum dropped her book. Dad froze mid-sip of tea.
“Darling, what’s wrong? Are you ill?” Mum’s hands fluttered to my forehead as I sobbed.
I never told them why I cried. Blamed wedding stress. But I’ll never forget the lesson: Somewhere, someone will always be prettier, richer, younger. It doesn’t matter. Least of all with family.
(And no, you can’t choose your parents. Thank God.)
