Raising a Softy
“Why on earth have you signed him up for music lessons?”
Margaret Harris breezed past her daughter-in-law, tugging off her gloves with firm, brisk movements.
“Hello, Margaret. Do come in. And yes, I’m ever so pleased to see you too.”
Her sarcasm fell into a bottomless pit; Margaret simply tossed her gloves onto the hallway table and turned fully to face Emily.
“Tom rang me about it. Grinning from ear to ear, he wassaid, ‘Im starting piano lessons!’ Whats this all about then? Are you turning him into a little girl?”
Emily pressed the front door closed, slow and gentle, willing herself not to snap and scream right in Margarets face.
“It means your grandson will be studying music. Hes really keen on it.”
“Keen!” Margaret snorted, as if Emily had demanded Tom be taught underwater basket weaving. “Hes six! He hasnt the faintest idea what he wants. Thats your jobto guide him. Hes a boy, my grandson, an heirand youre raising him to be what, exactly?”
Margaret strode to the kitchen, flicking the kettle switch like she owned the place. Emily bit down so hard her jaw ached, and followed.
“Im raising him to be happy.”
“Youre raising a soft, wet rag, love! You shouldve put him in football. Rugby. Boys sports! He ought to grow up a proper young man, not not a pianist!”
Emily leaned against the doorway, counted to five, kept going. No use.
“Tom asked me himself. He really likes music.”
“Likes music, does he?” Margaret dismissed her with a wave. “James, at his age, was tearing around outside, off with the lads, playing cricket! And yours will be tinkling away on scales? Its embarrassing!”
Something inside Emily snapped. She pushed off and stepped closer.
“Are you quite finished?”
“No, Im not! Ive been meaning for ages to”
“And Ive meant to tell you, Margaret,” Emily dropped her voice to a fierce whisper. “Tom is my son. Mine. Ill decide how hes brought up. And you wont interfere.”
Margaret flushed crimson.
“Youhow dare you speak to me like that?!”
“Please leave.”
“What?!”
Emily brushed past, grabbed Margarets coat, and pressed it firmly into her arms.
“Out of my house, Margaret.”
“Youre throwing me out? Me?!”
Emily swung the door wide, took Margaret gently but firmly by the elbow, and ushered her towards the stairwell. Margaret pulled back, tried to wrench free, but Emily would not let go. Finally, she managed to push her mother-in-law out.
“Ill have my way!” Margaret shrieked from the landing, face twisted with fury. “You hear me? I wont let you ruin my only grandson!”
“Goodbye, Margaret.”
“James will hear all about this! Ill tell him everything!”
Emily closed the door. She collapsed against it, breathing out every last thread of tension.
For long minutes, angry mutterings filtered through the door, followed by loud footsteps down the stairs. Then, silence.
Shed had more than enough. Years of constant criticisms, unwanted advice, lectureshow to raise Tom, what to feed him, what clothes to buy. James never saw the problem. “Mum means well,” he always said. “Shes experienced. Just listen, whats the harm.” He worshipped his mother. Every word she spoke was gospel. Emily had to endure, day in, day out, each excruciating visit.
But not today.
James returned from work just shy of eight. Emily instantly knew Margaret had rung him, from the way he threw his keys onto the hall table and slumped into the kitchen, not even glancing into the lounge where Tom was watching cartoons.
“Tom, sweetheart, stay here,” Emily crouched before Tom, plopped gigantic headphones onto his ears, and switched on his favourite show about robot knights. “Mum and Dad need to talk.”
Tom nodded, glued to the screen. Emily closed his door and walked to the kitchen.
James was at the window, arms folded. He did not turn around when she entered.
“You forced my mum out.”
Not a question. A plain statement.
“I asked her to leave.”
“You shoved her out!” James wheeled around, jaw twitching. “She cried down the phone for two hours, Emily. Two hours!”
Emily sank into a chair. Her legs ached after a full day at work, and now this fresh nightmare.
“And youre fine with how she upset me?”
James faltered, just for a second, then waved it away.
“Shes worried for her grandson. Whats wrong with that?”
“She called our son soft, a wet blanket. Our son, James. Hes six.”
“She got heated, sure. But my mums right, Em. Boys need sport. Team spirit. Toughening up…”
Emily looked at him, long and hard, until James glanced away.
“When I was little, my mother forced gymnastics on me. Absolutely insisted. I spent five yearsfive yearssobbing before every session. Stretched until I cried, missed meals, begged her to let me stop.”
James stared.
“I still cant stand gyms. Even now. And Ill never put my son through that. If he wants football, fine. But only if he chooses. Never by force.”
“Mum only means well…”
“Then she should have another child and do as she wishes,” Emily rose from the table. “Margaret will not meddle in Toms upbringing anymore. And neither will you, if youre just her echo.”
James twitched, as if to protest, but Emily had already left. The rest of the evening passed in silence. Emily tucked Tom in, then sat in darkness, listening to his gentle breathing.
The next two days passed like a cold standoff. Then, one night at dinner, James made a joke; Emily smiledsomething shifted. By Friday, they were talking again, carefully skirting anything to do with Margaret.
Early Saturday morning, Emily woke with a start. Eight AM. Far too early for a weekend. James lay beside her, snoring softly, Tom surely asleep.
What had woken her?
She listenedtiny metallic chime from the hall. Someone turning the lock.
Her heart rocketed into her throat. Burglars? In broad daylight? She grabbed her phone from the bedside table and crept on tiptoe into the hallway.
The front door swung open.
Margaret stood on the threshold, a bunch of keys dangling from her fingers, triumphant smile bright as the morning.
“Good morning, darling.”
Emily stood barefoot on the cold tiles, oversized t-shirt and pyjama bottoms hanging off her, Margaret looming before her, perfectly comfortable waltzing into someone elses house at eight on a Saturday.
“Where did you get these keys?”
Margaret waggled them under Emilys nose.
“James gave them to me. Brought them over Thursday. Said, ‘Sorry Mum, she didnt mean to upset you.’ Settling your debts, he was, apologising for your little nonsense.”
Emily blinkedonce, twicetrying to process this jumble.
“What are you doing here? At this hour?”
“Here for my grandson,” Margaret hung up her coat, already marching toward Toms room. “Come along, Tommy! Grannys signed you up for football, first practice today!”
Rage stormed through Emilys veinshot and thick, suffocating and blinding. She spun and stormed into the bedroom.
James lay facing the wall, feigning sleep, shoulders tense beneath the covers.
“Get up!”
“Cant this wait, Em…”
She ripped off his blanket, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to the living room. James stumbled, tried to resist, but Emily refused to let go.
Margaret was already ensconced on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, flipping through a magazine from the coffee table.
“You gave her keys,” Emily stopped dead in the centre, still gripping his wrist. “To my flat.”
James was silent, shuffling his feet, small as a scolded child.
“This is my flat, James. I bought it before we married. With my own money. How dare you give your mum a set of my keys?”
“Oh, how petty!” Margaret slammed the magazine shut. “Yours, not yours… All you ever think about is yourself! James cared about his son, thats why. He wanted me to see my grandson. Since you bar the door to me, he did the right thing.”
“Be quiet, please!”
Margaret gasped, scandalised, but Emily only stared at James.
“Tom wont be going to football. Unless he chooses.”
“Not up to you!” Margaret was on her feet, eyes wild. “Youre nobody! You wont always be here, you know! Think youre something special, do you? James sticks it out only for the boy.”
Silence.
Emily slowly turned to her husband. He stared at the carpet.
“James?”
Nothing. Not a word for her. Not a single defence.
“Fine,” Emily nodded, a strange, icy calm settling in. “A temporary fling. And it ends now. Take your son, Margaret. Hes no longer my husband.”
“You wouldnt dare!” Margaret, pale as bone, hissed. “You cant just leave him like this!”
“James,” Emily uttered, voice razor-sharp, “You have thirty minutes. Pack your things and go. Orout in your pyjamas. Up to you.”
“Emily, waitlets talk…”
“We’ve already talked.”
She turned to Margaret, baring her teeth in a crooked smile.
“Keep the keys if you want. Ill change the locks this afternoon.”
…The divorce lasted four months. James tried to come backcalls, messages, flowers at the door. Margaret threatened courts, custody fights, and called on secret connections. Emily hired an excellent solicitor and stopped answering.
Two years flew by…
…The hall at the local arts academy buzzed with voices. Emily sat in the third row, fidgeting with her programme”Thomas Harris, age 8. Beethoven: Ode to Joy”.
Tom strode out, grave and focused, in crisp white shirt and black trousers. He settled at the grand piano, hands poised.
The music filled the hall. Emily let herself goheld her breath as Tom played.
Her son, playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old, whod begged for music lessons, spent hours at the piano, chosen the piece himself for this concert.
When the last chord faded, the hall erupted in applause. Tom stood, bowed, found his mums eyes, and beamedwide and joyful.
Emily clapped along, tears streaming down.
Shed done itshed put her son first, before opinions, before the marriage, before fear of being alone.
Thats what being a mother should mean.
