Raising a Wet Blanket
Why on earth did you enrol him in music lessons?
Barbara Watson breezed past her daughter-in-law as she peeled off her gloves with the precision of a surgeon.
Lovely to see you too, Barbara, said Emily, shooting a smile as brittle as a Tesco ginger snap. Do come in. The pleasure is certainly mutual.
Her sarcasm barely grazed Barbara, who hurled her gloves onto the side table and turned to face Emily.
Tommy rang me, all sunshine and rainbows, chattering about how hes going to play the piano! Whats gotten into you? Hes not a girl, Emily.
Emily closed the front door with the delicacy of someone suppressing a primal scream.
It means your grandson will learn music. Hes really excited about it.
Excited? Barbara snorted as if Emily had announced shed bought a pet octopus. Hes only six; he doesnt know what he likes. You should be guiding him. Hes a boy! My grandson! Who are you turning him into?
Barbara marched into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle like she owned the place. Emily followed, jaw clenched so tightly her molars were sending SOS messages.
Im raising a happy child.
Youre raising a wimp and a doormat! Barbara put her hands on her hips. You shouldve signed him up for football. Or rugby! He needs to grow up a man, not not some pianist with slippery fingers!
Emily leaned against the door frame. Counted to five. No help from the numbers, unfortunately.
Tommy asked for it himself. Genuinely. He loves music.
Loves it! Barbara waved a hand dismissively. When Graham was his age, he spent his days knocking about with the lads, playing cricket! And your boy? Scales and Chopsticks? Embarrassing!
Something in Emily snapped. She stepped forward and met Barbara’s glare.
Are you finished?
No, Im not finished! Ive been meaning to tell you
And Ive been meaning to tell you, Emily whispered, voice like a velvet dagger. Tommys my son. Mine. Ill decide how to raise him. And you wont interfere.
Barbara went beetroot.
You how dare you speak to me like that?!
Out.
Pardon?!
Emily swept past her, grabbed Barbaras coat from the hall stand, and shoved it at her.
Out of my house.
Youre kicking me out?! Me?!
Emily flung open the door, seized Barbaras elbow, and frog-marched her to the threshold. Barbara dug in her heels and flapped like a startled pigeon, but Emily was tenacious. One firm push, and Barbara found herself on the chilly doorstep.
Ill have my way! Barbara shrieked from the landing, face scrunched in outrage. Do you hear me?! I wont let you ruin my only grandson!
Goodbye, Barbara.
Graham will hear all about this! Ill tell him everything!
Emily closed the door with a sigh that sapped every atom of breath from her. She leaned against it, squeezing out the last dregs of adrenaline. Shouts echoed through the wood for a minute, followed by the thud-thud-thud of outraged footsteps clomping downstairs. Silence finally arrived, blessed and sacred.
Done. Barbara had truly, finally completed her emotional hit list. Years of nagging, sniping, expert advice on everything from potty training to weather-appropriate socks. Emilys husband Graham always waved it off: Mum means well. Shes got experience. Whats the harm in hearing her out? He practically built a shrine to Barbaras wisdom, while Emily gritted her teeth day after day. Visit after visit.
Not this time.
Graham arrived home at just after seven. Emily could tell Barbara had rung him: by the way the keys hit the table with a bang, and how he stomped into the kitchen without so much as a peep at the room where Tommy was watching his robot cartoons.
Tommy, love, stay here. Emily fitted headphones on her son and started his favourite show on the tablet. Dad and I need a chat.
Tommy nodded, glued to the screen. Emily gently closed the door and moved to the kitchen.
Graham stood at the window, arms folded, staring out like a suspicious weather forecaster. He didnt look round as Emily entered.
You threw my mum out.
Not a question. A statement, like the newsreader announcing drizzle in Hull.
I asked her to leave.
You shoved her through the door! Graham turned, jaw twitching. She cried for two hours on the phone! Two hours, Em!
Emily slumped at the table. Work had already left her legs numb, and now this.
And you dont care that she reduced me to tears?
Graham paused for a heartbeat and shrugged.
Shes worried about Tommy. Nothing wrong with a grandmother caring.
She called our child a wet blanket and a doormat. Six years old, Graham.
She lost her temper. It happens. But maybe Mums right, Em. Boys need sports. Team spirit, all that
Emily held his gaze. Long and steady, until he looked away.
My mum forced me into gymnastics as a kid. Decided Id be an Olympic darling, no arguments. Five years, Graham. Five years I sobbed before every session. Stretching until it hurt, dieting, begging her to let me quit.
Graham stayed silent.
I cant even look at a gym now. Still cant. And Id never do that to my son. Football, cricket, whateverif he wants it. Only if he wants it. Never through force.
Mum only wants the best
Then let her have another child and do it her way, Emily stood. Shes done interfering with Tommy. And you are too, if youre choosing her side.
Graham made a noise, wavered for words, but Emily swept out of the kitchen, her point made. That night they barely exchanged syllables. Emily put Tommy to bed, then sat listening to his gentle, soothing snuffles in the dark.
The next two days, the air at home was thinner than a solitary crumpet at a Weight Watchers meeting. Gradually, though, Graham cracked a joke at dinner, Emily snorted, and the ice began to thaw. By Friday, proper conversation resumed, although Barbaras name danced around the edges like an unsavoury Brussels sprout.
Saturday morning arrived in a jolt. Emily blinked at the clockeight oclock, the uncivilised hour all parents secretly despise. Graham was snoring, Tommy presumably lost in dreamland.
Then, the unmistakable jingle of keys in the hall. Front door swinging open.
Emilys heart froze. Burglars? At breakfast time? She seized her phone and tiptoed out
Barbara stood in the doorway, keys jangling. Smugness dripping down her cheeks.
Good morning, dear Emily.
Emily stood there, barefoot in an old M&S T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, whilst Barbara surveyed the scene with all the entitlement of a monarch inspecting her new castle.
Where did you get those keys?
Barbara waggled them like a contestant on a gameshow.
Graham gave them to me. Dropped them off two days ago. Said, Mum, forgive Emily, she didnt mean it. Thats what apology looks like after your little performance.
Emilys brain crunched, deleted, rebooted.
What are you doing here? At this ungodly hour?
Ive come for my grandson, Barbara was already peeling off her coat, hanging it up like she ran a cloakroom. Tommys off to his first football session today. Grandmas signed him up!
Rage flooded Emily so fast she thought her hair might spontaneously combust. She turned and bolted for the bedroom.
Graham lay facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Emily noted how his shoulders stiffened under the duvet.
Get up!
Em, not now
Emily dragged off his blanket, seized his hand, yanked him into the lounge. Graham stumbled, half-asleep and half-naked from the knees down.
Barbara had made herself at home on the sofa, legs crossed, leafing through a loose magazine with derision.
You gave her my keys, Emily thundered. To my flat.
Graham dithered, sheepish as a guilty labrador.
Its my property, Graham. MINE. I bought it. With my own money. Before marriage. How dare you give your mother the keys to my house?
Oh for heavens sake! Barbara scoffed. Mine, yours, its all so petty! Graham was thinking about his son, so he gave me the keys. So I wouldnt be banished from my own grandson.
Just stop! Emily glared.
Barbara huffed, but Emily focused on Graham.
Tommy isnt going to football. Not unless he wants it.
You dont get to decide! Barbara shot up, indignant. Youre nothing! Temporary in Grahams life! Hes just suffering you for the child!
Silence.
Emily looked at Graham. His head hung low. Not a word of defence. Not even one.
Is that so? Her voice glided with icy smoothness. Temporary. Well, the flash sale ends now. Barbara, collect your grandson. Graham isnt my husband anymore.
You wouldnt dare! Barbara bleached white.
Youve no right! she sputtered.
Graham, Emily said quietly, holding his gaze, You have thirty minutes to pack and go. Or Ill propel you out in your pyjamas, no hesitations.
Emily, wait, lets talk
Were done talking.
She turned to Barbara, grinned crookedly.
You can keep those keys. The locks change today.
The divorce took four relentless months. Graham tried to come backcalls, flowers, the works. Barbara threatened lawsuits, child services, social worker interventions. Emily, though, hired a cracking solicitor and stopped answering altogether.
Two years melted away faster than a Twirl in a playground.
In the arts schools assembly hall, the air buzzed as audiences took their seats. Emily sat third row, clutching a crumpled programme. Thomas Watson, age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.
Tommy strode out, grave and quiet, white shirt, smart black trousers. Sat at the grand piano, hovered his hands over the keys.
First notes drifted Emily forgot to breathe.
Her boy played Beethoven. Her eight-year-old boy, who asked for lessons, who practised for hours, who chose his own piece for the concert.
When the final chord faded, the room erupted. Thomas stood, bowed, spotted his mum, and sent her the most radiant, proud smile shed ever seen.
Emily clapped and clapped, tears and laughter tumbling from her like confetti.
She knew, right then, shed mastered the art. Shed put her son firstbefore opinions, before marriage, before the fear of being alone.
Exactly how a mother should.
