Raising a Push-over
Why did you sign him up for music lessons?
Margaret Thornton breezed past me, tugging off her leather gloves as she walked.
Good afternoon, Margaret. Do come in. Im delighted to see you as always.
She paid no heed to my sarcasm. Tossing her gloves onto the hall table, she turned to face me.
Oliver told me on the phone, you know. Beaming, saying, Mum, Im going to play piano! Whats all this nonsense? Is he a girl, or what?
I closed the front door with deliberate slowness, hoping I wouldnt lose my temper and scream my lungs out.
It means your grandson will learn music. Hes terribly fond of it.
Fond of it, honestly! Margaret scoffed, as though Id said he fancied eating rocks. Hes six, he doesnt have a clue what he fancies. Youre meant to guide him, steer him in the right direction. Hes a boy, an heir, my grandson and what are you turning him into?
She strode into the kitchen and switched on the kettle, as if she lived here. I followed, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
Im raising a happy child.
Youre raising a wimp and a wet blanket! Margaret put her hands on her hips. He should be signed up for football! For rugby! For something real, to grow up a proper man, not… not a pianist!
I leaned against the door frame and counted to five. It didnt help.
Oliver asked for it himself. He loves music.
He loves music! she waved my words away. Stephen was outside kicking a ball around at his age, practising cricket and football! Your lad just wants to play scales? Pathetic!
Something inside me snapped. I stepped towards her.
Is that all?
Far from it! Ive long wanted to say…
Well, Ive long wanted to tell you, I dropped my voice to a near whisper, Oliver is my son. Mine. I will decide how to raise him. I wont let you interfere.
Margaret flushed red.
How dare you speak to me like that?!
Please leave.
Pardon?!
I swept past her into the hall, grabbed her coat from the rack and thrust it into her hands.
Please get out of my house.
Youre throwing me out? Me?!
I opened the front door wide, took her elbow and marched her towards the street. She tried to pull away, but I didnt let go, nudging her out over the threshold.
Ill see to it! Margaret shouted, turning on the landing, her face twisted with fury. Do you hear me? I wont let you ruin my only grandchild!
Goodbye, Margaret.
Stephen will know all about this! Ill tell him everything!
I shut the door, leaned my back against it, and let all the air slip out of me in a long, slow exhale.
For a while, muffled shouting drifted in from the landing, then heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Silence settled after a couple of minutes.
Shed well and truly done my head in. The criticisms, the advice: how to feed him, how to dress him, how to raise him. And Stephen never saw a problem. Mum means well. Shes got experience. Is it such a bother listening? He worshipped her. Every word, law and gospel. So I endured. Day after day, visit after visit.
But not today.
Stephen returned after work just before eight. I knew his mother had already rung him I could tell by the way his keys skidded across the table and how heavily he walked to the kitchen, not bothering to check on Oliver watching cartoons in the lounge.
Oliver, sweetheart, just sit here, I knelt down, popped his big earphones on, and pressed play on his favourite robot show. Mummy and Daddy need a word.
Oliver nodded and buried his nose in the screen. I closed his bedroom door softly and went to the kitchen.
Stephen was at the window, arms folded. He didnt turn when I entered.
You threw my mother out.
Not a question. A cold, hard statement.
I asked her to leave.
You shoved her out! He turned, jaw tense, cheeks twitching. She sobbed on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Emma!
I sat at the table, legs sore from work and now this.
Doesnt it bother you she insulted me?
He hesitated for a second. Then waved it away.
Shes just worried about Oliver, thats all. Whats wrong with that?
She called our son a wimp and a weakling. Our son, Stephen. Hes six.
She was overwrought, it happens. But shes not wrong, Emma. Boys need sport. Team spirit, some backbone…
I met his eyes and held the stare until he looked away.
My mother forced me into gymnastics. Decided Id be a gymnast. Five years, Stephen. Five years I cried before every practice. Did splits through the pain, lost weight from exhaustion, begged to be taken out.
He fell silent.
I still cant stand the sight of sports halls. Still. Ill never put my son through that. If he wants football, fine. But only if he wants it. Never by force.
Mum just wants whats best…
Well she can have another son and mould him as she likes, I stood. Shes not meddling in Olivers upbringing anymore. Not you either, if you side with her.
Stephen flinched, wanting to answer, but Id already walked out.
We barely spoke for the rest of the evening. I put Oliver to bed and lingered for ages in the darkness, listening to his steady breathing.
Two days of tense silence followed. Then during Thursdays dinner, Stephen made a joke; I smiled. The ice began to thaw. By Friday, we were having normal conversation again, though we both stayed clear of any mention of Margaret.
Saturday morning jolted me awake. I lay there for a moment, squinting at the clock eight. Early. Far too early for a Saturday. Stephen was snoring; Oliver was certainly still asleep.
Something had roused me.
Then I heard a faint metallic sound in the hallway. The turn of a key.
My heart pounded. Burglars, in broad daylight? I grabbed my phone from the table and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
The front door swung wide.
Margaret stood in the doorway, a bunch of keys in hand and a triumphant grin on her face.
Morning, Emma, dear.
There I was, barefoot in a worn T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, while she stared down at me as if it was perfectly acceptable to barge into someone elses home at eight oclock Saturday morning.
How did you get those keys?
Margaret jingled them under my nose.
Stephen gave them to me. Popped round Thursday evening, handed them over. Said, Mum, forgive her, she didnt mean to upset you. Thats how he made amends for your behaviour.
I blinked once, twice, trying to process this.
Why are you here, at this hour?
To collect my grandson, she was already hanging up her coat. Come on, Oliver! Grannys signed you up for football, first practice today!
My anger swept in like a wave hot, blinding, wild. I marched into the bedroom.
Stephen lay facing the wall, pretending to sleep I could see his shoulders tense under the blanket.
Get up.
Emma, not now…
I yanked the covers off, grabbed his hand, and pulled him into the living room. He stumbled, tried to resist, but I wouldnt let go.
Margaret had made herself comfy on the sofa, crossing her legs, flicking through a magazine.
You gave her keys, I stopped in the middle of the room, still clutching Stephens wrist. To my flat.
He squirmed.
This is my flat, Stephen. Mine. I bought it before we married, with my own money. How dare you give your mother keys to my home?
Oh, dont be petty! Margaret tossed the magazine aside. Yours, mine Always thinking of yourself, arent you? Stephen was thinking of Oliver, thats why he gave me keys, so I can see my grandson, as you keep me off the premises.
Shut your mouth!
She gasped, appalled, but I focused on Stephen.
Oliver wont go near football. Not unless he chooses.
Thats not for you to decide! Margaret sprang up. Youre nobody! Just a passing phase in my sons life! You think youre the only one? Irreplaceable? Stephen only tolerates you because of the child!
Silence.
I turned to Stephen. Head bowed. Silent.
Stephen?
Not a word in my defence. Not one.
Fine, I nodded, feeling a chill creeping over me. Passing phase. And it ends today. Take your son, Margaret. Youre all he has left now.
You wouldnt dare! Margarets face turned white. Youve no right to leave him!
Stephen, I spoke quietly, holding his gaze, you have half an hour. Pack your things and go. Or Ill toss you out in your pajamas I really couldnt care less.
Emma, please, lets talk
Were done talking.
I looked at Margaret and gave her a lopsided smile.
Keep the keys. Ill change the locks by tonight.
The divorce took four months. Stephen tried to come back calls, texts, flowers. Margaret threatened court, custody, all manner of connections. I found a good solicitor and stopped responding.
Two years flew by in a blur.
And there I was, sitting in the third row of St. Michaels Arts School hall, nervously gripping the programme: Oliver Thornton, Age 8. Beethoven: Ode to Joy.
Oliver walked on stage, serious and focused, dressed smartly in his white shirt and black trousers. He sat at the piano, hands poised on the keys.
The opening notes filled the room, and I forgot to breathe.
My boy was playing Beethoven. My eight-year-old, who asked for lessons, who willingly practised for hours, whod chosen this piece himself for the concert.
When the last chord faded, the audience erupted in applause. Oliver stood, bowed, picked me out from the crowd, and beamed broad and proud and fully himself.
I clapped with everyone else, the tears soaking my cheeks.
I had done the right thing. I had put my son before the opinions of others, before my marriage, before my own fear of being alone.
Thats exactly what a mother should do.
If theres one thing Ive learned, its that you have to stand firm and put your childs happiness first, no matter who tries to sway you.
