Mum just wanted to help
Did you hear? Sandras just had her second grandchild, can you believe it? my mother-in-law, Pamela, poured more tea into my mug. A boy, eight pounds, healthy as anything, chubby cheeks.
I nodded, warming my hands against the hot porcelain. Pamelas flat was always a bit chilly she saved money on heating but her table groaned under the weight of homemade pies, meatballs, and salads. Every visit felt less like popping round for tea and more like attending a wedding banquet.
And you and Harry are still taking your time, arent you? How long are you planning to wait? Youre not twenty anymore, you know. Harrys thirty-one, youre twenty-eight. Its high time! Pamela slid a little dish of strawberry jam towards me. I always thought Id be minding grandchildren by now, but with you two its always, “Lets wait, lets wait.”
Pamela, these are difficult times, I replied softly, careful not to offend her. Were saving for a flat. Its just not realistic to pay the mortgage and afford a child at the same time, surely you understand? Far better to get our own place sorted, then think about kids.
Pamela waved her hand as though batting away a persistent fly.
Oh, dont be ridiculous! Have the baby and everything else will just sort itself out. Pete and I started off in a bedsit eighteen square metres between the three of us. But we managed, didnt we? We brought up Harry, sent him to uni. If you keep faffing over numbers, youll be retired by the time you have any children.
I took a sip of tea to steal a moment. Outside, Februarys sky was the colour of old ash; raindrops, or maybe melting snow, ran down the windowpane. Through the wall, the tick-tock of Pamelas grandfather clock reached us, the same one shed brought from her parents house.
Life doesnt work like that anymore, I put my mug back on the table. You used to be able to muddle through. But now, council tax, food, nappies, doctors Wed drown in debt.
Ill look after your little one! She leaned forward, as if that solved everything. You only have to give birth, Ill do the rest. Ill walk him, feed him, get up at night.
I felt an irritation stir inside me. Not anger, more a thick, sticky annoyance.
Pamela, I want to raise my child myself. I dont want to rush back to work three months after giving birth just to scrape by. I want to be there for those first years theyre the most important.
Pamela pursed her lips and turned to the window. Clearly offended. I recognised the look shed now go silent and start clattering plates to let me know how heartless Id been.
I finished my tea and stood up.
Thank you for everything, but Id better go. Harry asked me to be home for seven.
Pamela nodded without looking up. I got my coat, kissed her on the cheek out of politeness, really and left.
In the taxi, I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and closed my eyes. Rows of drab tower blocks slid by, billboard adverts, people in black coats. Pamela didnt see how times had changed. You couldnt just have children and hope for the best. A child now was a responsibility. I wanted to give ours everything: their own space, a good school, after-school clubs. But for that, we needed a place of our own. Not a rental, a home.
Two months went by
I made chicken and potatoes for tea Harry liked it simple and filling. Pamela had rung the night before, asking if she could pop over; she said she had something to discuss. I didnt think much of it usually her “talks” boiled down to recipes or complaints about her neighbours.
But when the three of us sat down and Pamela pushed her plate aside, I felt a frisson of nerves.
You remember Aunt Carole? My mums cousin? She glanced between us. She passed away last month. Poor soul, no more suffering.
Harry nodded. I shrugged Id met Carole once, at some family do.
Well, Pamela straightened up, and I knew something important was coming She left me her flat. Two bedrooms. Needs a bit of work, but its a decent place, solid brick.
Harry whistled.
Seriously? Mum, thats brilliant!
Wait a minute, Pamela held up a hand. I want to put the deeds in your name.
My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
On one condition, Pamela fixed me with a steady gaze. You give me a grandchild. Or a granddaughter, I dont mind. You have a baby, and the flat is yours.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the kitchen tap dripping into the sink.
Pamela rushed on, barely stopping for breath.
You dont have to save anymore! The flats there, ready and waiting. Whatever youve put aside can go on the baby now. Pram, cot, clothes none of that comes cheap! And you wont have to worry about rent or a mortgage. Isnt that perfect?
Harry looked at me, waiting for my answer. And then it hit me: I had no reason to object. Wed wanted a baby, only postponed it for the flat issue. Now that was solved just one signature away.
We agree, I placed my hand over Harrys. Weve wanted a family for ages, just needed the right moment.
Pamela lit up like shed got the keys to a brand new life.
A year later
Arthur was a month old. I was gently rocking him in our bedroom, humming some nonsense tune, when I heard the front door click. I stepped into the hallway, holding Arthur close.
Harry, youre home early?
But it was Pamela in the corridor, arms full of shopping bags, a satisfied smile on her face.
I stopped at the threshold.
Pamela? How did you get in?
She dangled a key on a daisy-shaped fob.
I kept a spare, just in case. You never know, what if you needed help and didnt answer the door?
I swallowed my protest. Not the time for an argument. Arthur was finally asleep; a scene would wake him in an instant.
Pamela was already in the kitchen, tutting at the sight of an unwashed mug and a few crumbs.
Whats all this, love? Dishes not done, crumbs everywhere she peered into the fridge, shaking her head. Whats for dinner? A bit of cheese and a splash of milk? Harryll be hungry when he gets in, what will you feed him?
I hugged Arthur tightly he stirred but didnt wake.
Ive been with the baby all day, Pamela. He only wants to be held, cries whenever I put him down.
Pamela was on her way to the nursery already, me trailing behind, helpless. She scrutinised the nappy changing station, the bottle shelf.
Youre not doing this right. And these muslins theyll rub the poor lads skin raw.
Theyre cotton, soft as can be.
I know whats soft! I brought up a son, remember, Pamela pursed her lips. Youre home all day, Helen. How can the flat be such a mess?
I nodded towards Arthur, dozing on my shoulder.
Thats why.
Nonsense, Pamela waved me off. I managed to cook, clean, and look after Harry, all at the same time, and you dont hear me complaining.
She left after an hour, having rearranged bottles, refolded all the babys clothes, and left me feeling flattened by a steamroller.
That evening, when Harry got home, I waited till hed eaten and sat opposite him at the table.
Harry, this cant go on. Your mum comes and goes as she pleases, with her own key. Im barely holding it together Im sleep-deprived, shattered and now shes inspecting everything I do.
Harry looked away.
Mums only trying to help, Helen. She means well.
When is she going to put the flat in your name?
He hesitated.
She says theres no rush. Says it doesnt matter, since were living here anyway.
I gripped the table, my knuckles white.
Another three months slipped by
Pamela was now a fixture in our daily life, showing up whenever she liked, picking holes in everything how I fed Arthur, how I wrapped him up, how I settled him for naps, even how Id dress him for fresh air. Every visit ended in lectures or stony silence, as though our lack of gratitude stung her. Id complain to Harry, but he would just shrug. “What can I do? Shes my mum.”
One evening, after Pamela had finally left, Id had enough. I went to the closet and pulled out a suitcase.
I packed my things. Then Arthurs: nappies, bottles, a couple of his favourite toys. Harry watched me from the doorway.
Helen, where are you going?
To Mums.
Oh come on, its just a row, itll blow over
Harry, I zipped up the suitcase and looked him in the eye. Either your mother stops coming round, or Arthur and I are gone. Your choice.
He was silent for ages. Looked at the bag, at our son, at me. Then he slumped onto the sofa, face in his hands.
I waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
He never got up.
I called a taxi and left.
He rang the next day. And the day after. And the week after that. He promised hed speak to his mum, begged me to come back. But he never took the key back from Pamela; she still acted as the queen of the flat that had been our supposed gift.
The divorce came through six months later. Child support was arranged in court, as Harry dragged his feet.
I lived with Mum, in my childhood bedroom, the little floral wallpaper unchanged since I was a girl. Mum would help with Arthur, watching him while I went back to work first part-time, then full. It was difficult, far more so than Id ever expected motherhood to be.
But at night, when Arthur dozed in my arms, snuggled against my shoulder, I knew I could do it. I had to, for him.
After all, if his father wouldnt protect his family, then Id just have to protect it myself. Thats what Ive learned: sometimes, a fresh start and your own rules are the greatest gifts you can give your child.
