She claimed to be an orphan, just so she could marry into a wealthy English family, and then hired meher own motheras the nanny to my own grandson.
Is there anything more painful than having your own daughter pay you a wage, simply so that you might hold your grandchild?
I accepted the role as a servant in her manor house, donning a uniform and lowering my head as she passed, just to be near her child. She told her husband I was Mary from the agency. Yet yesterday, when the little boy called me Granny by accident, she dismissed me like an unwanted thing, desperate to preserve her lie.
The tale is this:
In that vast house with its lofty ceilings and marbled floors, my name is simply Mary. Nothing more. The nanny. The woman who scrubs bottles, changes nappies, and sleeps in a tiny cupboard of a room without windows.
But my real name was always Mum. At least, it had beenuntil my own daughter decided to erase me while I still breathed.
My daughter was called Charlotte. Shed always been lovely to look ata striking child. And shed always despised our poverty. Hated the little cottage with its sagging roof, loathed that I sold homemade preserves and pies at the market to pay for her schooling.
At twenty, she left.
Ill find a life where it doesnt reek of flour and sweat, she told me.
She vanished for three years. Remade herself. Changed her surname, dyed her hair a gleaming gold, attended elocution and etiquette lessons. Soon, she met Edwarda prosperous, kind-hearted businessman, but as old-fashioned as they come. To fit into his world, Charlotte invented a tragedy: she was, she claimed, an orphan, the only child of scholarly parents, lost in an accident in Europe. A solitary, well-bred, young lady without a past.
Then she fell pregnant, and panic overwhelmed her. She didnt know a thing about children. She didnt trust strangers. She needed someone who loved her unconditionallyand who would keep her secret as well.
So she came to find me.
Mum, I need you, she sobbed at my door, clothed in garments worth more than my entire cottage. But you must understand, Edward doesnt know you exist. If he found out who my mother truly was, hed leave me. His family is terribly strict.
What do you want me to do, Charlotte? I asked.
Come and live with us. Be our live-in nanny. Ill pay you. Youll get to be with your grandson. But you must swear, under no circumstances, ever to reveal that you are my mother. To them, you are just Marythe lady from the agency.
I agreed.
Because I am a mother. And the thought of never seeing my grandson hurt far more than my pride.
For two years, I lived that lie.
Edward was a good man.
Good morning, Mary, hed greet me. Thank you so much for looking after little Oliver. I dread to think what wed do without you.
But CharlotteCharlotte was my gaoler.
When Edward was at work, her coldness cut through me.
Mary, dont kiss the child, its unhygienic.
Mary, dont sing those old songs, I want him to listen to Mozart.
Mary, stay in your room while we have guests. I dont want you to be seen.
I stayed silent and embraced Oliver. He was my lighthe knew nothing of social standing, only that my arms were his place of safety.
Yesterday was Olivers second birthday.
A garden party, balloons, champagne and elegant laughter.
I stood beside the boy in my grey uniform.
Charlotte sparkled, showcasing her perfect life.
I wish my parents could have seen their grandson, she confided to a lady.
Then Oliver tripped and grazed his knee. He burst into tears.
Charlotte rushed to comfort him, but he pushed her away.
He stretched out his arms to me and called, clear as day:
Granny! I want Granny!
The whole crowd went silent.
Edward frowned in confusion. Charlotte turned deathly pale.
What did the child say? someone asked.
Oh, nothing, Charlotte answered quickly. Thats just his pet name for the nanny.
Oliver ran to me again.
Granny, kiss it better.
I lifted him up. I simply could not help myself.
Come here, my darling, I whispered.
Charlotte glared at me with such fury. She tore the boy from my arms.
Inside! And pack your bags! Youre dismissed!
Edward intervened.
Why are you sending her away? The boy adores her.
Shes overstepped the mark! Charlotte cried.
He looked me in the eyes.
Mary… why does Oliver call you Granny?
I turned to my daughter. She begged me with her gaze to keep quiet.
But then I looked at the boy.
Mr Edward, I said softly, because children speak the truth, always.
And I told him everything.
I showed him the photographs. The truth could not be hidden any longer.
The disappointment in his eyes hurt more than anger ever could.
I dont care if you were poor, he told Charlotte. But to abandon your own mother?
Then he turned to me.
This house is your home as well.
No, I replied. My place is where my name is not a disgrace.
I kissed Oliver.
And I left.
Now I am home. The air is filled with the scent of baked bread and warmth.
My heart aches. I miss my grandson.
But I have reclaimed my name.
And that, no one can take from me.
And youwhat do you think? Is such a lie ever right for loves sake? Or, in the end, does the truth always find its way?
