Thursday, 17th October
The old adage “Make your bed, lie on it” has never rung truer. My mother-in-law’s voice had a honeyed sweetness on the phone, yet by the time I hung up, I felt as though I’d swallowed a spoonful of grit. “You’re visiting for more than three days this time, aren’t you?” she’d chirped, as though I’d won the lottery. My silence made her press further, and I scrambled off the phone like a scalded cat.
Michael’s family holiday plans have always been as immovable as the White Cliffs of Dover. Every July, our family pilgrimage to the countryside—specifically to Margaret’s cottage in the Cotswolds—was non-negotiable. Something about tradition, he’d say, as if that could sanitize the awkwardness. I’d tried, over the years, to suggest alternatives: a seaside trip to Cornwall, a quiet week in the Lake District. But no, the Clarks were raised to revere their elders. Absence of grandchildren was “impolite,” he’d remind me, his tone so reductive it felt like a child explaining basic arithmetic.
“Grandparents want to be with their family,” I’d argue, once.
“They’ve shared their lives with me,” he’d reply, eyes narrowing as though I’d accused him of heresy. “You think they don’t love the boys? They live so far away, of course it’s different.”
But then, late last week, as Michael and I packed the car with three children and twice the luggage Margaret would have deemed excessive, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. The tension in my gut had been growing, a tightness that even my mother’s cheerful letters couldn’t soothe. Her visits were always impromptu, fueled by an energy that verged on reckless—a woman who’d skip through London’s fog in a tiara of headscarves and manage to sandpaper even the sharpest days into something tolerable. Margaret, by contrast, had always lacked that spark. Her love for the grandsons was filtered through postcards and Polaroids to show off to the caravan park friends.
The cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water was picturesque, a tangle of ivy and chintz under the pretense of charm. But the minute we arrived, the tautness in the air became palpable. From the moment I picked up a ladle and Margaret snapped that it was “reserved for starters only,” I knew this holiday would be another episode in the war of polite erasure.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?” I’d asked later, as we loaded the dishwasher.
Michael’s eyes flicked over, catching the edge in my tone. “She’s their grandmother. It’s her way.”
“Your mother doesn’t love us,” I said, quieter now, the words tasting bitter.
He stopped mid-pour. “That’s not true.”
“She acts like she barely wants us here.”
“She’s just… different.”
And there it was—the cultural shorthand. Different. A word that sometimes meant “older,” sometimes “stuck in their ways,” but always, always, “not to be questioned.”
The dinner that night was a symphony of small slights. Margaret combed the boys’ hair like she was disciplining unruly plants, while Thomas, her husband, chuckled at every mishap like it were a comedy. “Did your grandfather teach you to be this charming?” I asked, as she barked at Daniel for spilling his carrots. He stiffened but said nothing.
The breaking point came with the side dish. I reached for the chicken, and Margaret’s voice cracked like a whip: “That fork is for soup! Who taught you to use it for meat? No wonder you’re the only one who can’t manage a proper dinner party.”
The room went silent.
Michael’s face contorted. “Mum, that’s low.”
She didn’t apologize. I didn’t either.
They left in the morning. I watched the dachshund, Nell, run around the garden, tail wagging at the empty chairs. Margaret’s cottage would never feel like home, but at least, for once, I’d made the choice not to let it chew me up.
The children slept through the drive to Bournemouth. Michael didn’t speak. I hummed along to the radio, the sea air buttoning my skin with salt. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to twist myself up to fit into someone else’s idea of presentable.
Some traditions, I thought, were worth breaking.
