Margaret Turner sat at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob. For the third time that evening, shed forgotten to stir it, each time only remembering when it was too latecreamy froth rising, then spilling over the edge, forcing her, muttering with impatience, to wipe the stove clean again. In moments like these, she could feel it sharply: it wasnt about the milk.
After her second grandson was born, everything at home seemed to have veered off course. Emma, her daughter, grew weary and thin, answering questions with little more than a nod or a sigh. Tom, her son-in-law, would come home late, eat in silence, sometimes escaping straight into the living room without a word. Margaret saw all of this and wondered, how could anyone let a woman face this alone?
She spoke up. Tentatively, at firsta gentle suggestion here, a word of concern there. But then the words grew sharper. At first, she spoke only to Emma. Eventually, she confronted Tom as well. Yet, sooner or later, she realised something odd: her words didnt make things better. Instead, the house seemed to fill with a heavier, pricklier tension. Emma defended her husband. Tom grew withdrawn, gloom hanging about him. Margaret would go home feeling shed somehow, once again, done everything wrong.
One damp afternoon, shed ended up at St. Marys, not for advice, but simply because she had nowhere else to take this ache in her chest.
I suppose I must be a terrible mother, she admitted, eyes lowered, as she sat across from Father Andrew in his book-lined study. Everything I do seems to make things worse.
Father Andrew paused his scribbling, set his pen aside, and considered her gently.
Why do you think that?
Margaret shrugged, hands twisting in her lap. I wanted to help. But all I seem to do is make everyone cross.
He looked at her with a quiet calm, no hint of reproach. Youre not terrible. Just exhausted. And desperately worried.
She sighed, a sound like air leaving a balloon. Im frightened for Emma, she said. Shes changed so much since the baby was born. And Tom Her voice faltered. Its as though he doesnt even notice.
Do you notice what he does do? Father Andrew asked.
Margaret hesitated. She recalled last week: Tom, standing at the sink after midnight, quietly doing dishes when he thought no one was watching. Sunday, taking the buggy for hours though he looked ready to collapse himself.
He does things, she ventured, unsure. But not the way he should.
And what way is that? Father Andrew asked, still calm.
Margaret almost answered at oncebut truthfully, didnt know. Her mind spun, an endless list of more, better, often. But specifics? Hard to say.
I just want things to be easier for her, she whispered.
Then tell yourself that, Father Andrew answered, voice gentle. Not him, yourself.
She looked up. What do you mean?
Youre not fighting on your daughters behalf. Youre fighting with her husband. Fighting wears everyone out. Not just youbut them as well.
Margaret sat, silent. At last, she asked, So what should I do, then? Pretend everythings fine?
No. He smiled. Just do what actually helps. Less talking, more helping. Do it for someone, not against someone.
On the walk home that evening, Margaret thought about his words. She remembered, years before, when Emma was small and criedto comfort her, shed simply sat beside her, silently, instead of lecturing. Why was everything different now?
The next day, she turned up at their house, unannounced, clutching a pot of soup. Emma seemed surprised; Tom, awkward.
I wont stay long, Margaret said softly. Just giving a hand.
She stayed with the children as Emma napped, then left without a word about struggles or how things ought to be.
She came by the following week. And the week after that.
She still saw that Tom wasnt perfect. But now she noticed other things: the tenderness as he lifted the baby, the way he gently tucked a blanket around Emmas shoulders in the evenings, believing no one else saw.
One day, she couldnt help herself and asked him quietly in the kitchen, Is it hard, for you, right now?
He blinked, obviously startledperhaps no one had ever asked.
Yeah, he said, after a moment. It really is.
There was nothing else said, but it was as though some sharpness in the air between them had melted away.
Margaret finally understood: all along shed wanted Tom to change. But perhaps, she needed to begin with herself.
She stopped criticising him to Emma. When Emma grumbled, Margaret no longer replied, Didnt I tell you so? She just listened. Sometimes she took the children so Emma could rest. Sometimes shed ring Tom to ask how things were. It wasnt easy. It was far simpler to be cross.
But over time, the house grew quieter. Not perfect, perhaps, but at peace. The strain subsided.
One day, Emma said softly, Mum, thank you for being with us, and not against us.
Margaret thought about those words for a long time.
She realised something stark and simple: peace isnt when someone admits guilt. Peace is when someone simply stops fighting first.
She still wished Tom would pay more attention. That wish didnt fade.
But alongside it lived a greater hopethat their family would simply be calm.
And each time that old surge of frustration or wounded pride threatened to rise, Margaret paused and asked herself:
Do I want to be right, or do I want things to feel lighter for all of us?
Almost every time, the answer told her what to do next.
