I recall the bitter winter of my youth, when my motherinlaw, Agnes Whitaker, would sit at the kitchen table and turn every conversation into a tirade about her own tragic past. Youve become quite odd, my dear, she would sniff at me, eyes narrowed.
Ah, Mother says, I would mutter, trying to hide the sting. The memory of our last quarrel surged up. How could Agnes possibly recount the moment I had snapped at her after she broached her sorrowful history for the hundredth time?
Agnes, let us change the subject, I asked, my tone courteous yet firm.
She, still midsentence about the miscarriages that had haunted her earlier life, choked on the air and stared at me with bewildered fury.
Eleanor, I only want to support you.
Thank you, but I need no comfort from someone whose empathy is as thin as a wafer.
Did you just call me a fool? tears welled in her eyes.
On any other day my reaction would have been to smooth things over, perhaps slipping out of the house with a feigned urgent work call or a fabricated meeting Id forgot. I would have conjured an excuse to escape Agness relentless monologues about her woes, for grief is a strange beast, especially when it rewires a womans whole being during pregnancy.
By the fifth month, the gentle, patient Eleanor I once was had hardened into a woman who rolled up her sleeves and asked, in plain English, Wheres the horse and the cottage, then? before marching off to solve the problems she could handle herself.
What should I call you, when youve told me three hundred times you dont wish to discuss your failed motherhood?
You see, a friend of minePeter, a highfunctioning autisticcan suddenly break into a strange dance in public or miss a joke, yet even he understood that bringing up such matters with a pregnant woman was the height of idiocy.
So not only am I a fool, but a complete idiot, is that how you see me? All for my kindness? Ive heard no kind words from you.
Yes, they would have been earned! I snapped, slamming the front door shut, exhaling, inhaling, and finally smiling, fully satisfied with myself.
I hoped that would be the last she bothered me for weeks, perhaps forever. But hope, it seems, rarely keeps its promises. That heated exchange marked the beginning of a new set of troubles.
Thomas, my husband and Agness son, sat silent and pensive at dinner. I tried, as I always do, to chat with him, but his replies were terse, his mind clearly elsewhere. Whenever I pressed for an explanation, he merely reassured me that everything was fine, and I let the matter drop. I never linked his quietude to the mornings clash with his mother; I simply assumed work or some private worry kept him distant, preferring not to agitate him further.
A few days later, Thomas finally broached the subject, oddly enough about a different matter. Eleanor, have you heard of postnatal depression? It can affect pregnant women as well, cant it?
Perhaps, though I dont think its quite the same thing. I dont feel depressed, do I? I replied.
For your peace of mind I could see a psychiatrist, but only if you go with me and explain what in my behaviour made you suspect this depression.
Just Mother says youve become strange.
Ah, Mother says I snorted again, the memory of the earlier fight resurfacing.
Thomas, Ill be blunt: if anyone needs a specialist, its your mother. Do you know what she told me?
I know youre always at odds. She thinks youre deliberately giving her grief, even with advice about a hair mask or sending parcels to the wrong address
What are you on about? I asked, genuinely lost.
Thomas reminded me that a few weeks earlier Agnes had bought the exact same hair mask I kept on the shelf, claiming Id recommended it to her.
Mom used the mask and then accused me of steering her toward a terrible product, while hoarding the good one that makes my hair grow so thick, Thomas explained.
What? Thomas, you clearly dont understand these womens trinkets you speak of. If you did, youd see the trick.
In a frantic three minutes I tried to explain why I, with my naturally full, undyed hair, could never have suggested a treatment meant for healthy locks to a woman who bleaches and treats her hair with constant chemicals the very kind of bioperm that leaves a womans hair a wreck.
I even sent her the correct address when she needed to pick up a parcel from your friend. Heres the message thread, I showed, unlocking my phone and scrolling to the relevant exchange.
Right I see now. Im sorry, I shouldnt have trusted Mum so blindly. She used to be reasonable, but you two fought over what?
She started telling me about her past I understand shes endured great loss, four times over, before you came into the picture, but one cannot endlessly replay that story, especially when it drags me into it.
You mean she shell kill me, Thomas muttered, and it seemed he had summoned his mother for a final confrontation. After that, he returned home and told me plainly that he would no longer maintain any relationship with his mother.
I felt a strange relief. Agnes had become unbearable with her erratic behaviour, and her attempts to slander me before Thomas had finally worn thin.
His relatives berated him, saying hed swapped his mother for another woman. He would only snort disdainfully, replying that his childs mother was not a stranger, and if his own mother was at fault, then she alone should answer for it.
They judged by blame, not by kinship, and few agreed with Thomas. He would not change his mind.
Now the only question that lingers is why his mother felt compelled to turn him against his pregnant wife. The answer, I suspect, will come in its own time.
It is the classic tale of a mother who cannot share her son with another woman. She lost him completely, and she is to blame, so there is no point in casting the blame onto Thomas and me.
At least let her see the child, his kin would cry. A grandmothers only joy is to dote on her grandchild in old age, and the wayward son has robbed her of that.
Then youll keep feeding your grandchildren that same old nonsense, and force your spouses to endure it. Lets see how long your strong marriages last, Thomas would retort.
He seemed to take a grim pleasure in sparring with the family over messages. Perhaps he even regretted that the relatives were left with nothing but to push the aunts duties onto him.
Thomas saw clearly that his mothers disdain had driven a wedge between them, and he understood why things had turned out so. He could not repair the damage, but he made a point of telling the relatives to mind their own business, and then he cut them off completely.
When he did, the assistance they could offer evaporated. Only then did the loving people finally leave his family alone.
Now the little boy grows up in quiet and peace. Thomas and I do everything we can to keep that tranquility for as long as possible, ideally throughout his early childhood.
When school approaches, well teach him both how to converse and how to answer the kind of clingy remarks that have plagued us.
And while my teeth, which have sprouted anew after the pregnancy, remain intact, Thomass modest nature is anything but shy.
Modesty nowadays only serves to impress others, offering little practical benefit.
I consider myself fortunate to have recognised this early, before it was too late to cleanse my life of every parasitic influence.
