Ruined Children
Youve spoilt him rotten! Always indulging him, and now hes got you wrapped round his little finger! Emma, you mustnt do this! Youve completely ruined that boy! Well, I suppose I did the same to you, in my day. Cant blame anyone else, really. I was just as bad! Both of youspoilt children! None of this Im an adult now nonsense, thank you! Youre still a child through and through! No sense in your head and no idea how to make a proper decision! My mother, Margaret Turner, slammed the fridge door in frustration, jumping as a magnet holding a photo of my family crashed to the floor.
It was a picture taken last summer, at the seaside, where, for some reason, she hadnt been invited this time. For years, shed joined us on these holidays. Shed help with the children, relax, and strike up useful acquaintances. But not this time.
Her reasons for why she couldnt come seemed strange to her.
Mum, it’s tricky for us this year. So were taking the kids on our own. But well buy you a trip later, and you can go and relax somewhere you choose. Why not have a browse now, see what takes your fancy? Alright?
What about the children, Emma? she asked, wounded. Whos going to watch them if Im not there?
Mum, Bens getting older. He can keep an eye on whoever needs watching. And Ill have Grace with me. We just cant afford the same hotel this summer you know how much it costs, and Grace needs the sea air. You know she never so much as sneezes all winter if shes been to the coast. If we cant pay for those family packs with the kids clubs, well have to rough it a bit this time. Rent a flat, maybe, and sort ourselves out.
But of course, theres no room for me! She huffed at the prospect.
To spend a week alone at a dreary hotel, the sort with nothing but over-50s discosit wasnt her scene. The company there, well, left a lot to be desired. She much preferred a decent hotel, with some proper English people and the odd tourist to liven things up. Shed always said, with her education and fluent French, she could pick and choose.
But not this year…
Mum, you do realise its not just the accommodation. Flights, foodit all adds up.
As if I eat you out of house and home! she bristled.
Oh please, Mum, must I explain the obvious? We simply dont have the money to do a big family trip this year, not after the refurb on your flat, my medical bills last year, and Bens private tutors. Its all been a huge drain. What would you have me docancel the trip altogether? Or give the children a holiday? You know how exhausting this years been for me. I cant do everything.
Oh, Ive noticed all right! Too busy to be a proper mother. Its all left to me and to Clives mum! Collecting Grace from nursery, picking up Ben, cooking, driving them to clubs and practices.
Dont exaggerate, Mum. Ben takes himself to football, and you only drive Grace to ballet twice a weekand thats entirely your doing. Theres a music group at her nursery you wanted to skip because you said it wasnt proper ballet.
So now Im to blame? Her voice rose, hand on her chest, her tone pained.Such ingratitude! I do everything for you and still its not enough!
Mum, please I pressed my forehead to the window, feeling tears sting my eyes. Im so grateful for everything you do. Justplease, dont hold it against me.
But Mum wouldnt listen. She made a grand exit, leaving her brand-new swimsuit abandoned on the sofa, clearly wounded.
Wounded pride, of course, was one of her specialties. She knew how to make her feelings clear, without shouting or being overtly dramatic. She simply wouldn’t answer her phone, ignored messages, and then, when she finally did pick up, shed sigh heavily and ask, in her frailest voice, Emma, do you know, if your heart suddenly stops, or the beat just flutters and almost disappearswhat does that mean?
And there Id go, dropping everything to rush out to my mothers cottage, where she always retreated after a quarrel to soothe her nerves. Id drive home bone-tired, toss my car keys on the hall table, walk straight to my room and collapse, fully dressed and in tears, completely baffled at how a mother could treat a daughter this way.
Ben would peek in quietly, tuck a blanket around my shoulders and touch my arm: Mum, please dont. Dont go next time. Shell come round.
Oh Ben, I wish I could have your faith
I knew what I was up against. Since childhood, I remembered my mum as whip-smart, ever-so-sensitive, skilled in two languages, well-read and eternally fond of music, but so quick to take offence. She could shame you in perfect English, or French, or a blend of both. For me, nothing was more agonising than her cold reprimand: Emma, go and think very carefully about your behaviour. Off you go, now.
And I never heard her say darling unless her mood was especially bright.
Which, honestly, wasnt often. Mum was the sort who would always say the glass was half-empty. The word inadequate seemed to sum up her view on everything. Her colleagues were lacking, her friends, her husband, the neighbours, the relativesthe list had no end.
For many years I was spared this harsh verdict. As a child, I was ever her pride and joy. I learned to read ridiculously early and would bend over the piano keys by four, whispering, I can hear the music! She was so proud.
But everything changed when I was in Year Six at school. I was top of the class, but one day brought home a dreadful mark in spelling. Mum shook her head, gripped her chest, and refused to hear a word.
Darling, youve upset me terribly. How could you? To your room!
I went obediently, unable to explain that Id been ill and simply didnt know what was happening to my body. Shed never spoken to me about the change every girl goes through. She thought such knowledge unnecessary. It was my gran who found me sobbing over the sink, desperate to wash stains from my skirt, and learned the truth.
Emma! Whats wrong, sweetheart?
Gran heard me out and tried to help. Afterwards, Mums conversation with Gran yielded nothing but a migraine and grumbling: Emma! A girl can only discuss these matters with her mother!
But I didnt know
Next time, use your brain! Thats what its for!
I never understood what exactly my mother blamed me for.
And that was the first flicker of doubt in Mums infallibility. I realised my mother wasnt some saintly figure; her claim that a mother always sacrifices for her child wasnt unshakably true.
There were more and more of these disappointments. Mum didnt bother hiding her disapproval anymore. Increasingly, she appeared with her famous silky headscarf, twisted tightly around her forehead to help her migraines. Whenever I glimpsed her gliding down the hall, touching that scarf, I knew to brace myself.
She never yelledshe was far too grand for that. Instead, shed sweep regally into her favourite armchair, press her fingers to her temples, and with a voice cold as marble, murmur, Emma! Youre destroying me
What she meant, I could never quite figure outI was left to guess. Any disagreement could set her off.
For example, my desire to become a doctorsomething my father, before he passed, had always dreamed of. But Mum refused to consider it.
You dont understand! I hardly saw your father, he was so busy at the hospital. Heart surgeons are never home! You should think not just about ambitions but about those left behind!
Yet I worked, finished school, made it into medical school. Mum cut off proper conversation for six months, offering nothing but bland yes or no exchanges at breakfast.
The next saga was marrying Clive. Mum never accepted him.
Im amazed, darling! Surely there was someone better out therenot in terms of money, of course, but you couldnt possibly have less in common. Hes never even read Dickens or heard a note of Elgar!
Clives a good man, Mum Id try not to argue.
And, most importantly, he loves me.
Love wont carry you far, Emma. One day youll see, though by then, it may be too late.
At the wedding, Mum dabbed at her eyes with a delicately folded handkerchief and said to anyone who would listen: Itll be tough for them. But thats what mothers are forIll be by their side!
Luckily for all of us, at our wedding, Mum met her second husband. Clive’s distant relative Harold, a retired colonel, charmed her with his gallantry and French.
Where did you pick up such a superb accent? she flirted shamelessly, handkerchief back in her handbag.
My mother, diplomats daughter. Years in Paris.
Splendid!
Harold recited French poetry, valued discipline and neatness, and owned a beautifully-kept cottage just outside London, where Mum found plenty to occupy her and, for a while at least, left me in peace.
In her second marriage, Mum seemed happy. She flourished, softened, and the arrival of Ben and then Grace delighted her.
Emma! Such lovely children! Bens all his grandfatherbright as a button! And Grace is a wonder, shes got my eyes and nose, shell be a beauty!
I couldn’t have wished for more.
Despite Mums dire warnings, Clive and I built a strong marriage. Mum even accepted, grudgingly, that Clive made a decent son-in-law. Shed been appalled at us taking out a mortgage, but Clive insisted:
Its for the best. Your home is yours, and we must have ours.
But itll be so hard for Emma, juggling work and the little ones! You can’t manage all that alone.
My business is doing well. I’m handling things, and Emma wants to go back to work. My mum can help too.
Ours arent the only grandchildren! Ill help! Mum asserted, chin held high.
Eventually, I returned to work. We moved, the children grew, life settled into a kind of normalityuntil tragedy struck. Mums second husband died, despite everything I and the best doctors could do.
Oh, Harry! How could you? Mum mourned, heartbroken. Finally, I felt alive againand now its all taken from me!
Who she blamed for her widowhood this time, I never knew.
From there, Mum began spending holidays, weekends, and every special occasion with us. Well, its only right, Im family! shed declare, brushing off friends questions. Without me, how would Emma manage two children?
This was fineuntil Ben grew older. Grannys close supervision tested his patience.
Ben! Not that awful racket again! How you can stand that noise, Ill never know! Mum would stride into Bens room without so much as a knock.
Shed reach for her scarfbut Ben brushed it off. Instead, he handled Granny in his own way.
Grace! Come dance and sing!
Finding them both dancing around to The Beatles, Mum was horrified.
Ben! Alright for you, but Grace! Never! Im calling your mother!
Try Dad, Ben replied. Mums at theatreshe wont answer, and you know it.
Clive always stayed calm, and in the evenings would drive Mum home before belting out the same songs with Ben, who dreamed of playing for more than just the family one day.
Bens musical streak was clear, so I decided the time had come to buy him a guitar.
Dont you dare, Emma! What, are you trying to cut me out?
Mum, what are you talking about?
I cant take ithe needs to study, not waste time with that nonsense!
But Ben is doing brilliantly at schoolyou know that! And why not music? Youre always saying children ought to develop their talents!
Thats not what I meant, and you know it! Oh, Emma, you again
The arguments dragged on. Clive supported me, but this time, Mum stopped answering calls, refused to open her door, and had long since taken back her spare key.
But this time, Id had enough.
If she doesnt want contact, so be it! I muttered, dropping a dish in the sink, where it smashed into bright pieces, a birthday present from Ben now scattered at my feet.
Oddly, those colourful shards were the final straw. Of course, I loved my mother, but I understood that love must change, mustnt let itself be wounded endlessly.
Ben! I shouted upstairs. The boy thundered down, wondering what might be wrongit was rare for me to raise my voice.
Coming, Mum!
Did you pick your guitar?
Are you sure I can? He beamed.
I insist! Which one?
Bass guitar! Are you sure?
A hundred percent! Isnt that what you say?
He grinned. Yeah! What about Grandma?
Shell say were ruined children Dont worry about it! Fetch Grace and lets go!
Go where?
To the shop! Where else do you buy guitars?
Brilliant! Ill tell Graceshe can help choose!
Watching my sons kindnessmost boys his age wouldnt dream of taking a six-year-old sister along for adviceI was quietly proud.
We bought the guitar. Soon Bens room became a mini studio, boys in his group rehearsing with kit provided by Clive and other parents. When they posted a video of Grace singing backup and it went unexpectedly viral, we all knew the effort was worthwhile.
I rejoiced quietly, watching my children plot, laugh, and dream together. Each evening, exhausted from work, Id listen as they shared their plans, knowing Id done the right thing.
Meanwhile, Mum waited. She tidied, baked, and waited for me to call, to seek her pardon.
A week passed, then another. I didnt come.
At first she was baffled, then angry, certain this time Id need more than a simple apology. Then the anger faded into thoughtfulness. It was as if, for the first time, someone had taken a stand, showing her she couldnt always have things her own way. With anyone else, shed have cut ties instantly. But she couldnt with me, her only daughter.
Months passed. Thats when Mum realisedno one was coming. No one would apologise this time.
It hit her hard. All her life, shed poured herself into me and her grandchildren. How could a single angry word destroy so much?
She drifted to her cottage, seeking peacewithout finding it. She shuffled through the house and garden, restless, refusing to admit her own role in what had happened.
Summer turned to autumn. And one day, as rain lashed the neighbour’s garden, she sat, tea in hand, watching the neighbours children in their wellies and macks splash through puddles. Years ago, shed wanted a high fence, but Harry had insisted the old wrought iron one was more beautiful. Now, she could only nod at the neighbours and watch their lively family.
They were university tutors, accomplished, with five polite grandchildren. Watching their youngest jump puddles, Mum decided enough was enough. She could keep coddling her pride until the day Emma would be buying white carnations for her, and who would be satisfied then?
The cup rattled on its saucer; within minutes she was out the door.
It was a quiet Sunday morning, the roads almost empty. She soon reached our new housing estate, parked outside our house, and suddenly felt terrified. For the first time, she was making the first move toward reconciliation, swallowing her pride. The role was so unfamiliar that she sat, engine off, trying to format the perfect conversation.
But her plans vanished as soon as she stepped onto our path and up to the slightly open door. A crash from above set her hands to her ears.
Bens band was rehearsing, drums booming, guitars strumming. And in the kitchen, she saw me twirling with a wooden spoon, singing at the top of my lungs about a magical doll and an old wizard.
Brilliant, Mum! Can we make a video too? shouted Grace, pausing as she laid out cups.
I poured juice for both kids.
Here you go! Two for you, two for me. Boysll be thirsty after all that music.
I moved towards the stairs, then stopped, seeing her at the door.
Time itself seemed to pause, watching to see what wed say.
Grace froze, mouth open, but I beat her to it.
Mum, hello! Would you keep an eye on the roast, please? Lunch will be ready soon, once the boys finish. Are you hungry?
Mum slid off her anorak, nodding stiffly.
Yes.
Good! I winked at Grace. Come on, you havent forgotten what Grandmas like, have you?
Grace broke her daze with a grin. No! Grandma, Ive left ballet! Mums signed me up for singing lessons! Ben says Im really good!
Mum blinked quickly, pressing the juice cups into her hands.
Ill take these up. Have to see Bens guitar. Is it nice?
Very! Red! I helped pick it! Come see!
Grace led her away, and I nodded gently at Mum.
Well? Youve already done the hardest bitnow come on!
Mum nodded back. Upstairs, Ben gave her a serious, grown-up nod as he showed her the guitar.
And something shifted.
Not everything, of courseno one changes in an instant.
There would be plenty more arguments, misunderstandings, sighs as Mum tried to get her point across, and doubt in her eyes as she wondered where shed gone wrong with me.
But we all finally understood: if you want to be heard, you must first learn to listen. Only then will things fall into placeand your loved ones remain by your side. And really, isnt that enough?
Diary of Clive Turner
Personal Lesson:
Sometimes having the last word is less important than keeping your family together. Letting go of old grudges and learning to listen has brought more true peace to our home than any argument ever could.
