“We raised your first granddaughter, now it’s your turn with the younger one!” I said to my daughter’s mother-in-law.
My daughter, Eleanor, had faced grave health struggles, and now, on the brink of her second childbirth, I, Margaret Whitmore, stood before an unbearable choice. My husband and I had already spent three years raising our eldest granddaughter, Charlotte, after Eleanor nearly lost her life following the first birth. Now, her mother-in-law, Elizabeth Hartley, who had vowed to help, was turning away again, leaving us in despair. We lived in a small village near York, and this situation shattered my heart.
When Charlotte was born, my husband and I took her in straight from the hospital. Eleanor spent six months fighting for her life, and we couldn’t leave the newborn uncared for. Elizabeth had sworn she would help, but in three years, her “help” amounted to empty promises. She always had an excuse—work, errands, travels. If I hadn’t insisted, she wouldn’t have seen Charlotte at all! I begged her to visit, and only then would she appear, briefly and with an air of doing us a favour.
Now Eleanor was expecting her second child, and the doctors warned her health might fail again. After the first birth, she spent five months in the hospital, and we barely saved both her and Charlotte. I nearly turned grey when the midwives rang to ask who would take the baby. Eleanor couldn’t even nurse, so despite my age and weak heart, I brought Charlotte home. My husband and I were no longer young, and I still had a younger daughter at home, not yet eighteen. But there was no choice—I couldn’t abandon my granddaughter.
Charlotte lived with us, visiting her parents only on weekends. It suited everyone—Eleanor recovered, and we managed with our eldest granddaughter. But a newborn would be too much. I hadn’t the strength for sleepless nights, endless crying, and colic again. When Eleanor asked us to take the new baby, I felt the ground give way beneath me. My blood pressure soared, and Charlotte—especially when teething—left me exhausted with her wailing. On those days, I called Elizabeth, pleading for her to take Charlotte for just a day. She’d come but return her after a few hours, acting as though she’d moved heaven and earth.
Elizabeth was eight years younger but carried herself like a society matron. Always polished, forever gallivanting—spa retreats, travels abroad. No husband, not that she needed one; she revelled in her freedom. After Charlotte’s birth, she’d promised help, but in three years, she’d taken her only a handful of times, and always at my urging. I’d collapse from exhaustion, my heart racing, while she handed Charlotte back, sighing, “Goodness, I’m spent!” As though I didn’t carry her every single day!
Now, with Eleanor in her third trimester, the doctors warned the first birth’s ordeal might repeat. I was terrified. I couldn’t bear raising another infant—Charlotte demanded enough as it was. I told Elizabeth plainly, “We raised Charlotte; now it’s your turn.” But she conjured a hundred excuses—her cats, her fine furnishings, her travels, her work. She simply didn’t want the bother. She didn’t even pretend to care for her grandchildren. Despair gnawed at me—what would become of this baby? Were we to abandon it to an orphanage?
My heart ached. Eleanor fought for her life, and I didn’t know how to save our family. Elizabeth lived for herself, indifferent to our plight. I pleaded with her to take the baby for just half a year, but she brushed me off like a buzzing fly. Charlotte was our joy, but I couldn’t walk this path again. The thought of a helpless infant left uncared for choked me with tears. Elizabeth had sworn to stand by us, but her words were hollow. I didn’t know how to make her see—this was her grandchild, her own flesh and blood. If she didn’t relent, I feared our family would buckle under the weight. The thought crushed me.
