“Do I look old? Weak?” Mother’s voice trembled with hurt. “I’ve still got plenty of life in me!”
“Katie! Katie, love! How many times must I call you?” Her voice carried through the flat, piercing even the closed door of the nursery, where Catherine was trying to settle three-year-old Thomas for his nap.
“Mum, just five minutes! He’s nearly asleep!” she whispered, smoothing the boy’s back.
“Five minutes? I feel ill! My blood pressure’s through the roof! You promised to bring my pills!” The familiar shrill edge crept into her mother’s tone.
Catherine sighed. Thomas had almost drifted off, but now his eyes fluttered open, wide with worry.
“Mummy, is Granny crying?” he murmured.
“No, darling, she’s not. Sleep now.” She kissed his forehead, though her chest tightened. Mother wasn’t crying—she was shouting. That was worse.
Margaret Wilson sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest, breathing heavily. When Catherine appeared, she shook her head in reproach.
“Look what you’ve done! My heart’s racing, my head’s spinning, and there you were fussing over the boy! I told you—medicine first, then the children!”
“Mum, how can you say that? He was nearly asleep. If I’d left him, he’d have been restless all night.” Catherine fetched the blood pressure pills from the cupboard and poured a glass of water.
“Should I just drop dead, then?” Margaret turned away, wounded. “You never used to be like this. You used to come running the moment I asked. Now… now your family matters more than your own mother!”
Catherine handed her the pills without a word. Yes, once she had dropped everything at her mother’s request. Back then, it had been a plea—”Katie, darling, would you fetch my medicine, please?” Now it was a command: “Katie! Bring my pills now!”
“Take these and rest. You’ll feel better,” Catherine said softly.
“Rest! Easy for you to say. Who’ll make dinner? Who’ll get Thomas ready for nursery tomorrow?” Margaret’s voice rose with each grievance. “I’m not your servant! I sacrifice my health for you, and this is my thanks?”
“Mum, no one’s forcing you to cook. I can manage.”
“Oh, sure! When? After nine o’clock? The boy’ll be starving, your husband will come home hungry—I can’t bear to see it!”
Catherine sat opposite her. They’d lived together for two years, ever since Thomas was born. Back then, Margaret had moved from her little flat to help with the baby, and at first, it had been a blessing. She’d doted on Thomas, cooked, cleaned—Catherine could work knowing her home and child were in safe hands.
But slowly, things had changed. Offers of help became obligations. Requests turned to demands.
“Mum,” Catherine ventured carefully, “maybe we should think about a nanny for Thomas? You’re tired, stressed…”
“A nanny?” Margaret nearly leapt from her chair. “A stranger looking after my grandson? Have you lost your mind? Who’ll raise him better than me? Who’ll feed him, dress him properly?”
“I’m not saying you’re not wonderful. But you—”
“But what? I’m old? Frail?” Her voice quivered with indignation. “I’ve got years left in me! I could raise ten more grandchildren! I just need a little help, a little consideration—not this!”
Footsteps sounded in the hall—Robert, Catherine’s husband, home from work. She exhaled in relief; perhaps he could defuse things.
“Hello, my loves!” he called cheerfully, hanging up his coat. “How’s everyone? Thomas asleep?”
“Asleep,” Catherine said shortly.
“There’s my son-in-law!” Margaret’s tone turned sweet at once. “Robert, dear, are you hungry? I’ve made stew and roast potatoes. Sit down!”
Robert glanced between his wife and mother-in-law, reading the tension. “Thanks, Margaret. What’s happened? Catherine seems upset.”
“Oh, nothing much.” She sighed. “I asked for my medicine, and your wife thought the boy mattered more. Never mind. Robert, how was work?”
Catherine set the table in silence. This was always the way—with Robert, Margaret was all warmth. Alone with her daughter, she was someone else entirely.
Over dinner, Margaret regaled Robert with tales of her day—walks with Thomas, cooking, laundry—each word heavy with unspoken pride: “See how much I do for you?”
“Mum’s exhausted,” Catherine said quietly, cutting her roast potato. “Maybe a nanny really would help.”
Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Margaret, you do so much for us, for Thomas. Perhaps it’s time you had a break, did things for yourself?”
“For myself?” Margaret’s voice grew sharp. “What should I do? Sit alone in my flat watching telly? My friends are all ill or minding grandchildren. The theatre? On my pension? I’d spend half of it on a ticket!”
Catherine knew where this led—self-pity, tears, accusations.
“Mum, money isn’t the point. If you want the theatre, we’ll buy tickets.”
“I don’t need your charity!” Margaret snapped. “I worked hard all my life! At my age, my duty is to help my children. Yours is to appreciate it!”
“We do,” Catherine said wearily.
“No, you don’t!” Margaret banged the table. “If you did, you wouldn’t suggest a nanny! You wouldn’t make me feel unwanted!”
Robert tried to soothe her. “Margaret, no one thinks that. We worry about your health. You say you’re tired, your blood pressure—”
“Of course I’m tired! Who wouldn’t be, minding a child all day? But I don’t complain! I just want my daughter to care. To put her mother first!”
Catherine pushed her plate away.
“Mum, I don’t put anyone above you. But sometimes… you ask too much.”
“Too much?” Margaret’s eyes flashed. “I ask nothing! Just that you be a good daughter!”
“And what am I now? Bad?”
“You’ve changed, Catherine. We used to be like friends. You told me everything, listened to me. Now… now you always have your own opinion.”
“I’m a grown woman. A wife, a mother. Of course I have opinions.”
“There, you see?” Margaret turned to Robert triumphantly. “Hear how she speaks to me? ‘My opinion’! As if mine means nothing!”
Robert cleared his throat. “Let’s not quarrel. We’re family.”
“Exactly! Family means help and respect. I sacrifice for you—all I ask is that my daughter cares!”
Catherine stood. “I’ll check on Thomas.”
In the nursery, all was peaceful. The boy slept soundly, limbs sprawled. Catherine adjusted his blanket, savoring the quiet, away from her mother’s reproaches.
She remembered the beginning—when Thomas was born, Margaret had been a godsend. She’d moved in, taken charge, letting Catherine return to work. Back then, Margaret would say, “Don’t worry, love, I’ll manage.” And she had—with joy.
Now? Every kindness came with reminders of how much she did, how little she got in return. Every request felt like an ultimatum. Worst of all, Catherine felt guilty even when she knew she’d done nothing wrong.
From the kitchen, Margaret’s voice floated—telling Robert about her struggles raising Catherine alone. He murmured vague agreement.
When Catherine returned, Margaret was saying, “I worked so hard for her. And now I’m a burden. Better to hire help than bother with me!”
“Margaret, no one said that,” Robert protested.
“Not in words. But I know what you think.” She turned to Catherine. “Are you ashamed? Do your friends gossip that your mother lives off you?”
“Mum, this isn’t about friends. I just want you happy, not always upset.”
“I’ll be happy when you respect me! When you stop treating my needs as whims! When you see I do all this for you!”
Catherine sat, staring at her half-eaten dinner.
“Mum, what if we tried something new? You mind Thomas three days a week, not every day. The rest, I’ll work from home or hire short-term help.”
“So I’ll see my grandson three times a week?” Margaret’s eyes welled. “He’s so little—he needs routine! You’d shuffle him about?”
“No, Mum—”
“No, I understand!” Margaret stood. “I’m in the way. You don’t want a mother—you want a servant on call!”
Robert intervened. “That’s not what we meant.”
“What did you mean? That I’m a nuisance? I’m not perfect—I get upset! But I try, for this family!”
Something in Catherine broke. She stood, embraced her mother.
“Mum, please. No one
