“What, am I old now? Useless?” Mum’s voice trembled with hurt. “I’ve still got plenty of life in me!”
“Emily! Emmy! How many times do I have to call you?” Mum’s voice echoed through the flat, piercing even the closed door of the nursery, where Emily was trying to settle three-year-old Oliver.
“Mum, just five minutes! He’s nearly asleep!” she whispered, stroking the boy’s back.
“Five minutes? I feel awful! My blood pressure’s through the roof! You promised to bring my pills!” The familiar hysterical edge crept into her tone.
Emily sighed. Oliver had just drifted off but now blinked up at her, worried.
“Mummy, is Grandma crying?” he murmured.
“No, sweetheart, she’s not. Close your eyes…” Emily kissed his forehead, though her chest tightened. Mum wasn’t crying—she was shouting. That was worse.
Margaret Thompson sat at the kitchen table, melodramatically clutching her chest and breathing heavily. Spotting her daughter, she shook her head in disapproval.
“Look what you’ve done! My heart’s racing, my head’s spinning—and you’re fussing over the boy! I told you—my medicine first, then the child!”
“Mum, come on. He was nearly asleep. You can’t just leave him mid-routine, or he’ll be restless all night.” Emily fetched the blood pressure pills and poured a glass of water.
“So I should just suffer, then?” Margaret turned away. “You never used to be like this. The second I asked, you’d come running. Now? Now your family matters more than your own mother!”
Emily handed her the pills without a word. It was true—she used to drop everything. Back then, Mum’s requests had been just that: requests. “Emmy, love, could you fetch my medicine, please?” Now they were orders. “Emily! Bring my pills now!”
“Mum, take these and lie down. You’ll feel better,” Emily said quietly.
“Lie down? Easy for you to say! Who’ll make dinner? Who’ll get Oliver ready for nursery tomorrow?” Margaret listed her duties, her voice rising with each word. “I’m not your maid! I’m sacrificing my health for you, and this is the thanks I get?”
“No one’s forcing you to cook. I can manage.”
“Oh, really? You cook at nine at night! The boy’s starving, your husband comes home hungry—I can’t bear to see it!”
Emily sat across from her. They’d lived together since Oliver was born, when Margaret moved in to help. At first, it *was* help—she adored caring for her grandson, cooking, cleaning. Emily could work, secure in knowing home was in good hands.
But slowly, things changed. Offers became obligations. Requests became demands.
“Mum,” Emily ventured, “maybe we should look into a nanny? You’re exhausted—”
“A *nanny*?” Margaret nearly shot out of her chair. “A stranger looking after *my* grandson? Have you lost your mind? Who’ll raise him better than me? Feed him, dress him right?”
“I’m not saying you’re not good at it. But you—”
“But *what*? I’m too old? Feeble?” Her voice cracked with outrage. “I could raise ten more like him! I just need a little kindness—not this nonsense!”
Footsteps in the hall—Daniel, Emily’s husband, was home. Relief washed over her.
“Hello, my lovelies!” he called cheerfully, hanging his coat. “How’s things? Oliver asleep?”
“Yes,” Emily said shortly.
“Ah, there’s my son-in-law!” Margaret’s tone turned sweet. “Daniel, dear, you must be starving. I’ve made shepherd’s pie. Sit, eat!”
Daniel glanced between them, sensing trouble.
“Thanks, Margaret. Everything alright? Emily seems upset.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Margaret sighed. “I just asked for my medicine, and my daughter decided her son mattered more. But never mind. Daniel, how was work?”
Emily set the table in silence. This was the pattern—around Daniel, Mum was all warmth. Alone with Emily, a different person.
Over dinner, Margaret regaled Daniel with her day—taking Oliver to the park, cooking, laundry. Every word carried an unspoken plea: *See how hard I work?*
“Mum’s worn out,” Emily said quietly. “Maybe a nanny *would* help.”
Daniel nodded thoughtfully. “Margaret, you do so much. Maybe it’s time you rested, did things for yourself.”
“For myself?” The air turned sharp. “My *job* is my grandson. My *purpose* is helping my family. Or would you rather I sat alone in my flat watching telly?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Daniel said gently. “You could see friends, go to the theatre—”
“Friends?” Margaret laughed bitterly. “They’re all ill or minding *their* grandchildren. And the theatre? On my pension? A ticket costs half a week’s pay!”
Emily tensed. Self-pity meant tears and guilt were next.
“Mum, it’s not about money. If you want to go, we’ll buy the tickets.”
“I don’t want your *charity*!” Margaret snapped. “I worked hard all my life! I just believe my duty is to help my family—and yours is to *appreciate* it!”
“We *do*,” Emily said wearily.
“No, you don’t!” Margaret slammed the table. “If you did, you wouldn’t push me aside! You wouldn’t make me feel *unwanted*!”
Daniel tried to soothe her. “Margaret, no one thinks that. We just worry about your health.”
“Of course I’m tired! But I don’t complain! I just want my daughter to *care*—to put me first, just once!”
Emily pushed her plate away. “Mum, I *do* care. But sometimes your expectations… they’re too much.”
“Expectations?” Margaret’s eyes widened. “I just want you to be a good daughter!”
“And what am I now? A bad one?”
“You’ve changed, Emily. We used to be like friends. You told me everything, listened to me. Now? Now you’ve got an opinion on *everything*.”
“I’m a grown woman, Mum. A wife, a mother. Of course I have opinions.”
“There! You see?” Margaret turned to Daniel. “Hear how she speaks to me? Her own mother’s thoughts mean *nothing* now.”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Let’s not argue. We’re family.”
“Exactly! Family means *support* and *respect*. I sacrifice everything—and all I ask is kindness in return!”
Emily stood. “I’ll check on Oliver.”
The nursery was peaceful. Oliver slept soundly, arms flung wide. Emily smoothed his blanket, savouring the quiet.
She remembered the early days—when Oliver was born, Margaret *had* been a godsend. She’d moved in, taken charge, letting Emily return to work. Back then, Mum would say, “Don’t worry, love, I’ve got this.” And she did—with love.
Now? Every act came with strings. Every request felt like a test. And worst of all—Emily felt guilty even when she knew she shouldn’t.
Voices drifted from the kitchen—Margaret recounting her struggles as a single mother, Daniel murmuring sympathy.
When Emily returned, Margaret was mid-rant:
“…and now I’m just a *burden*. Better to hire help than put up with me!”
“No one said that,” Daniel said tiredly.
“Not in words! But I’m not stupid. Emily’s ashamed—thinks her friends gossip about her mother cramping her style!”
“Mum, this isn’t about *friends*,” Emily said. “I just want you happy.”
“I’ll be happy when you *respect* me!” Margaret’s voice rose again. “When you stop treating me like a nuisance!”
Emily sat, staring at her uneaten food.
“Mum, what if we tried something new? You watch Oliver three days a week—not every day. I’ll work from home, or we’ll get a part-time nanny.”
“So I’d only see him *three times*?” Tears welled. “He’s little, Emily! He needs *consistency*!”
“That’s not what I—”
“I *see*!” Margaret stood abruptly. “I’m *in the way*. You don’t want a mother—you want a *servant*!”
Daniel interjected, “Margaret, please—”
“What *do* you want, then?” she rounded on him. “Admit it—I’m just *trouble*!”
Something in Emily broke. She stood, hugged her mother.
“Mum, *stop*. No one thinks that. You’re the best grandmother, the
