The kitchen was tense, the air thick with unspoken resentment.
*”What, am I old now? Useless?”* Mum’s voice trembled with hurt. *”I’m still perfectly capable!”*
*”Emily! Emily, for heaven’s sake, how many times must I call you?”* Her voice carried through the flat, piercing even the closed door of the nursery, where Emily was trying to settle three-year-old Oliver.
*”Mum, just give me five minutes! Ollie’s nearly asleep!”* she whispered, stroking his back.
*”Five minutes? I feel ill! My blood pressure’s through the roof! You promised me my tablets!”* That familiar, strained tone crept in—the one that always meant an argument was brewing.
Emily sighed. Oliver’s eyes fluttered open again, wide with worry.
*”Mummy, is Granny crying?”* he murmured.
*”No, sweetheart, she’s not. Go to sleep, love…”* She kissed his forehead, but her stomach twisted. Mum wasn’t crying—she was shouting. And that was worse.
Margaret sat at the kitchen table, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest, breathing heavily. When Emily appeared, she shook her head in disapproval.
*”See what you’ve done? My heart’s racing, my head’s spinning—and you’re fussing over the boy! I told you—my pills first, then the children!”*
*”Mum, you can’t just—he was about to sleep! If I leave him halfway, he’ll be up all night.”* Emily grabbed the blood pressure tablets from the cupboard and poured a glass of water.
*”So I’m just supposed to suffer, am I?”* Margaret turned away, wounded. *”You never used to be like this. Before, you’d drop everything when I needed you. Now? Now your family comes first, and your own mother is an afterthought!”*
Emily wordlessly handed her the tablets. Yes, once, she *had* run at the first call. Back then, her mother’s requests had been soft—*”Emily, darling, could you fetch my medicine, please?”* Now, it was a command: *”Emily! Tablets, now!”*
*”Mum, take them and rest. You’ll feel better,”* she said quietly.
*”Rest? Easy for you to say! Who’s making dinner? Who’s getting Oliver ready for nursery tomorrow?”* Margaret’s voice rose with each chore she listed. *”I’m not your maid, you know! I’m here helping, sacrificing my health, and this is the thanks I get—”*
*”No one’s forcing you to cook, Mum. I can manage.”*
*”Oh, really? When? Past nine at night? Your husband comes home starving, Oliver’s hungry—I can’t just stand by and watch!”*
Emily sank into the chair opposite. They’d lived together for two years, ever since Oliver was born. Back then, Mum had moved in to help, and it *had* been a help—Margaret adored Oliver, cooked, cleaned, while Emily worked, secure in the knowledge that everything was under control.
But slowly, things had shifted. Offers became obligations. Requests became demands.
*”Mum,”* Emily began carefully, *”maybe we should think about hiring a nanny? You’re exhausted, stressed—”*
*”A nanny?!”* Margaret nearly leapt from her seat. *”A stranger looking after my grandson? Have you lost your mind? Who’ll raise him better than me? Who’ll feed him, dress him—”*
*”I’m not saying you’re not good at it. But you—”*
*”But what? I’m old? Frail?* Her voice cracked with indignation. *”I’ve got years left in me! I could raise ten more grandchildren! All I want is a bit of understanding—not whatever this is!”*
Footsteps in the hall—David, Emily’s husband, home from work. She exhaled in relief. Someone to break the tension.
*”Hello, my loves!”* he called cheerfully, hanging up his coat. *”How’s everyone? Ollie asleep?”*
*”Nearly,”* Emily said shortly.
*”Ah, there’s my son-in-law!”* Margaret’s tone switched instantly to warm. *”David, you must be starving. I’ve made shepherd’s pie—sit down, eat!”*
David glanced between them, reading Emily’s face. *”Everything alright?”*
*”Nothing serious,”* Margaret sighed. *”Just asked for my medicine, and apparently, my grandson’s more important. But never mind. David, how was work?”*
Emily silently set the table. This was always the way—with David, Mum was sweet, reasonable. Alone with Emily? A different woman entirely.
Over dinner, Margaret regaled David with her day—walks with Oliver, cooking, laundry—each word heavy with unspoken *See how much I do?*
*”Mum’s exhausted,”* Emily murmured, cutting into her meal. *”A nanny might really help.”*
David nodded thoughtfully. *”It’s not a bad idea. Margaret, you do so much—maybe it’s time you took a break, focused on yourself?”*
*”Focused on myself?”* Margaret’s voice turned sharp. *”And do what? Sit alone in my flat watching telly? My purpose is my family—my grandson, helping you both!”*
*”Not alone,”* David said gently. *”Meet friends, go to the theatre, the countryside—”*
*”Friends?”* She laughed bitterly. *”They’re all ill or babysitting. And the theatre? On a pension? Tickets cost half my monthly income!”*
Emily tensed. Here it came—the self-pity, the tears.
*”Mum, if you want to go, we’ll buy the tickets—”*
*”I don’t want your charity!”* Margaret snapped. *”I’ve worked my whole life, earned my keep! At my age, my duty is to help my children. And yours is to appreciate it!”*
*”We *do* appreciate you,”* Emily said tiredly.
*”No, you don’t!”* Margaret slammed her fist on the table. *”If you did, you wouldn’t push me out! Wouldn’t make me feel like a burden!”*
David tried to mediate. *”Margaret, no one thinks you’re a burden. We’re just worried about your health—”*
*”Of course I’m tired! Who wouldn’t be, looking after a child all day? But I don’t complain! I just want my daughter to care—to put me first, just once!”*
Emily pushed her plate away. She couldn’t eat anymore.
*”Mum, I’m not choosing between you and Oliver. But sometimes… it feels like you expect too much.”*
*”Too much?”* Margaret’s eyes widened. *”I just want you to be a good daughter!”*
*”And what am I now? A bad one?”*
*”You’ve changed,”* Margaret whispered. *”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 David triumphantly. *”Hear how she speaks to me? Her own mother’s thoughts mean nothing now!”*
David cleared his throat. *”Let’s not argue. We’re family.”*
*”Exactly! Family helps each other!”* Margaret’s voice shook. *”I give my time, my health—and all I ask is a little care in return!”*
Emily stood. *”I’ll check on Oliver.”*
The nursery was quiet, peaceful. Oliver slept soundly, his little chest rising and falling. Emily sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his blanket.
She remembered those early days—when Oliver was born, Mum *had* been a godsend. She’d moved in, taken over, and Emily had returned to work, secure. Back then, Mum would say, *”Don’t worry, darling, I’ll handle it.”*
Now? Every act came with strings. Every request was a guilt trip. And the worst part? Emily *felt* guilty, even when she knew she shouldn’t.
From the kitchen, muffled voices—Margaret recounting her struggles to David, how she’d raised Emily alone, how hard it had been. David murmured vague agreement.
Emily returned just as Margaret said, *”I’ve given everything, and now I’m just a nuisance. You’d rather hire a stranger than rely on me!”*
*”Margaret, no one said that,”* David sighed.
*”You didn’t have to. I know what you’re thinking—* She turned to Emily. *”You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? Ashamed your friends know your mum lives with
