Can you look after Jamie for a while, Mum? Emily croaked, her voice a tired whisper. I have to dash to work; there are urgent papers I must pick up.
Emily, I have a meeting with the editor at seven tonight, Margaret replied, flipping through her diary. I cant.
Come on, Mum, youre always busy! Its your grandson! Is work really more important than family?
Margaret pressed her lips together. Again it was the guiltladen manipulation.
Emily, I warned you that having a baby with a man you barely know was premature. You ignored me. Its your choice, your responsibility.
Fine, Emily snapped, coldly. So you dont care about me or the baby. Thanks for the support.
The line went dead.
Margaret had just turned fiftytwo, and for the first time in years she felt she could finally exhale. A divorce had turned her world upside down. For fifteen years shed raised two daughters alone, juggling two jobs and denying herself every pleasure. Five years earlier Andrew had drifted into her lifea steady, dependable man who accepted her whole baggage without demanding the impossible.
The daughters grew, earned degrees. With Andrew, Margaret helped Emily buy a onebed flat; Charlotte received a studio in a new development. Margaret landed a respectable post at a publishing house, enrolled in a beginners Italian class, and started saving pounds for a dream trip to Italy.
Emily, at twentythree, married a stranger shed met on a night out. Six months later she gave birth. Margaret had cautioned her about the haste, but Emily never listened. Now her husband turned out to be an unreliable drifter, showing up for work only sporadically, the household money arriving in fits and starts. Emily hovered between the infant and odd sidejobs, trying to keep the ends from unraveling. Since then Margarets phone buzzed nonstop with her daughters frantic calls.
Margaret leaned her forehead against the cool kitchen window, weary of the endless demand to sacrifice herself. Emily hinted at moving back in with her parents, saying it would be easier for everyone, especially the baby. Margaret refused, explaining she had her own life, her own job, her own plans. Emily sobbed into the handset, whining about a lost youth.
A week later a still more astonishing piece of news arrived. Twentyyearold Charlotte, fresh from university, announced she was pregnant. The father was a boyfriend of three months, a courier who lived in a shared house with no prospects. Charlotte burst into the living room, glowing, expecting jubilation.
Mum, guess what? Victor and I are going to be parents! she declared, flopping onto the sofa. Were having a baby! Isnt that wonderful?
Margaret watched her youngest, irritation rising like tide. The same story as with Emily.
Charlotte, have you and Victor thought about how youll raise the child? Margaret asked calmly. Where will you live? A studio with a newborn? How will you afford everything?
Charlotte fiddled with the edge of her cardigan.
Well, Victors got a spare room well figure something out. Mum, youll help us, right? Well need you.
Margaret set her tea cup down a fraction harder than intended.
No, Charlotte. Giving birth is your right, I dont mind that. But I wont bankroll a young family. The flats already yours; everything I could give you, I have given. Now you must manage on your own.
Charlotte sprang up, tears welling.
How can you say that? Youre heartless! Im your daughter! The baby will be your grandchild!
Im telling you the truth, Margaret replied. Youre adults. Youve finished university, Victor works. If you decided to have a child, you must shoulder the responsibility yourself. Ive fulfilled my obligations. I have my own life, my own plans.
What plans? Nothing is more important than family! How can you have plans when your own daughters are in trouble? Charlotte shouted, snatching her bag. Emilys right. Youre selfish!
Emily bolted out of the flat, Margaret left standing in the middle of the lounge, eyes shut against the onslaught of accusations. In the family group chat, blame for selfishness and coldness rained down. Emily typed long messages about how hard it was, how a mother should helpsacred duty. Charlotte echoed, adding that she never imagined her mother could be so indifferent.
Andrew held Margarets hand in the evenings, hugging her, trying to soothe. Yet the tension grew. Emily began popping in with the baby unannounced, pushing a stroller through the hallway, then dashing off, shouting, Mum, Ill be back in a couple of hours, look after Jamie.
Margaret tried to protest, but Emily was already racing down the stairs. Andrew frowned, silent. Charlotte called, tears spilling, pleading for moral support, complaining that Victor didnt understand, that there was no money, that she didnt know what to do.
Margaret felt cornered, a bottomless well from which they expected endless draughts.
Saturday evening was quiet. Margaret and Andrew had planned a calm night at home, a film, a discussion of the Italian itinerary. A sharp, insistent knock shattered the peace.
Andrew opened the door. Emily stood there, suitcase in hand, Jamie cradled, with Charlotte trailing, eyes red from crying.
Were moving in with you for a while, Emily announced without preamble, dragging the suitcase inside. Serge will bring the rest of the furniture later. Well rent out my flat to get some £. That way I can spend more time with Jamie while I work!
What? Margaret froze in the hallway. Emily, what are you saying? We never talked about this.
Why discuss it? Youre my mother, youre supposed to help. Who else will?
Charlotte squeezed through, sniffling. Mum, I need money for a cot. We have nothing. Victor earns little, I cant stay on maternity leave, I need to work.
Something inside Margaret snapped. All the fatigue, irritation, months of hurt burst forth.
No, she said sharply, stepping forward. Emily, turn around and go home. Charlotte, there will be no money. End of story.
Both daughters froze, staring at their mother.
What are you doing, Mum? Emily asked, cradling a weeping Jamie. Are you serious?
Absolutely, Margaret crossed her arms. I raised you, gave you education, bought you flats. Fly out of the nest and make your own lives, dont hang your children on my neck.
How can you say that? Charlotte wailed. Were your daughters! Your blood!
I can, because Im speaking the truth. Youre adults. You chose who to tie your lives to, when to have children. I warned you, I advised. You didnt listen. This is your responsibility, not mine.
Emily shifted Jamie to the other arm, eyes a mix of disbelief and fury.
Youre kicking us out? With a baby?
Im not kicking you out. You have a house, Margaret said, eyes fixed. And you, Emily, have a husband! Sort your problems yourselves.
You coldhearted selfish witch! Charlotte shouted, stamping her foot. We mean nothing to you! All you think about is Italy!
Yes, Italy matters to me, Margaret replied evenly. My plans, my life. I spent twenty years living for you. What more do you want? To have me babysit you till my last breath?
The sisters exchanged glances. Emily snatched her suitcase, turned, and fled. Charlotte chased after her. Margaret heard their footsteps down the stairs, their voices a muffled blend of contempt and hurt.
A week passed without a call or message from either of them. Andrew told Margaret she had done the right thing, but a knot of anxiety twisted inside her. Was it too harsh?
Later she learned Emily had indeed handed over her flat. She and her husband moved into his parents cramped twobedroom, where she was hounded for every tiny mistake. Her motherinlaw raised the baby as she saw fit; the fatherinlaw muttered about lazy young people.
Charlottes fate came from a neighbour. She saw Charlotte sobbing on a bench outside the block. Victor, frightened by responsibility, vanished, taking only his belongings. Charlotte was left alone, pregnant, penniless.
Margaret stood at the kitchen sink, wrestling with sympathy and the firm resolve not to intervene. She had given her daughters a starta roof, education, love. How they used it was no longer her concern.
The daughters kept calling. Emily complained about her motherinlaw, crying she couldnt endure it any longer. Charlotte wailed that she was utterly alone, unable to cope. Margaret listened, offered empathy, but no aidonly advice.
But the daughters wanted more than advice. They wanted Margaret to solve everything, to let them move in, to hand over cash. Each time Margaret refused.
With Andrew, she bought tickets for a threeweek trip to ItalyRomes cobbled streets, Florences galleries, Venices canals. The longawaited holiday, postponed countless times, was finally set. Before departure she called her daughters, calm as ever.
Are you are you serious? Emily asked, baffled. What about us?
Youre adults. Youll manage, Margaret said, eyeing the suitcase by the door. When you learn to fix your own problems and stop treating me as a freerange nanny and cash machine, Ill be happy to speak to you as an equal. Until then, grow up.
Youre abandoning us? Charlotte whispered into the handset. What are we supposed to do?
Im not abandoning you. You have the right to err. I have the right not to pay for those errors, Margaret replied, pulling her coat off the hook. Ill always be your mother, but I wont sacrifice myself for grownup children and their reckless choices.
Andrew waited by the car. Margaret descended, slipped into the passenger seat, and inhaled a deep, liberating breath. She decided then to stop being haunted by guilt. She had given her children education, a roof, affection. Shed offered counsel, but theyd ignored it. Her mission was complete. It was time to think of herself.
She imagined the holiday with AndrewRoman alleys, Florentine art, Venetian waterwaysfreedom shed earned. The dream swirled, the kitchen fading into a surreal haze of pastel skies and distant bells, as the cars engine purred and carried her toward the sunrise.
