**A Cross to Bear**
«If you’re asking questions like that, maybe you shouldn’t have children. And dont listen to anyone. I listened once, too…» her mother sighed. «All those advisers vanish into thin air when it matters, but the burdenthat stays with you forever.»
It sounded like sound advice, yet something inside Emily turned cold and tight. A lump rose in her throat, her eyes stung. She knew if she didnt end the call right then, shed sob into the phone. The worst part? Her mother wouldnt even understand why.
«Got it. Thanks, Mum. Ill think about it… Well talk later,» Emily said and hung up.
She pulled a pillow to her chest, hugging it as her shoulders slumped. This wasnt just adviceit was a careless confession. She could almost feel the door to her past creaking open, everything slotting into place.
…With her daughter, Margaret had been… diligent. Punctual. She made sure Emily ate well, giving her the best even when she went without. Emily had toys, clothes, ballet lessons, piano practiceeverything a child could want.
Except love.
Margaret never said she loved her. No hugs, no heart-to-hearts, no praise. Not even scolding. Just indifference, as if Emily were a duty, not a daughter.
Emily remembered the day she and her desk-mate, Charlotte, failed a maths test. Charlotte was devastated.
«Lucky you,» she groaned. «You wont get a lecture. But me? If I dont text by tonight, it means my phones confiscated.»
«Youre the lucky one,» Emily muttered. «At least they care enough to shout.»
Charlotte gaped. Who in their right mind wanted to be yelled at?
«Lost your marbles? Fine, take my scolding for me,» Charlotte snorted. «Be my guest.»
Emily just turned away. Shed have welcomed the shouting, but Margaret never checked her schoolbook. Why would she? Emily was a straight-A student. Until she wasnt.
At first, she thought if she was «good enough,» her mother would notice. Praise her piano recitals, her grades, her ballet performances. But no. Margaret reacted with quiet approval, as if it were expected.
So Emily faked illness. Claimed a stomach ache, hoping for concern, for care. It workedsort of. Margaret took her to doctors, diagnosed mild gastritis, doled out pills on schedule. No comfort, no fuss. Just efficiency.
Then Emily went further: skipped school, flunked tests, quit ballet, refused chores. Even snapped at her mother.
Nothing.
«Fine. Dont studyyour problem,» Margaret said calmly. «Ill feed you till youre eighteen, then youre on your own. But drop out, and good luck finding work. Even shop assistants need GCSEs.»
About chores, Margaret was firm: no clean floors, no going out. Emily tried a tantrum. Her mother pointed to the door.
«Save the dramatics for your room,» she said, shutting her bedroom door.
No more tantrums. Emily cried half the night, feeling like a dolldressed, fed, ignored.
She pushed further. Once, she stayed at a friends without warning, wondering: Would Margaret panic? Forget she existed?
No. Margaret called everyone, fetched her home. No shouting.
«Keep this up, and youll end up in care. They wont fusstheyll say Ive failed,» she said coolly.
Emily almost wished for smashed plates, screaming, even a slap.
Over the years, she didnt accept itjust adapted. Moving in with her fiancé, James, helped. They married quickly, starved for love as she was. Thankfully, he was decent: steady, ambitious.
«What about kids?» hed asked long before the wedding.
Emily froze. Children were the natural next stepbut the thought terrified her. What if she was like her mother? What if her child felt as unseen as she had?
«Im not ready,» she admitted.
But plans change. She got pregnantbad timing. No house, prices soaring faster than wages.
«Pfft. Most parents have mortgages or nothing,» her friend said. «Youll manage.»
James wanted the baby.
«Your choice, but were married, stable. Id love to be a dad.»
Yet the more she heard, the more she doubted. So she asked Margaretand the answer shattered her. Had she been unwanted too?
For days, Emily moved mechanically: work, dinners, films with James. But inside, she was lost. Would she never hear «I love you»? What about her own child?
Finally, she went to her mother-in-law, Eleanor. Stern but warm, Eleanor was everything Margaret wasnt. She fussed about dust, scoffed at modern fashionbut at least she cared.
«Emily? No call?» Eleanor frowned, opening the door.
«Just… visiting,» Emily whispered, voice trembling.
Eleanor didnt pry. She made tea, set out bread and jam.
«Theres stew if youre hungry,» she said, eyeing the fridge. «You and James havent rowed?»
«No. Its… Mum.»
The floodgates opened. Emily spilled it all: the lonely childhood, the unspoken words, the fear of being unlovable.
Eleanor listened, scowling. Finally, she pushed her cup aside.
«Listen, love,» she said. «I knew you two were distant, but not like this. Still… dont hate her. Shes not cruel. Maybe life hardened her. Maybe shes just… not a mother. But shes not a monster.»
«Not a monster? She doesnt love her own child!»
«Some dont. Its awful, but true. Some dont even love themselves…» Eleanor sighed. «As for the baby? Follow your heart.»
«What if Im like her?»
«You wont,» Eleanor huffed. «James told me how you nursed that stray cat. Heartless people dont do that.»
«But a babys not a cat! What if I fail?»
«Who gets it right first go? Heres a secret: good mums are the ones who worry theyre bad. No ones perfect. Not me, not your mum, not you. But wanting to lovethats what counts. Ugh, lecturing you after saying dont listen to anyone…» She chuckled.
Emily smiled backweak but real. The fear didnt vanish, but it eased. With Eleanor, she felt warmth, not the usual chill.
She kept the baby. The pregnancy was rough: sickness, mood swings, fear. But James fetched midnight cravings, rubbed her back, endured her tears. Eleanor helped toodoctor visits, baby-care lessons.
Margaret called rarely. Just asked if she needed anything. After the birth, she brought a bag of baby clothes. Nothing more.
Years passed. Emilys daughter grewloud, stubborn, curious. She threw tantrums, broke toys, exhausted Emily. But when she was ill, Emily stroked her hair, read stories, fought back tears.
She was ashamed to admit it: she was giving her daughter what shed once craved.
Her relationship with Margaret stayed cool, but intact. Emily stopped expecting the impossible. She helped with bills, brought groceries, asked after her health. Margaret wasnt a good mother or grandmother. But she was there. Maybe she couldnt lovebut in her way, she tried. And sometimes, that was enough.
