**A Cross to Bear**
«If youre asking questions like that, best not to have children at all. And dont listen to anyone. I made that mistake once…» her mother sighed. «All those people who offer advice will vanish when things get hard, but the burden stays with you forever.»
It sounded like sensible advice, yet Emilys insides turned to ice. A lump rose in her throat, her eyes stung. She knew if she didnt end the call now, shed be sobbing into the phone. The worst part? Her mother probably wouldnt even understand why.
«Got it. Thanks, Mum. Ill think about it… Well talk later,» Emily said, hanging up.
She pulled a pillow to her chest, hunched over, and hugged it tight. This wasnt just adviceit was a careless confession. Emily could almost *feel* a door swinging open in her past, pieces clicking into place.
…Margaret had been diligent, punctual, in raising her daughter. She made sure Emily ate well, always giving her the best, even when she went without. Emily had toys, clothes, music lessons, dance classeseverything a child could want. Except love.
Margaret never told her she loved her. Never hugged her, never shared secrets, never praised her. She never even scolded her. It was as if her daughter was just… there.
Emily remembered the day she and her desk-mate, Charlotte, failed a maths test. Charlotte was devastated.
«Lucky you. You wont get shouted at. If I dont text you tonight, it means my phones been confiscated,» Charlotte groaned.
«Youre the lucky one. At least they *care* enough to shout,» Emily muttered.
Charlotte gaped at her. Who in their right mind *wanted* to be lectured?
«Have you lost the plot? Fine, you can listen to *my* parents nagging instead,» Charlotte scoffed. «Be my guest.»
Emily turned away. Shed have *loved* to be nagged. But her mother never checked her schoolwork. Why would she? Emily was a straight-A student. Until she wasnt.
At first, Emily thought if she were *perfect*, her mother might notice. Praise her piano recitals, her grades, her dance performances. But no. Margaret reacted with detached indifference, as if it were all expected.
So Emily faked being ill. Claimed stomach aches, hoping for concern, for care. Yes, it was wrongbut how else could she get attention?
It half-worked. Margaret *did* pay more attentiondragging her to doctors until they diagnosed mild gastritis. Then came strict meal plans, timed medicine. No comfort, no worry. Just clinical efficiency.
Emily escalated. Skipping school, failing classes, quitting dance and music, refusing chores. Even snapping back rudely.
Nothing.
«Dont want to study? Thats your problem,» Margaret said flatly one day. «Ill feed you till youre eighteen, then youre on your own. But good luck finding work without GCSEs. Even shop assistants need them now.»
About chores? «No going out until the floors and bathroom are clean.» When Emily threw a tantrum, Margaret pointed to the door.
«Save the theatrics for your room.» Then she shut herself away.
That night, Emily cried until dawn, feeling hollow. Like she was just a doll to be dressed and put to bednot a person with feelings.
She pushed further. Once, she stayed at a friends without warning, wonderingwould Margaret panic? Forget she had a daughter? Sigh in relief?
No. Margaret called everyone, fetched her home, and said coolly, «Keep this up, and youll end up in care. They wont coddle you there.»
Emily *wished* shed scream, smash plates, even grab a belt. Anything but this chilling calm.
Over the years, she didnt accept itjust endured. Moving in with her fiancé, James, helped. They married quickly; she was starved for love, reckless. Luckily, James was kind, steady, with plans.
«What do you think about kids?» he asked early on.
Emily froze. Children were the natural next stepbut the thought of her *own* child filled her with dread. What if she was a bad mother? What if her child felt as unloved as she had?
«I dont think Im ready,» she admitted.
But life had other plans. Emily fell pregnant at the worst timeno savings, rising costs.
«Hardly unique, love. Most of us raise kids on a shoestring,» her friend said.
James was overjoyed. «Its your choice, but were married, stable… Id love to be a dad.»
Yet the more she heard this, the more she doubted. So she asked Margaretand the answer shattered her. Had *she* been unwanted too?
Margaret said it without malice. Just facts. Sometimes truth cuts deeper than cruelty.
For days, Emily moved like a ghostworking, cooking, watching TV with James, but numb inside. Would she *ever* hear «I love you» from her mother? And what about her own child?
Desperate, she visited her mother-in-law, Patricia. Stern but warm, Patricia was everything Margaret wasntopinionated, fussy about dust, but *present*.
«Emily? No warning?» Patricia frowned, opening the door.
«Just… felt like visiting,» Emily mumbled, voice trembling.
Patricia didnt pry. She made tea, set out jam and bread.
«Theres stew if youre hungry. You and James havent rowed, have you?»
«No. Its… Mum.»
And the floodgates opened. Emily spilled it allthe silent dinners, the unnoticed grades, the ache of feeling unloved.
Patricia listened, then sighed. «I knew things were cold between you, but not *this* bad. Dont hate her, love. Life hardens some people. Maybe shes got no instinct for it. But shes not eviljust a bad mother.»
«How can a good person not love their child?»
«They can. Its awful, but it happens. Sometimes they dont even love themselves.» Patricia paused. «About the baby… Follow your heart.»
«What if Im like her?»
«You wont,» Patricia snorted. «James told me how you nursed that stray cat. Heartless people dont do that.»
«A baby isnt a cat. What if I fail?»
«Who doesnt? Good mums *worry* about being bad. We all mess upme, your mum, you will too. But wanting to love matters most.» She grinned. «Hypocritical of me to preach after saying dont listen to anyone, eh?»
Emily smiled weakly. The fear didnt vanish, but Patricias warmth soothed her.
She kept the baby. Pregnancy was brutalsickness, mood swings, fear. But James fetched midnight cravings, rubbed her back, stayed patient. Patricia helped too, coaching her through baby care.
Margaret called rarely. After the birth, she brought baby clothes, then left.
Years passed. Emilys daughter grewloud, curious, stubborn. Some days were exhausting, infuriating. But when her child was ill, Emily stroked her hair, read stories, fought back tears.
Shed never admit it, but now she was giving her daughter what shed craved all along.
Her relationship with Margaret stayed distant, but stable. Emily stopped expecting the impossible. She helped financially, brought groceries, asked after her health. Margaret wasnt a good mother or grandmotherbut she was *there*. Maybe she couldnt love, but in her own way, she tried.
Sometimes, that had to be enough.
