Only on holidays will you see your grandchild, my daughterinlaw blurted out at the first family dinner.
Gillian, stop oversalting! Youll ruin the soup! I heard my neighbour Zoey scold, peering anxiously over the pot of beef stew as I reached for the salt shaker for the third time.
Come on, Zoey, I feel its not enough yet, I said, trying to sound confident.
Youre a bundle of nerves today! Let me have a taste, she replied, and I stepped back, wiping my hands on my apron. She was right my hands were shaking, my thoughts a mess. How could I stay calm on a day like this?
My son Andrew was finally bringing his wife home. Hed gotten married quietly a month ago at the registry office, no big ceremony. Id been hurt then the only son Id ever had, and I wasnt even invited to the signing. Andrew told me Lydia, his wife, wanted a lowkey affair, no fuss, no crowds.
Dont worry, Gill, the stews fine. Its actually delicious. You should get changed, tidy up a bit guests will be here soon, Zoey said, spooning the broth.
Zoey, what if she doesnt like me? What if Im too much? I fretted.
Youre a wonderful motherinlaw! You dont interfere, you keep to your own life. What are you even thinking about? she laughed, and I nodded, heading to the bedroom. Zoey stayed behind, finishing the salads. Good thing she offered to help Id never have managed on my own.
In front of the mirror I saw a sixtytwoyearold with silver hair, laugh lines around my eyes, a typical elderly lady. Id had Andrew late in life I was thirtyfive when I gave birth, a miracle after years of trying. My husband died a decade ago and Ive been living alone in a modest twobed flat on the outskirts of Manchester ever since.
Andrew grew up a solid chap. He went to university, became a software developer, earned a decent salary, rented a flat in the city centre and visited me once a week, bringing groceries, fixing anything that broke.
Then he met Lydia. He talked about her with a sparkle beautiful, smart, a solicitor. He showed me her picture on his phone. She was tall, slim, dark hair, bold makeup, but her eyes seemed a little cold.
I slipped into my best dress a dark navy frock with a crisp white collar did my hair, even applied a touch of lipstick. I gave myself a quick glance and thought, Not bad, decent enough.
The doorbell rang precisely at six. I dabbed my sweaty palms on the dress and went to answer.
Andrew stood on the doorstep with Lydia. She looked even more stunning than the photos an expensive coat, high heels, immaculate nails.
Hey, Mum, Andrew said, hugging me. This is Lydia.
Hello, Lydia extended a hand. Her grip was cool, formal.
Come in, come in! I buzzed, helping her shed her coat and offering slippers. She surveyed the flat as if assessing it, eyes skimming the dated furniture, the faded curtains.
What a cosy home, she said with a faint smile.
Thanks, love. Its modest but tidy. Please, have a seat.
Zoey was already setting the table. Seeing the newcomers, she beamed.
Hello, newlyweds! Im Zoey, from next door.
Lydia gave a dry nod.
We all sat down. I ladled stew, passed the salads. Andrew ate heartily, praising the food.
Mum, its as good as ever! Ive missed your stew, he said.
Eat up, love, I replied.
Lydia poked at her salad with a fork, taking tiny bites.
Do you watch your figure? Zoey asked, halfjoking. Its important at your age.
I just avoid fried and fatty stuff, Lydia answered. Im watching my health.
I felt a sting was my cooking too rich? Id always made hearty meals, and Andrew loved them.
Hey, hows Aunt Vera doing? Any improvement? Andrew changed the subject.
Better, I think. I visited her last week and brought some treats, I said.
There was an awkward pause. Then Lydia set her fork down and turned to me.
Gillian, Andrew mentioned youre retired. What keeps you busy? she asked.
Oh, just the usual house chores, regular checkups at the GP, my blood pressure swings a bit, chatting with the neighbours. Occasionally I pop into the theatre if I can afford it, I replied.
Do you plan on looking after the grandchildren? she probed.
My heart leapt. Grandchildren! Id dreamed of this forever.
Of course! Id love to! I said, smiling.
Lydia smiled, then dropped a bombshell. Im pregnant. About four months along.
Zoeys face lit up. Andrews eyes widened, and he looked down, embarrassed.
Andy! Why didnt you tell us earlier?
I wanted Lydia to be the one to share the news.
Congratulations! Thats wonderful! I exclaimed, throwing my arms around my son and then Lydia. She accepted the hug rather coldly, not even replying.
We kept eating. I kept repeating how thrilled I was, how Id love to help with the baby, cook, look after the child while they both worked.
Lydia sipped water, then said, Gillian, weve been discussing our parenting approach. We have a set of guidelines we intend to follow.
What kind of guidelines? I asked, curious.
Ive read a lot of modern parenting literature. Andrew and I have decided to raise the child according to a specific system, she explained.
That sounds reasonable, I said, nodding. Im not opposed. Youre young, you know best.
And that means wed prefer you not to interfere with the upbringing no oldfashioned advice, no unsolicited tips, she added.
I felt a chill. I wasnt planning on meddling. I just wanted to help.
Help comes in many forms, Lydia said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. Well gladly accept any financial support, but the childs upbringing is our responsibility.
Andrew interjected, Lydia, cant we be a bit flexible? Mum just wants whats best.
Lydia shot him a stern look. Weve already agreed, Andy. No buts.
Zoey stayed silent, her fists clenched under the table. I could see the tension rise.
Lydia, I understand you have your views, but Im a grandmother. How can I stay out of my grandchilds life? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Youll still be involved, but only on holidays birthdays, New Years, that sort of thing. Thats enough, she replied, her tone icy.
I stared. Only holidays? Just a few moments a year?
Thats unfair! I protested.
Its sensible, she retorted. Youre an older lady with traditional ideas. Youd probably overindulge the child with rich food, lots of clothes, scary stories. We dont want that.
You wouldnt even think of that, I whispered.
Most grandparents say theyll help, then do things their own way. Wed rather set boundaries now.
Andrew lowered his head, looking guilty. I turned to him, pleading. Andy, tell her Ill be a good granny!
He lifted his eyes. Mum, weve thought a lot about this. We really believe its the best for everyone.
I couldnt believe my own son, the boy Id raised, was siding with his wife.
Youre serious? I asked, my voice shaking.
Dont be upset, Mum. Were not banning visits, just limiting them, he said.
Only on holidays, I repeated, as if testing the words.
Exactly, he nodded. Well hire a nanny; we can afford it.
The nanny isnt family! I snapped. Im family.
Thats why shes separate. We can fire her if needed. Relatives tend to think they have a right to intervene everywhere.
Zoey finally burst out. Excuse me, but you cant talk like that! Gillian is a wonderful person, shes been waiting for grandchildren for years!
Lydia turned to her. This is a family matter. Please step away.
Zoey, redfaced, grabbed her bag. Gill, Ill be at my place. If you need anything, just ring.
When Zoey left, a heavy silence settled. I sat with my hands clasped, tears welling but not falling.
Ive spent my whole life longing for grandchildren, I whispered to the empty room. Dreamt of stroller rides, bedtime stories, baking pies.
Lydia sighed. I understand how you feel, but I need a calm environment for our child. Grandparents can be part of that, but from a distance.
Am I extra? I asked.
Youre a grandmother, just not in the daily routine, she replied.
I stood abruptly. Leave.
Lydia looked startled. What?
I said, leave my house right now, I demanded.
Andrew lunged forward. Mum, whats happening?
I dont want to see you or Lydia, I shouted. Just go!
Andrews face fell. Please, Mum, dont
Out! I snapped.
Lydia gathered her purse. Fine. Well go.
The door shut, and I collapsed onto a chair, sobbing uncontrollably, the grief pouring out like a flood.
Zoey returned half an hour later, finding the kitchen a mess of untouched dishes. Gill, love, what on earth?
How could he agree to this? I choked.
I dont know, love. Maybe his wife has a strong influence, Zoey said, hugging me. Its not uncommon for daughtersinlaw to see mothersinlaw as rivals.
I didnt do anything wrong! I barely met her today.
Sometimes they just assume youll meddle, Zoey sighed. Youre not to blame.
The days turned into a week of silence. Andrew stopped calling, and I, too proud to reach out, let the distance grow. I drifted through my flat like a shadow, not eating, not sleeping, just replaying the thought of seeing my grandchild only on holidays.
Zoey visited daily, coaxing me to eat, to talk. I barely heard her.
One afternoon my old school friend Nina called. Gillian, I heard youre happy Andrew got married!
Married, I muttered. And the wife?
Not great, honestly. Shes difficult.
I poured out everything. Nina, ever pragmatic, said, Dont chase them. Pretend you dont care. Theyll think youve given up. Grandparents who disappear often get missed later.
Its not fair! I protested.
Believe me, Ive seen it. They want you to beg, to grovel. If you stay silent, theyll think you dont matter, she advised.
Her words lingered.
A month later Andrew finally showed up at my door, looking tired, older than I remembered.
Hey, Mum, he said softly.
Hi, I replied, gesturing him in.
He sat, rubbing his eyes. Im sorry about that night. Lydia was harsh. I shouldnt have let it happen.
What about the baby? I asked.
Its a boy, Andrew. We named him Max. He handed me a photo. The tiny face, dark hair, a bright smile.
I stared, tears spilling. My grandchild, the one Id only imagined, was real.
Can I see him? I asked, voice shaking.
We can arrange something this Sunday, he said. If youre okay with the rules.
I spent the night prepping a gift, my best dress, a bundle of baby clothes, a soft blanket. Andrew drove me to their threebed flat in Salford. The place was spacious, modern, with a pristine nursery and a crib where Max slept peacefully.
May I hold him? I whispered.
Lydia shook her head. Hes sleeping. We dont want to wake him.
Ill just be near, I pleaded.
She softened a fraction. Okay, but gently.
I sat by the crib, hand hovering. When Max finally stirred, I cradled him briefly before Lydia gently took him back. The warmth of his tiny body made my heart ache in the best way.
We chatted over tea. Lydia told me about the birth, the first few days, the challenges of feeding with formula because she didnt want to spoil her figure. I wanted to mention the benefits of breastmilk, but I knew shed shut me down.
Max woke, cried, and Lydia hurried him to the living room. I asked, May I hold him now?
She passed him to me for a minute. His soft skin against my cheek, his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. I whispered, Youre beautiful, love.
She took him back quickly. Hes hungry, she said.
We said our goodbyes, and Andrew drove me home. Did you enjoy it? he asked.
It was amazing, I whispered, a grin on my face despite the sting of the rules.
Zoey dropped by later, eyes bright. Did you see him?
Sweet as honey, I replied. Shes still distant.
Dont worry, love. Youll find your moments, Zoey said, patting my hand.
Weeks turned into months. Max turned eight months old. I saw him three times a year birthdays, Christmas, sometimes when the nanny called in sick. Each visit was a brief, bittersweet glimpse. Lydia always laid down strict schedules: no sweets, limited screen time, everything timed to the minute. I obeyed, but quietly slipped in a little extra porridge here, a longer story there. Maxs eyes lit up, and he began to smile more.
One winter I was preparing for New Years, hanging a tiny spruce, hoping Andrew might invite me. He never did. I spent the night with Zoey, sipping cheap bubbly, toasting, Heres to a better year, though inside I felt hollow.
In February Lydia gave birth to a boy Max. In March she called, Andrew, could you ask Grandma Gillian to look after Max for a few hours? The nannys ill. My heart leapt. Of course! I said. She sent a checklist: feeding times, nap times, permissible toys. No deviations, she warned.
When Andrew left, I held Max, his chubby cheeks warm against my palm. He giggled, reaching for a toy. I followed the schedule, but after a while I let him play a bit longer, gave him an extra spoonful of purée. He beamed, Grandma, youre the best! The guilt lingered, but the joy was worth it.
Later Lydia called, Gillian, hows Max? I answered, Hes fine, eating, sleeping. She reminded me of the rules. I hung up, sighing. I was bending the rules, but for his happiness.
Max grew. At two, he started speaking, toddling around, tugging at my hands, crying when I left. At three, he started insisting on watching cartoons. I let him have one short episode, despite Lydias strict ban. He laughed, his eyes sparkling. That little rebellion felt like a victory.
One day Andrew rang, voice low. Mum, we have a problem. Lydias pregnant again, and the doctor says she needs bed rest. She cant manage Max.
My dear, Ill help, I offered. He hesitated, then said, Wed need you to take Max for a few days each week. Well set a schedule, and Lydia will send you the exact routine.
I felt a surge of hope maybe Id finally have more time with my grandson. I agreed, promising to stick to the plan.
When Max arrived at my flat, a massive bag of clothes and a stack of instruction sheets in hand, I felt both excited and nervous. He looked up at me with big, trusting eyes.
Will we live together? he asked in his tiny voice.
Well spend a few days together, love, I said, hugging him.
The first weeks were strict feeding by the clock, bedtime exactly at 7pm, only approved toys. Max obeyed, but his smile was faint. He seemed scared to speak up. One afternoon I asked, Do you want a biscuit? He whispered, No, Mum, I cant. Mom says Ill be in trouble. The word trouble sent a chill down my spine. I realised Lydias discipline was more about silence and isolation than guidance.
I began to soften the routine a little a second bite of porridge, an extra bedtime story outside the list. Maxs laughter returned, his cheeks pink with joy. He started asking, Can we watch a cartoon? I said, Just one short one. He cheered.
Lydia called each evening, Gillian, hows Max? I replied, Hes fine, sleeping well. She pressed, Youre following the schedule? I nodded, though my heart ached at the deception.
Months slipped by. Max turned four, then five. He visited me for a few hours whenever the nanny was unavailable. Each time he ran to my arms, shouting, Grandma! I held him tightly, feeling the years II held him tightly, feeling the years I had missed melt away in his warm embrace.
