**Diary Entry 3rd January**
I should have known better. «Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind,» I said.
*»But theyre my grandchildren, and if theyre such a bother to you»*
«Lydia, wait! I invited *you*. Just you. I thought wed walk along the pier, maybe catch a playremember? Hows that possible with children? My flats tiny. Four kids? Where on earth would we all fit?»
*»Youd manage if you wanted to. But I see nowyou dont.»*
«Lydia At my age, hosting a nursery is exhausting,» I sighed. «I can barely keep up with one, let alone a crowd. I thought wed chat over tea, reminisce. Instead, Id be cooking in bulk andforgive meenduring the racket. If youre set on bringing them, I can help find a nearby rental.»
*»Right. Well, Marion, if theres no room for my grandchildren, theres no room for me,»* Lydia snapped. *»Seems weve taken different paths. Happy New Year.»*
The line went dead. I pressed a hand to my forehead. When did Lydia become such a mother hen? Then again, wed always been different.
—
We met at sixteen through mutual friends. By nineteen, wed both marriedLydia was my bridesmaid, I was hers. We christened each others firstborns, then Lydia had a second.
I stopped at one daughter. Introverted by nature, I struggled with Sophies boundless energy. Nursery was my respitethose few hours to cook, clean, breathe. When she fell ill, it was unbearable. Not just the worry, but the whining, the indecision, the constant need for attention.
I marvelled at Lydia. Two children, yet she never seemed frazzled.
*»How do you manage? Doesnt it wear you out?»*
*»Oh, you adapt,»* shed say, waving a hand. *»Muddy hands? Boosts immunity. Clothes backwards? Fashion statement. Ate the cats food? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each other!»*
Id shake my head. Not me. I bundled Sophie in layers, held her hand everywhere. Maybe Lydias way workedfor her.
—
Now, grandchildren. I have oneEmily, as demanding as her mother was. After my husband passed, her clinginess drained me. She needed a playmate for everything: puzzles, toys, even idle chatterquestions rapid-fire, no pause for answers. An hour with her was lovely; by the third, my temples throbbed, craving silence.
Lydia? Thrived in chaos. Four grandsons, summer photos of them trampling flowerbeds, hosing each other down. *»The eldest is ninehe helps mind the others,»* shed say. *»Theyre independent.»*
Once, I saw just how «independent» they were.
Wed drifted apart after I moved to London. Years passed with barely a meeting. Then, last summer: *»Youre free nowSophies grown! Come see my cottage!»*
I agreed, craving a break from monotony. A mistake. Two grandsons greeted me; by noon, all four arrived. Chaos eruptedfood fights, toy guns, saucepan-lid «music.» Lydia scrubbed walls, shouting half-hearted threats. *»No supper if you dont behave!»* They ignored her or wailed louder.
By day three, I fled. *»I need quiet,»* I muttered. The air between us soured.
—
Last month, Lydia lamented her family abandoning her for New Years. *»Perfect,»* I thought. *»Just us two.»* We planned it all: the Thames walk, a play, *Love Actually*, rum cake from that bakery near me. I stocked up, cleaned, even cancelled on Emily. Then
*»Marion, your son-in-law only has one car seat, yes?»*
*»Why?»*
*»Well, Im bringing the grandsons! Theyve never seen London!»* As if it were obvious.
I froze. *All of them?*
*»Lydia I cant survive another porcine battle,»* I joked weakly. *»This was meant to be our time.»*
*»Whats the issue?»* Her voice iced over.
*»My nerves. They wont take it.»*
For Lydia, her grandchildren were extensions of herself. To leave them was unthinkable. For me? Why must every meeting be a circus?
We never reconciled. New Years Eve, I sat alone, remembering river trips decades pastLydia hooking her husbands sleeve instead of a fish, her homemade elderflower cordial. Back then, our friendship felt unshakeable.
Now? Wed aged differently. She, the sun in her grandsons orbit; me, craving quiet corners. The real tragedy? Wed stopped speaking the same language.
In the end, I caved and went to Sophies. Emilys squeal*»Grannys here!»*the warmth of roast dinner, sparklers in the garden. It was noise, but *our* noise. Maybe this was how it should be.
Lydia never answered my birthday call. I set the phone down. Our paths had truly diverged. Some friendships, it seems, outgrow themselves.
