«A Kingdom for a Grandchild»
«Still no baby on the way?»
«No, Margaret,» Emily sighed, rolling her eyes as she bit back the irritation in her voice.
«For heavens sake!» her mother-in-law huffed. «You two really mustnt drag your feet. This is urgent. Ill send you a videovery enlightening.»
«Right. Thanks,» Emily muttered, already dreading yet another lecture on the «right way» to conceive.
The call ended. The knife thudded loudly against the chopping board as Emily sliced cucumbers with twice her usual vigour, venting her frustration.
Lately, Margaret hadnt even bothered with greetingsjust dove straight into *that* question, the one that made Emilys blood boil. But things hadnt always been this way.
Once, theyd gotten on reasonably well. Margaret rarely interfered, calling once or twice a week, visiting even less. Shed occasionally ask for a lift to the shops or a trip to her mothers cottage, and in return, shed ply them with homemade jam, fresh apples, or cherries from her garden.
Then everything changedbecause of Margarets mother, Beatrice.
Even her own daughter jokingly called Beatrice «the General in a skirt.» A retired schoolteacher, rigid beyond belief, she ruled the family with an iron fist. Emily had been luckyby the time she and James got together, Beatrice hardly left her flat. Age and poor health kept her housebound.
Still, she *did* visit once. And once was enough for Emily.
«What on earth is this slop? You might as well feed it to chickens!» Beatrice exclaimed, peering into the pot of simmering soup. «Move over, Ill show you how to make a proper base.»
In Emilys family, they made soup without frying the onionsfewer calories, healthier. James had a bit of extra weight, nothing serious, but Emily didnt want to make it worse.
«Beatrice, really, its fine as it is,» Emily said.
«Oh, young people these days. Too busy with takeaways to cook properly,» Beatrice grumbled but sat down.
It mightve ended there, but Emilys phone rang. She stepped out to talk privately, and when she returnedthe sizzle of frying onions filled the kitchen. Emily clenched her jaw, shooting Beatrice a sharp look.
«Why did you do that? We prefer it plain.»
«Youve never had it done right. Taste ityoull change your mind,» Beatrice declared with infuriating certainty.
Emily exhaled but held her tongue. She *could* have dramatically tipped the pot into the sink, but that felt too extreme. Beatrice wasnt a regular guest; for James sake, shed endure it.
Yet Beatrice found a way to meddle from afar.
At a family dinner, she announced:
«Ive decided. My inheritance goes to whoever gives me a great-grandchild first. I want to see the family line continue before I go.»
James laughed it off when he told Emily later. She just smiled. As if theyd rearrange their lives for someones whim!
They had plans: careers first, then a home, *then* children. Oddly, Margaret had once agreed, insisting there was no rush.
Now they were on step twopaying off the mortgage. A year left, by Emilys calculations. Plenty of time. To Margaret, suddenly, it was «*only* a year.»
«Darling,» Margaret cooed one day, «why wait? Youll have the baby *and* the inheritance!»
Emily was stunned. Since when did anyone dictate her life? Not even her own mother dared.
«Margaret, were still sorting the mortgage.»
«Its *a year*! By the time you conceive and carry to term, itll be settled.»
«People thought that in 2019 too, and thenwell, look how that turned out. No, we want security first.»
«Even if the mortgage falls through, theres Beatrices flat! And the cottage. And her jewellerysolid gold, a fortune!»
«We wont be rushed. If it happens, fine. If notwell, it wasnt meant to be.»
«Suit yourself. James has *two* cousins, you know. Theyll beat you to it…»
From then on, these «chats» became routine. Emilys patience frayed. She explained, pleaded, even snappednothing worked.
«Just humour her,» James said once. «Shell drop it.»
Easier said than done. Margaret took silence as agreement and doubled downflooding Emily with «expert» videos, showing off friends grandkids, gifting «romantic» scented candles…
For Emilys birthday, Margaret brought a pram. «Youll need it soon!» It was costly, top-qualitybut Emily hated being roped into a game where her body and future were bargaining chips.
Every visit included some variation of:
«Vickys marriage is crumbling, and Katies still trying. Youve got the lead!»
Like it was a race. Emily felt less like a person and more like a horse at the derby.
She gritted her teethfor family peace. She nearly snapped, almost suggested *Margaret* have the baby herselfuntil salvation came.
«Katies pregnant,» Margaret announced glumly.
Emily barely stopped herself from blurting, «*Thank God*.»
«Well, its not a sure thing, so you should still try…» Margaret added. «*Just in case*.»
The «case» never came. Katie had the baby, Emily relaxeduntil Beatrice called a «family meeting.»
«My familys grown,» she said smugly. «Now, whoever cares for me in my old age gets the inheritance.»
Jaws dropped. Katie gaped; her husband choked on his pie. Margaret, however, straightened up, bright-eyed.
«But you promised *us*,» Katie whispered.
«Did I? You think popping out a baby means I owe you?» Beatrice scoffed. «Wholl care for *me*? I can barely walk to the shops!»
Emily almost laughed. So much for «a kingdom for a grandchild.»
After that, the pilgrimage began. Aunts, uncles, Margareteven Katie, baby in towall suddenly flocked to Beatrices doorstep, competing in devotion.
Emily and James stayed out of it. They lived their liveswork, quiet evenings, their own flat. *That* felt like winning. You could spend your life chasing the carrotor just grow your own.
