Not yet grown up!
A sharp, piercing shout cut through the quiet. Mary didnt flinch. Over the past months shed grown accustomed to that voice her former motherinlaw, always appearing at the worst possible moment.
She turned slowly, pulling her eightmonthold son, Oliver, close. The baby cooed softly against her chest, bundled in a warm onesie. HydePark was almost empty on a weekday; only a few hurried walkers trudged past, their coats buttoned against the chill.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitmore, Mary said calmly.
Mrs. Whitmore brushed aside the greeting as if swatting an annoying fly. Her cheeks were flushed, half from anger, half from the cold. She stepped forward, lips pressed, eyes fixed on the child.
What are you doing? Mrs. Whitmores voice rang with outrage. Do you even understand what youre doing? Its freezing out there! My grandson is dressed far too lightly! Hell catch his death of cold! Do you want the boy to get sick?
Mary glanced at Oliver the onesie, a cosy hat, a tiny scarf. All appropriate for the weather.
Mrs. Whitmore, its eight degrees outside. Hes dressed properly.
Properly? The older woman closed the distance, a step closer. And do you even know how a baby should be held? Youll ruin his posture! Hell grow all crooked. Look at him, so scrawny! Are you starving him?
Mary clenched her jaw. Oliver was perfectly healthy; the paediatrician praised his growth at every visit. Yet Mrs. Whitmore pressed on.
These endless walks of yours! she huffed. Two hours a day, dragging the child around in the wind! Do you enjoy tormenting him? He needs warmth and rest, not this exposure! Mothertobe
Mary shifted Oliver to her other arm. The infant squirmed, opened his eyes, then drifted back to sleep.
Mrs. Whitmore, can we please
No, can we? the woman snapped. Lets see you try! You think you know how to raise children? Ive brought up three of my own, and you? This is your first baby and you already think youre an expert! Clever, arent you?
A tight knot formed inside Mary. The torrent of accusations was a familiar, painful tide. Each visit felt like an interrogation; every encounter turned into a nightmare.
And you, Mrs. Whitmore stepped even closer, eyes glittering, are the one to blame! You shattered our family! My son was happy until you turned his life into a circus! You drove him away! You stole his child from his father! All because of you!
Mary stood frozen. The air seemed to thicken, the words echoing in her mind. Was she to blame for the broken family?
We should be going, Mary whispered, turning away.
Youre running from me? Mrs. Whitmore shouted after her. Do you hear the truth? Youve ruined my sons life! And his grandsons too!
Mary quickened her pace, her legs carrying her away from the park, away from the shouts, away from the accusations. Oliver fussed but did not wake. Mrs. Whitmore screamed something else, but Mary could notwould notlisten.
Only when enough distance lay between them, the cries fading behind, did Mary exhale. Her hands trembled, her heart hammered against her throat. How could Mrs. Whitmore dare claim Mary was responsible?
Memories crashed over her. That night, the flat. The door she had opened an hour early. Her exhusband, David, and the other woman, standing in their bedroom.
Mary had not screamed. She had not wept. She simply began packing his things. David stammered apologies, muttering about mistakes that meant nothing. Mary pointed to the door. Three days later she filed for divorce.
Two weeks after that she discovered she was pregnant and told David, still her soontobeex.
Mrs. Whitmore burst into the flat that evening, knocking so hard Mary felt compelled to answer.
Cancel the divorce! the motherinlaw shrieked from the doorway. What are you doing? Youre pregnant! The child needs both parents! You must forgive my son! Youre not in his shoes, dear!
Mary leaned wearily against the wall as Mrs. Whitmore continued.
Hes made a mistake. Men do that. But youre a woman you must forgive, think of the family, think of the child!
What child? Mary asked softly. The one wholl be ashamed of his father?
Shame? the older woman spat. You should be ashamed! Youre destroying a family out of pride! Selfishness! Have you considered what its like for a child to grow up fatherless? Men err, we say. For a childs sake, we close our eyes to a lot!
Mary closed her eyes.
Mrs. Whitmore, please leave, she said.
I wont go until you change your mind! the woman slammed her foot. Youre being stubborn! Youre ruining your childs future! Stubborn girl
Mary did not rescind the divorce. The court seal soon dissolved her legal tie to David. Then Oliver was bornsmall, warm, hers alone.
She never claimed child support. She never listed David as the father; he made it clear he wanted no part in the boys life.
Mary worked from home, earning a good salary. Her mother helped when she needed a break. She asked nothing from Davids family not a penny.
David never called. He never asked whether the baby was a boy or a girl, whether she was healthy. He simply disappeared from her life.
Mrs. Whitmore, however, pressed on from every angle. She turned up at the maternity ward without invitation, bouquet in hand.
What did you name him? she asked as Mary emerged with the infant.
Oliver, Mary replied.
Mrs. Whitmores face twisted.
Oliver? Why not Colin, after my father? I told you I asked you
You asked, Mrs. Whitmore, but this is my son and I named him as I wished.
The motherinlaw pressed her lips together but said nothing.
Visits followed. Mrs. Whitmore appeared five times a week, unannounced, at the flats door, demanding entry to see her grandson. She offered unsolicited advice on feeding, changing, bathing, sleeping, holding, walking.
Mary endured, nodding politely, doing things her own way. One day the pressure snapped.
Mrs. Whitmore, enough! Mary shouted when the woman again berated her choice of formula. Stop telling me what to do! This is my child! I know how to care for him!
Mrs. Whitmores face went pale, then flushed red like a tomato.
Youre shouting at me? she demanded.
Yes, I am! Mary met her gaze. Because I cant take this any longer! You come here every day and poison me with criticism and accusation! Im fed up!
Mrs. Whitmore turned and stormed out, stomping loudly. After that she came less oftentwice a weekbut each visit still felt like torture.
Now there was no peace even on the street.
Mary entered the buildings stairwell and rose to her flat. The house was quiet, warm. She tucked Oliver into his cot, stripped off her coat, and sank onto the sofa. Mrs. Whitmores words still rang in her ears: You destroyed the family. Who had really shattered itDavid, who walked away, or the motherinlaw who never let go?
Oliver sighed quietly in his cradle. Mary leaned over, adjusted his blanket. The baby smiled in his sleep.
This is right, she whispered to herself. This is how it should be.
Two weeks passed in a calm lull. Mrs. Whitmore didnt appear, didnt call. Mary began to hope the storm had finally passed.
Then, on a Saturday morning, a frantic knock rattled the door. Mary opened it to find Mrs. Whitmore standing on the threshold.
Good afternoon, the older woman said breezily, drifting past Mary into the flat.
Mary froze, unable to answer. Mrs. Whitmore marched straight into the nursery where Oliver played on a soft mat, bent over him, cooing.
My darling grandson! My sweet little rabbit!
Mary followed, arms crossed over her chest.
Mrs. Whitmore, whats happening?
The woman turned, a forced smile blooming.
Tomorrows the christening! Ive arranged everythingchurch, godparents, the whole lot!
Mary stared at her former motherinlaw.
What?
The christening, Mrs. Whitmore repeated as if stating the obvious. Tomorrow, two oclock. I picked a lovely parish, found excellent godparents. Everythings set.
Mary stepped forward.
You cant decide when my sons christening will be!
Mrs. Whitmore straightened, her smile hardening.
I can. Who else is going to decide? You, dear?
Its my child! Mary spat, the words cracking like a whip.
You? Youre just a naïve girl! You know nothing! I have experience! Youll have to listen to me, because you cant raise a boy on your own! Youre not grown up yet.
Something ignited inside Marybright, fierce. All the months of hurt, insults, humiliation surged together like a flame.
You have no right to be here! Not a single reason! Mary shouted.
Mrs. Whitmore took a step back.
What do you mean? He lives here!
He doesnt, on paper! Mary snapped, moving toward the woman. In Olivers birth certificate theres a blank where a fathers name should be. Legally he has no father, and so you have no grandchild! Until that changes, you stay out!
Mrs. Whitmores face went ashen, her lips trembling.
You youre throwing me out?
Yes, Mary said firmly. Leave.
The older woman snatched her bag and fled the flat. Oliver wailed in the nursery. Mary lifted him into her arms, pressing his tiny body against her chest.
Everythings alright, love, she murmured. Everythings alright.
A week of silence followed.
Then the door knocked again.
Mary opened it to find two figures on the landing: Mrs. Whitmore and her former husband, David, looking tired and irritable. She clutched his elbow as if fearing he might bolt.
Good afternoon, Mary, David muttered without meeting her eyes.
Mrs. Whitmore shoved David forward into the flat. Mary barely stopped them as the motherinlaw dragged David into the nursery.
Look! she cried, pointing at Oliver. This is your son! You must officially become his father! Youre obliged!
David glanced at the baby, then turned away.
Mary leaned against the doorframe, watching the stubborn set on Davids face. She knew exactly which button to press.
Ill be applying for child support, Mary said evenly.
David jolted, turning sharply toward her.
What?
Child support, she repeated. You earn well, David. The court will award a fair amount.
His face twisted in disgust.
I dont want this child, David spat. Enough! Leave me alone! Im not taking responsibility for anyone!
He stormed out of the flat. Mrs. Whitmore chased after him.
David! David, wait! she shouted. Because of you I cant see my grandson! Do you understand?
I couldnt care less! Davids voice echoed from the stairwell. I dont give a damn about you or this child!
Mary slammed the door shut, walked to Oliver, who reached for her hands. She lifted him, hugging him tightly.
A small smile curved her lips. The plan had worked. David didnt want the boy, and now the relentless Mrs. Whitmore was finally gone. At last Mary could breathe.
