**A Cross to Bear**
«If you’re asking questions like that, maybe you shouldn’t have children at all. And dont listen to anyone. I made that mistake once,» her mother sighed. «All those advisors vanish when things get hard, but the burdenit stays with you forever.»
It sounded like sound advice, but inside, Sophie felt everything freeze and tighten. A lump rose in her throat, and her eyes burned. She knew if she didnt end the call right then, shed break down sobbing. The worst part? Her mother wouldnt even understand why.
«Got it. Thanks, Mum. Ill think about it Well talk later,» Sophie managed before hanging up.
She grabbed a cushion, hugged it tight, and curled in on herself. This wasnt just adviceit was a careless confession. She could almost feel the door to her past swinging open, pieces clicking into place.
…Margaret had been diligent, even punctual, as a mother. She ensured Sophie never went hungry, giving her the best even when she went without. Sophie had toys, clothes, piano lessons, and dance classeseverything a girl could want. Everything but love.
Margaret never said, «I love you.» No hugs, no heart-to-hearts, no praise. She didnt even scold. Just silence, as if Sophie were a piece of furniture.
Sophie remembered the day she and her desk mate, Emily, failed a maths test. Emily was devastated.
«Lucky you. Your parents wont even care. But me? Grounded for weeks. If I dont text later, assume my phones gone,» Emily groaned.
«Youre the lucky one,» Sophie muttered. «At least yours shout at you.»
Emily gaped. Who in their right mind wanted to be yelled at?
«Youve lost it. Want to trade places? Be my guest,» Emily laughed.
Sophie turned away. Shed have taken the shoutingbut her mother never even checked her grades. Why bother? Sophie was top of the class. Until she wasnt.
At first, she thought being «good» would earn Margarets attentionpraise for her piano recitals, pride in her grades. But no. Her mothers reaction was always the same: a quiet nod, as if it were expected.
So Sophie pretended to be ill, clutching her stomach, hoping for concern, for tenderness. It workedsort of. Margaret booked doctor visits until they diagnosed mild gastritis. Then came strict meal plans, timed medication. No comfort, just efficiency.
Desperate, Sophie skipped school, failed tests, quit piano, refused chores. She even snapped at her mother.
Nothing.
«Your education, your problem,» Margaret said calmly. «Ill feed you till youre eighteen, but after that? Youre on your own. And good luck finding work without GCSEs.»
When Sophie refused to clean, Margaret simply said, «No chores, no going out.» A tantrum earned only a dismissive wave.
«Save the drama for your room.»
That night, Sophie cried until dawn, feeling hollow. Like she was just a doll to be dressed and ignored.
She pushed furthersleeping over at a friends without warning. Would Margaret even notice?
She did. Calls were made. Sophie was collected. No shouting, just cold facts: «Keep this up, and youll end up in care. They wont coddle you.»
Sophie almost wished for shouting, for smashed platesanything but that icy detachment.
Years passed. She grew used to it. Moving in with her fiancé, James, helped. They married quicklySophie was starved for love, reckless.
Luckily, James was kind, steady.
«What about kids?» he asked once.
Sophie froze. Children were supposed to be the next step. But the thought of becoming a mother terrified her. What if she repeated Margarets mistakes?
«Im not ready,» she admitted.
But life had other plans. She got pregnant. Wrong timingno house, rising bills.
«People raise kids with less,» her friend shrugged.
James was hopeful. «Its your choice too. But were married, stable. Id like to be a dad.»
The more she heard, the more she doubted. Then came Margarets careless words. So Sophie had been unwanted too?
For days, she moved like a ghostworking, cooking, watching TVnumb. Would she ever hear «I love you»? Could she even be a mother?
She broke and went to her mother-in-law, Eleanor. Stern but warm, Eleanor was everything Margaret wasnt.
«Sophie? No call, no warning?» Eleanor frowned, opening the door.
«Just needed to see you,» Sophie whispered, voice cracking.
Eleanor made tea, served bread and jam. «Theres stew if youre hungry. You and James havent fought?»
«No. Its Mum.»
The floodgates opened. The loneliness, the silence, the fear of being unloved.
Eleanor listened, then sighed. «Sweetheart, dont hate her. Some people they harden. Shes not crueljust a bad mother. But you? Youll be different.»
«How do you know?»
«You nursed that stray cat for weeks. Cold people dont do that.»
«But a child isnt a cat. What if I fail?»
Eleanor laughed. «All good mothers worry theyre failing. We all mess up. The difference? Youll care enough to try.»
Sophie smiled shakily. The fear didnt vanish, but the weight eased.
She kept the baby. Pregnancy was brutalnausea, panic, mood swings. But James brought oranges at midnight, rubbed her back. Eleanor helped too, teaching her to swaddle, to soothe.
Margaret called rarely. After the birth, she brought baby clothes and left.
Years later, Sophies daughterloud, stubborn, brightthrew tantrums, broke toys. Sophie scolded, sighed, but when her girl was ill, she stayed up reading stories, stroking her hair.
She never admitted it, but in those moments, she gave her daughter what shed craved.
Margaret remained distant. Sophie stopped expecting more. She helped with bills, brought groceries, asked after her health.
Margaret wasnt a good mother. Or grandmother. But she was there. Trying, in her own way. Sometimes, that had to be enough.
