The sisters-inlaw drifted into our little Kent cottage, and I hinted that perhaps they could fetch my daughter back with her children, but they waved their hands as if swatting away a fly.
I heard the gate shut behind the new bride, yet I paid it no mind; she liked to wander alone without the bairns. My husband and I had grown accustomed to feeding the grandchildren, playing with them, and often tucking them into bed ourselves, for the young couple were either out on errands or napping.
When she failed to return for the night, a cold knot tightened in my chest.
Tom, wheres Mabel? I cant get a word with her! I called.
Dont worry, Mum, shes gone for a rest.
What hour is it? She should be back by now.
Shes off in the hills with her friends.
Toms voice was calm, but my mind throbbed. How could she say nothing at all? What sort of silence was this?
Then another realization crashed over me, relentless as a tide.
When my son married Mabel, they were barely twenty. Tom moved in with Mabel, both lone souls who still longed for a partner of their own. I had no objections.
Soon their first child arrived, then a second.
The chaos began there. Tom would bring the grandchildren in a pram, disappear on his errands, and in the evenings Mabel would appear, the three of them dining at our table before slipping back to her cottage on the far side of the villagefar enough that you could not simply jog over.
For me it was a joy to frolic with the little ones; they rarely visited. When they did, the house swelled with laughter, and the children began to arrive more often, sometimes staying overnight when rain or snow fell. My husband and I were merely delighted.
I tended to their meals, walked the grandchildren so the young parents could nap in the afternoon, helped with baths and laundry.
One day the children announced they were moving in with us. I tasted triumph. I was the best grandmother, the best mother; the kids appreciated me.
My husband traveled for work all over Britain, earning a good wage, while I kept the home running. Cooking, cleaning, even looking after the tiny garden shednothing was beyond me.
But age, or perhaps the weight of years, began to wear me down. The children demanded separate dishes; Mabel often had errands and left the little ones to me. How could I scold her? She wasnt my child. I started asking Tom to remind her to wash the dishes and tidy up, because I was growing tired.
Mum, Mabel is expecting another baby; she cant come into our kitchen, the smell is too strong. She didnt want to tell you, but could you tidy up a bit? She cant even stay a minute.
A shiver ran over my skin. Another baby? Tom and I were already running on empty; the eldest grandchild rose at dawn, watches the telly in our lounge, and stays until late, refusing to leave our bedroom. Mabel, meanwhile, feeds the baby, sleeps, and where is little David? Hes at home.
Tom, the kids should be with you.
Theyll need new furniture; theres no room left. Could you move to the kitchen and well turn your bedroom into a nursery?
I blinked. Our house had two bedrooms, a pantry, a corridor, and a kitchen no larger than a cupboard.
How will father and son fit?
The sofa will be unfolded, and therell be no space to step.
Then dont complain if David falls asleep on the couch.
Thus a cradle appeared in our bedroom. He would spring up, crawl back to his parents, be carried back, and the night became a relentless clatter; sleep evaded me, and in the morning my head felt like a stone.
The sistersinlaw arrived again, and I hinted they might take my daughter and her brood back, but they waved their hands:
They lived with us five years, with you only a year, so dont count on us.
I understood once more that nothing was right, yet I felt lost. The daughterinlaw never helped, even before the third child, always finding an excuse: watching the kids, strolling with them, while in truth they all sat on their phones and we toiled in the garden.
Now she could not bend, could not hold a child, could not cookevery action met with a reaction. She left for the road, ignored calls, told only my husband that she was away. We worried; the children missed their mother, but she rested in silence.
Tom, who has she left the children with?
Me.
Oh, dear me, I whispered, darkness clouding my eyes, then feed them and put them to bed.
Tom didnt know what the children liked or how they fell asleep, and I turned to my husband:
This is the last straw; I wont lift a finger.
We slept in the kitchen, trying not to disturb Tom. He woke in a foul mood, but I pretended not to notice. The kids wanted toast, then chicken, and I pointed to the fridge:
Everythings in there, cook itafter all, youre the one substituting for a wife.
Two days passed. Tom called Mabel, begging her to return because he could not manage alone. She came, bringing a bright mood.
So I was supposed to drive all the way here? You cant even fry an egg or boil pasta? she shouted, her voice filling the house.
She stormed the kitchen, pots clanging, while the fridge stared back empty.
Where are the groceries?
The ones you bought? I asked.
Do you spare me eggs? Or potatoes?
No, dig up the garden, feed the chickens, collect the eggs, go to the shop, put something in the fridge.
She seized the children, telling their mother she would not set foot in our home again. Tom grew angry, claiming the inlaws were treating him badly. My husband and I clutched each others hands tightly.
All this time the children never asked how they were being fed, never thanked us, never bought anything they liked.
Was this the price of our labour?
I raked my hair in frustrationwhy was my kindness repaid with such coldness? I did everything out of love; why did they behave so?
What do you think?
