When Appearance Alters Relationships: A Mother and Daughters Story
“Mum, you dont need to come over today, alright?” My daughters voice was calm, almost indifferent, as she slipped on her trainers by the door. “Im grateful for everything, really, but right now its not necessary. Just rest. Stay home.”
Id already grabbed my handbag and buttoned up my coat, readyas alwaysto look after my granddaughter while she went to her yoga class. Normally, everything ran like clockwork. Id arrive, tend to the little one, then return to my modest studio flat. But today, something was off. Her words struck me like a bolt from the blue.
What had I done wrong? Had I not put the baby to sleep properly? Used the wrong onesie? Fed her at odd times? Or had they simply looked at me differently?
The truth, however, was simplerand far more painful.
It was her in-laws. Wealthy, influential people whod decided to visit their granddaughter daily. With solemn airs, theyd unpack boxes of lavish gifts and settle at the tablethe one *they* had bought. The house itself was their gift to the young couple.
The furniture was theirs. The tea was theirssome fancy imported blend theyd brought, now steeping in *their* kitchen. Even the granddaughter seemed to belong to them now. And me? I was just *extra*.
A railway worker with thirty years of service, a simple womanno degrees, no jewels, no expensive hairstyles or fashionable clothes.
“Mum, look at you,” my daughter said. “Youve put on weight. Your hairs gone grey. You look *unkempt*. Those coats of yoursso drab. And you *smell* like the Underground. Do you understand?”
I stayed silent. What could I say?
After she left, I stood before the mirror. The reflection showed a tired womanwrinkles at the corners of her mouth, a shabby coat, cheeks flushed with shame. Disappointment crashed over me like a sudden summer storm. I stepped outside, just for air, and felt itthe tightening throat, the sting in my eyes. Hot, bitter tears spilled down my face.
I trudged back to my tiny flatmy little haven in a quiet corner of London. Sinking onto the sofa, I picked up my old mobile, still filled with photos. There she wasmy daughter, so small. Here in a ribbon on her first school day. Graduation, diploma, wedding. And theremy granddaughter, smiling in her crib.
My whole life in these images. Everything Id lived for. Everything Id given myself to. And if they didnt need me now well, perhaps it was time. My part was done. The important thing was not to burden them with my shabby appearance. If they wanted metheyd call. Maybe they would.
Not long after, the phone rang.
“Mum” Her voice was strained. “Could you come? The nanny quit, the in-laws well, theyve shown their true colours. And Andrews gone off with his mates somewhere, and Im all alone.”
I paused. Then replied, steady and quiet:
“Sorry, love. Not today. Ive got to take care of myself. Become *presentable*, as you said. Maybe another time.”
I hung up. And for the first time in yearsI smiled. Sad, but proud.
