In the quiet of her cottage in Cornwall, Evelyn sighed as she set down the receiver. The conversation with her old friend Margaret still echoed in her mind.
*”Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind.”*
*”Theyre my grandchildren, and if theyre such a bother to you”*
*”Margaret, wait! I invited you. Just you. I thought wed walk along the seafront, maybe catch a playremember how we used to? What sort of theatre trip works with children? My cottage only has one spare room. Four children Where on earth would we all fit?”*
*”Youd manage if you really wanted to. But I see nowyou dont.”*
*”Margaret At my age, hosting a nursery is too much,” Evelyn said wearily. “I can barely keep up with one, let alone four. I thought wed chat over tea, reminisce. Instead, itd be cooking in bulk andforgive melistening to the din. If youre set on bringing them, I can help find you a place to stay nearby.”*
*”Right. Well, Evelyn, if theres no room for my grandchildren, theres no room for me either,” Margaret declared sharply. “Seems weve taken different paths. Happy Christmas.”*
The line went dead. Evelyn pressed a hand to her forehead. When had Margaret become such a mother hen? Then again, theyd always been different.
…Theyd met at sixteen through mutual friends in Yorkshire. By nineteen, theyd married within months of each otherMargaret had been Evelyns maid of honour, and Evelyn, hers. Theyd stood as godmothers to each others firstborn. Then Margaret had a second child.
Evelyn stopped at one daughter, Charlotte. An introvert by nature, shed struggled with Charlottes boundless energy. The girl demanded constant attention. Nursery school had been a respitethose few hours when Evelyn could breathe, tidy the cottage, prepare supper. When Charlotte fell ill, it was miserynot just the worry, but the relentless whining, the indecision, the clinging.
Margaret, though, had always amazed her. Two children, yet she never seemed frazzled.
*”How do you manage? Doesnt it exhaust you? Some days, Im at my wits end with just Charlotte.”*
*”Oh, it was hard at first,” Margaret had laughed. “But you learn to let go. Muddy hands? Builds immunity. Clothes on backwards? Developing personal style. Eating the cats dinner? The cats problem. Besides, they entertain each othergives me a moments peace. Mostly. So long as they dont wreck the house.”*
Evelyn had only shaken her head. She could never be so relaxed. Charlotte was bundled in layers against the chill, led everywhere by the hand. Perhaps Margarets way had meritbut Evelyn was cut from different cloth.
And now, with grandchildren, it was the same. Evelyn had onelittle Emma. Margaret had a battalion of four grandsons.
Emma, like her mother, craved attention. While Evelyns husband had been alive, theyd managed. After his passing, she found Emmas presence overwhelming. The girl refused to play aloneevery puzzle, every tea party required a partner.
And she talked incessantlyquestions fired rapid-fire, no time for answers. By the third hour, Evelyns temples throbbed. She longed to retreat under a quilt, just for ten minutes of quiet.
Margaret thrived in chaos. Laughter, mess, summer photos of strawberry-stained faces, trampled flower beds, hose fights in the garden.
*”The eldest is nine nowhe keeps an eye on the others,” Margaret would say, shrugging. “Theyre independent. Find their own fun.”*
Evelyn saw just how independent they were when she visited after years apart. Work had taken Evelyn to London; Margaret stayed in Yorkshire. Theyd met only twice in passing.
*”Come stay,” Margaret had urged. “Charlottes grownno more nappies or tantrums. Youve only seen my cottage in pictures!”*
Evelyn agreed, craving a break from her quiet routine. She imagined evenings on the porch, long chatsa return to their youth.
How wrong shed been. Two grandsons were there when she arrived; the others joined by lunch. Then the madness began.
A squabble over a toy lorry escalated into a food fight. Warm porridge dripped down Evelyns cheek as the boys howled with laughter. Margaret scrubbed walls, waving a cloth.
*”Enough! Or no pudding!”*
It barely worked. When not ignored, they wailed louder. Pots became drums, toy guns fired pellets at anything moving. By day three, Evelyn packed early.
*”I need quiet,” she said gently, though the sting lingered.
Now history repeated itself. Just last month, Margaret had lamented that her family would “abandon her at Christmas”some off to the in-laws, others to a ski lodge. Evelyn saw her chance.
*”Lets spend it together,” shed offered.
Theyd planned seaside walks, a pantomime, *The Holiday* on telly. Evelyn mapped a route to Margarets favourite bakery for mince pies. Shed polished the flat, stocked upthen came the call.
*”Evelyn, your son-in-laws caronly one child seat, yes? No spare?”*
*”Why on earth?”*
*”Well, Im coming to you. Thought Id show the boys London. Their parents could use a break.”*
Evelyn froze. The boys? All four?
*”Margaret I cant relive the porridge incident. We planned a quiet visit.”*
*”Whats the issue?”*
*”My nerves cant take it.”*
For Margaret, the boys were part of her. To leave them was unthinkable. To Evelyn, every meeting neednt be a circus.
They reached no resolution. On New Years Eve, Evelyn sat alone, remembering days by the riverback when their husbands were alive, when Margaret had hooked hers on her first cast. Her homemade elderflower cordial.
It had seemed nothing could fray such friendship. But now
In the end, she went to Charlottes. The noise there was differentwarmer, familial. The scent of pine, roast beef, sparklers.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Margaret, though, was hurt. Weeks later, she still wouldnt answer Evelyns birthday call. Setting the phone down, Evelyn sighed. Their paths had truly diverged. One sought to be the sun in her grandchildrens sky; the other, a quiet corner to rest.
The real trouble? They no longer spoke the same language.
