“Just come, but leave the grandchildren behind.”
“These are my grandchildren, and if theyre such a bother to you…”
“Wait, Evelyn, just wait! I invited *you*. Just you. We were meant to stroll along the pier, maybe catch a playremember? Hows that meant to work with children? Ive only got a one-bed flat. And four kids… Where on earth would we all fit?”
“Oh, youd manage if you *wanted* to. But I see nowyou dont.”
“Evelyn… At my age, hosting a nursery is just too much,” sighed Margaret. “I can barely handle one. Id be exhausted. I thought wed chat, have tea, reminisce. Instead, Id be cooking vats of food anddont take this the wrong waylistening to a chorus of shrieks. If youre set on bringing them, I can help you find a rental nearby.”
“Right. Well, Margaret, where my grandchildren arent welcome, neither am I,” Evelyn declared flatly. “Seems weve each got our own path. Happy New Year.”
The line went dead. Margaret exhaled, pressing a palm to her forehead. When had Evelyn become such a mother hen? Then again, theyd always been different…
…Margaret and Evelyn had met through mutual friends at sixteen. By nineteen, theyd both marriedMargaret was Evelyns bridesmaid, Evelyn hers. Theyd stood as godmothers to each others firstborns. Then Evelyn had a second child.
Margaret stopped at one daughter. She was an introvert by nature, but little Sophie was a whirlwind, demanding constant attention. Nursery school was her respitethose precious hours to cook, clean, breathe. When Sophie fell ill, darkness descended. The girl grew fussy, whining, never settling on what she wanted.
Margaret marvelled at Evelyn. Two children, yet she never seemed frazzled.
“How do you *do* it? Doesnt it wear you out? Im climbing the walls with just one.”
“Took some adjusting,” Evelyn shrugged. “Muddy hands? Builds immunity. Clothes on backwards? Developing personal style. Ate the cats food? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each otherI can relax. Mostly. Just have to stop them demolishing the house.”
Margaret could only blink. Shed never manage that. She bundled Sophie in layers against the cold, held her hand everywhere. Maybe Evelyns way had meritbut Margaret was wired differently.
With grandchildren, the pattern held. Margaret had one, Lily; Evelyn had four grandsons.
Lily mirrored her motherneedy, chatty, relentless. When Margarets husband was alive, theyd coped. After he died, the weight grew unbearable. Lily refused to play alone. Puzzles, toys, everything required a partnerpreferably Grandma.
And the questions. Endless, rapid-fire, shifting before Margaret could answer. By hour three, her temples throbbed. She craved silence, a blanket fort, ten minutes of stillness.
Evelyn was built of sterner stuff. Noise, chaos, summer photos of strawberry-stained boys trampling flowerbeds, hosing each other down.
“How?” Margaret would ask.
“Oh, the eldest is ninehe keeps an eye on the others,” Evelyn would say. “Theyre independent. Find their own fun.”
Once, Margaret saw just *how* independent…
Life had scattered them. Evelyn stayed in their hometown; Margaret moved to London when Sophie was eight. Over the years, theyd met only briefly.
“Youve no little ones nowSophies grown. Come visit! Youve only seen my cottage in photos,” Evelyn had said.
Margaret agreed. Life had grown dull; this was a reprieveold friendship, evenings on the veranda.
How wrong she was. Two grandsons were there when she arrived; the other two joined by lunch. Thenchaos. A toy car hurled across the table, food fights, porridge dripping down Margarets cheek as the boys roared with laughter. Evelyn scrubbed walls, issuing empty threats.
“Stop, or no pudding!”
They ignored her or wailed louder. Pots became drums, toy guns fired at anything moving. By day three, Margaret packed early.
“Sorry, but I need quiet,” she said. The air between them soured.
Now history repeated itself. A month ago, Evelyn had lamented her grandchildren “abandoning her for New Years”some off to in-laws, others skiing. Margaret saw her chance: just the two of them, like old times.
“Lets celebrate together,” shed offered.
Evelyn agreed instantly. Plans formed: the Thames at dusk, a West End show, *Love Actually*. Margaret mapped the perfect route, booked Evelyns favourite sticky toffee pudding from a Mayfair bakery. She warned her family shed be elsewhere, deep-cleaned, stocked up.
Then
“Margaret, your son-in-laws caronly one child seat, yes? No spare?” Evelyn asked casually.
“Why? What for?”
“Well, Im coming to you. Didnt I say? The grandsons are thrilledwhen else will they see London? Their parents get a break too.”
Margaret froze. *All of them?*
“Eve… I cant relive the porridge war,” she joked weakly. “This was meant to be *us*.”
“Whats the issue?” Evelyns voice cooled.
“My nerves. They cant take it.”
For Evelyn, her grandchildren *were* her. To go without them was unthinkable. Margaret couldnt fathom why every meeting had to be a circus.
They never reconciled. On December 31st, Margaret sat alone, remembering younger daysalive husbands, river picnics, Evelyn hooking her own sleeve fishing. Her homemade elderflower cordial.
Back then, their friendship seemed unshakable. Now?
In the end, Margaret went to Sophies.
“Grandmas here! I *told* you!” Lily crowed. “Better than that other auntie.”
That New Year was warmpine needles, sparklers, laughter. It was noise, but *her* noise. The kind you recover from.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Evelyn, though, stayed angry. She didnt answer Margarets birthday call weeks later. Setting the phone down, Margaret sighed. Their paths had truly diverged. They aged differently: one craving a universe of small, loud orbits, the othera quiet nook to rest.
The real trouble? They no longer spoke the same language.
