Eleanor rings again, and I see her name flash on the screen Eleanor Whitaker. Shes called three times this morning. I let out a deep breath, summon my resolve and hit the green button.
Hello, Eleanor, I say.
Emily, why dont you answer? her voice carries a thinlyveiled reproach. Ive been calling all day!
I was making porridge for Molly, my hands were busy, I lie, though the truth is I simply dont want to discuss, for the hundredth time, how I supposedly raise my child wrong.
Poridge again! I told you children need meat. My son Tom grew up on steaks, look how sturdy he is! Your Molly is pale as a sheet, a gust of wind could blow her away, she scolds.
I close my eyes and count to five. Molly is only three, and the paediatrician says shes developing normally. Her slight frame is just the family side of my husbands.
Eleanor, we do give her meat. Were having meatballs for lunch today, I reply.
Good! Thats why Im calling. Ill drop by with some chicken stock, made on the bones like Tom likes, and Ill whip up some mince patties using my recipe. No more of your meatballs, she says, a hint of sarcasm that makes the word patties sound like a poison.
Dont worry, we have everything we need, I try to reassure.
Whats there to worry about? Grandmother wants to see her grandchild! You wont stop me, will you? Her question is a trap; any answer other than agreement would seem rude.
Of course, come over, I surrender.
The call ends and I press my forehead against the cool window pane. Snowflakes drift past, settling on bare branches. November is damp and grey.
Mum, who were you talking to? Molly peeks out of the nursery, clutching a battered plush rabbit.
Grandma Eleanor is coming today, I smile, trying to sound cheerful.
Will she say Im a bad eater again? she frowns.
My heart tightens. Even she notices the constant criticism.
Grandma loves you very much and wants you strong and healthy, I assure her, though she nods without conviction and returns to her toys.
I start tidying. James and I usually prefer a creative mess, but before Eleanor arrives the flat must sparkle; otherwise shell comment that in a place like this, germs will set up camp.
In two hours I mop the floors, dust the shelves and even bake an apple crumble the only dish Eleanor ever praises.
James is due back from work around lunch. We both work from home hes a software developer, Im a graphic designer but today he has an important client meeting, so he heads to the office.
The doorbell rings exactly at two. Eleanor is as punctual as a British clock.
Well, look whos here, my dear daughterinlaw! she declares, a short, plump woman with chestnutcoloured hair, lugging a couple of bags. Wheres my little princess?
Molly shyly pokes her head out.
Come here, love! Grandmas brought treats! she coaxes.
Molly steps forward and offers her hand for a kiss, a custom Eleanor insists on, believing girls should grow up proper ladies.
Only grownup girls get kissed on the hand, Eleanor says, bending down to hug her. When youre sixteen, youll be the one offering hands to gentlemen. Grandmothers just get a hello.
I roll my eyes behind Eleanors back. Her contradictory advice is endless.
Eleanor, may I help with the bags? I offer.
Yes, bring them to the kitchen. Ive prepared a lot! Tom needs proper food, not anything random, she replies.
She immediately starts directing me in the kitchen.
Emily, fetch a large pot. Not that plastic one, a proper metal one. And wheres the bread? Do you keep it in the fridge? You cant! Itll go stale.
I hand her the cookware, accustomed after six years of Jamess mother always knowing the right way.
Molly looks so pale, Eleanor notes, arranging jars of homemade pickles. Do you take her for walks? Give her vitamins?
Yes, we walk daily if the weather allows, and we give her the multivitamin the doctor prescribed, I answer.
Doctors! What do those youngsters know? she scoffs. In my day
I sigh inwardly.
In my day we kept children outdoors from sunrise to sunset. We toughened them up! I took Tom out in any weather, and he grew strong.
I stay silent, even though Jamess father had suffered chronic bronchitis as a child and repeated bouts of tonsillitis.
I baked a crumble. Tea? I ask.
First lunch, then tea. And wheres Tom? Why isnt he here yet? she asks.
The hallway lock clicks.
Here he is! Eleanor cheers as James steps in, eyeing the shoe rack by the door.
Mum? Why didnt you tell me you were coming? he asks, surprised.
I called you this morning! Eleanor snaps.
James forces a smile; I had forgotten to text him about the visit.
Hey, Mum, he says, hugging Eleanor. How are you feeling?
Blood pressures up, my legs swell by evening. But I dont complain. We manage ourselves, dont bother anyone, she replies, a familiar refrain that always includes a litany of ailments.
Get changed, Im heating up lunch. Ive been at the stove since sunrise, making your favourite dishes, James says, casting a guilty glance at me.
He knows how stressful these visits are for me.
During lunch Eleanor reminisces about Toms early reading.
At four he could already read! Hed recite poems, youd love it! Molly, do you learn poems? she asks.
Molly silently pokes at her plate with a fork.
She knows many poems, I interject. Molly, tell Grandma about the bear.
I dont want to, she mutters, pouting.
See, Tom, the child is so quiet. You should send her to nursery, let her mingle more, Eleanor urges.
Weve agreed to wait until shes four, James intervenes. No need to push her now.
Push? I gave Tom away at two, and he turned out fine! Your Molly is a shy little thing, eats nothing Eleanor raises her voice.
Molly pushes her plate away, puffing her cheeks.
May I go play? she asks.
No, finish your food first, Eleanor commands.
Finish your meatball, love, I say gently, though Im boiling inside.
Molly forces a bite.
Thats better, Eleanor nods, satisfied. Youre spoiling her. A child needs routine, discipline. When I raised Tom
She launches into another nostalgic monologue about proper parenting.
After lunch Eleanor insists on a nap for Molly.
A child must nap in the afternoon! Its essential for the schedule! she declares.
I want to argue that Molly no longer naps and will stay up late, but James shakes his head: agreeing now is easier than a fight.
Let her rest a bit, he whispers to me.
While Eleanor battles with Molly, I brew tea and slice the crumble.
Useless, she says after half an hour, returning to the kitchen. Shes completely out of hand. In our day children always listened!
I bite back a retort about beating children for disobedience, but swallow it.
Shes just not tired yet, James says calmly. Come on, try the crumble, Emily baked it especially for you.
Eleanor eyes the slice suspiciously.
Hope its free of artificial stuff. Those store mixes she mutters.
Its all natural, I assure her. Flour, eggs, apples from our garden that you gave us.
She softens a little.
I remember when you first married, you couldnt even fry an egg properly, she jokes.
I keep quiet; I could mention my decade of independence and cooking skills, but that would only irritate her further.
Tom, Eleanor leans toward James, could you come over next week? The tap in the bathroom leaks, and the light in the pantry blew. Im afraid to climb a ladder, might fall.
Sure, Mum, James says, looking guilty. Ill pop by on Wednesday, okay?
My friend Nina is visiting on Wednesday Maybe Tuesday? she suggests.
I have an important client meeting Tuesday, James replies, throwing his hands up.
Fine, Ill stay with the tap then, Eleanor sighs. Its not the first time.
I bite my lip, hearing the same thinveiled blackmail, the endless reproaches.
I can go with you to check the tap, James offers, trying to defuse the situation.
Eleanors face brightens a bit.
Great! And could you look at the hallway wallpaper? Its been up five years, and it looks drab, she adds.
Whats Molly doing? Its too quiet, I ask suddenly.
In her room, looking at books. I told her not to scatter her toys, Eleanor answers.
I peek into the nursery and freeze. Molly is carefully cutting out pictures from a new picture book they bought just yesterday.
Molly! What are you doing? I gasp.
She looks up, unflustered.
Grandma said I could cut pictures and make an album. She gave me scissors.
I grab the precious book a beautifully illustrated volume James ordered online just last week.
Molly, thats a brandnew book! We just started reading it yesterday! I say.
Tears well up in her eyes.
Grandma said she hiccups.
I inhale deeply, trying to stay calm.
Its okay, love. Next time, if you want to cut something, ask Mum or Dad first, alright? I whisper, pulling her onto my lap.
She nods and snuggles into me.
James returns after an hour, exhausted but content.
The taps fixed, the bulbs in, the cupboard doors tightened. Mum sends her apologies and says she wont meddle with the kids anymore, he reports.
Should I believe her? I smile wryly.
Probably not. But at least we get a week of peace, he says, wrapping his arms around me.
We laugh. Perhaps one day our relationship with Eleanor will improve, or perhaps not. For now we have our little family, our home, our rules, and well protect them no matter what.
A week later Eleanor calls, offering to teach Molly how to bake pies. Its time the girl learns proper womans skills, or shell end up like modern youth good for nothing, she declares. I sigh, exchange a look with James, and know he too sees the endless cycle. Still, we manage. After all, she does want the best for us; its just not the best we need.
