28 October 2025
Today I sit by the kitchen window, the rain drumming against the panes, and I try to make sense of the tangled years that have passed. I am Margaret Harris, a woman whose life has been a series of halffinished hopes, like a quilt with missing squares. My younger sister, Clara Smith, gave birth to a tiny, premature girl six months ago. The doctors called her a strong little thing, and they promised that she would be fine. I tried to reassure my sister, Dont worry, love. Everything will turn out alright for both your daughter and your granddaughter. She muttered a quiet prayer, God willing, and then, once the midwife was out of earshot, she whispered, Here comes the trouble.
The trouble began when a nosy neighbour, Mrs. Whitby, stopped by for a cup of tea and a slice of apple jam. Between sips she blurted, When are you expecting the next one? Have you started stocking up on nappies yet? Clara snapped back, What are you talking about? Do you have a tongue made of steel? Mrs. Whitby laughed and said, Your calf on the farm was washed twice last week; I saw her rush out of the barn with a kitchen towel over her mouth. Clara tried to defend herself, Maybe she ate something she shouldnt have. Mrs. Whitby retorted, Youve never known hardship, so you dont understand a thing. Im not a mother, I know nothing about this.
That evening, after the midwife left, Clara sat on the kitchen floor, tears streaming down her cheeks as she cursed the unplanned daughter and the unborn baby that never got a chance to see the light. The arrival of little Milly brought no joy, only endless chores, a lingering sense of shame, and a burning feeling that I could not quite name. Claras affection for her child was cold; she would pick her up when she needed to feed her or calm her, but nothing more. I watched my granddaughter with the same detached stareno love, no warmth. It was my fourth greatgrandchild, after all, and why should I be thrilled? My own daughters children had brought little to celebrate either.
Milly grew up under my roof, a place that felt more like a shelter than a home. She never demanded special attention; she ate what was offered, fell asleep at the reasonable hour, never fell ill. The doctors prognosis was rightMilly was a sturdy little thing, though still unloved. She stayed with us until she was seven, while Clara, after learning the trade of a housepainter, married a man named Tom and had a son, also called Tom. It was then that Clara finally remembered Milly, hoping the girl could become a helper for her mother. When Clara arrived with Milly at the village, Millys face was as blank as a winter sky. Clara scolded, Milly, youre as cold as ice. The others would have welcomed you, but you stand there like a stranger.
When I saw Milly leave, a faint tear rolled down my cheek. A couple of days later, the house was filled with the laughter of my favourite grandchildren, Lucy and Olivia, who arrived from my eldest sons family. I was soon swept up in the bustle of caring for them and, for a while, almost forgot Milly entirely. She felt little sorrow for me; she missed the new chicks that hatched under her aunts roof, and those tiny, yellow souls were the only thing that could draw tears from her.
Milly did not love life in the work settlement, but she had no choice. Over the years she made friends, started school, did her homework, ran errands for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes before her mother returned home. As she grew older she escorted Tom to nursery, and, imitating her mother, would tell the big boy, Watch your step, youre in trouble now. Im running out of strength, and youre of no help!
Tom never heard a word of love from his sister, and Milly never expected such words either. Her own mother called her sunshine or little kitten now and then, but Millyonce called Millicentbelieved she would never be a sunshine. At home she wasnt abused, nor was she starved. She didnt get fancy treats, but she wasnt left hungry either. She simply existed as the unloved one.
At fifteen Milly fled the cold, unkind house that had never become her own. She enrolled at a city college, studying confectionery, dreaming of eating endless cakes. In the dormitory she shared a room with three other girls, becoming the unofficial housewife of the flat. Then she met Victor, a lanky young man whose smile lit up the bleak November days. The other girls would step out for a brief television break, and Victor would whisper, Youre my darling, and Milly, used to perpetual neglect, felt a flutter of happiness for the first time.
Soon after, a sickness gnawed at her mornings. She missed a doctors appointment and had to scramble for a fitnote. By eighteen she married Victor in a modest registry office, and her shortlived romance dissolved into the routine of married life. They moved into Victors parents house; his mother and grandmother showed no special affection for Milly, but they gave her a modest room to call her own. She thought, perhaps, this was as good as it getsmaybe a child would come, and Victor would settle down.
Her friend from the settlement envied her, saying, Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a city girl. Milly didnt argue. The house in the suburbs had a garden, a water pump at the end of the lane, and a simple life. She learned to fetch water in a bucket, feeling the chill on her hands, and somehow, amidst the splashing, she imagined a future that might include a child of her own. Her motherinlaw complained, but Milly tried not to take it personally.
Victor seemed to care for a while, but after a week or two he grew restless, spending evenings out with friends. His mother and grandmother didnt send Milly away; they let her stay and help around the house. Yet Victor soon brought home another woman, announcing that he never loved Milly and never would. Milly, accustomed to being unloved, gathered her few belongings, listened to his mothers sharp instructions, and closed the door behind her.
She moved into a factory dormitory, where the mess hall was on the plant grounds, the hostel was near the gate, and a workers club was just a short walk away. Live well, enjoy yourself, they said, as if life were a simple fruit to pick. Milly found some comfort in the camaraderie, going to the club, the cinema, and the shop with her fellow workers. She visited her mother, stepfather and brother only rarely; they werent expecting her, and she didnt press.
When I was twentyone, I travelled to my motherinlaws funeral. Margaret Harris, the woman who had once called me my dear, passed away. I stood at her grave, looking at the empty cottage that had once been her home. She left the house to her favourite grandchildren, Lucy and Olivia. I held no bitterness; they were the apple of her eye, while I felt like the discarded core.
If I had claimed the modest inheritance, the family would have torn itself apart over the few hundred pounds that remained. My sister Clara, ever the dramatist, wept and cursed, shouting that the greedy aunt had left nothing for her dear Tom. She forgot to mention that I never received a bent spoon either. In truth, no one could claim anything from that tiny estate.
I tried, twice, to build a life of my own. I dated men, but both were flawedone drank and ran off with another woman, the other drank and was violent. I never found a suitable match, and I stopped chasing the registry office entirely. I threw a few belongings into a leather suitcase and returned to the modest bed I shared with my new friends.
By my thirtieth birthday, I was still moving between various dormitories, never staying long in one place. The world seemed to demand a private nook for a woman of my agea little kitchen, a small cupboard for my own crockery. Single women were offered rooms only as a last resort; families got the better spots. I often visited Aunt Alice, who worked cleaning the factory floors, just to talk. After a few months, she suggested I consider a match with her brothers widowed son, Martin. Hes a quiet man, doesnt drink much, only on special occasions. He wont hit you, and hell treat you well, she said. Hes not a poet, but hes decent.
I moved into Martins modest cottage, painted the curtains white with tiny blue flowers, sewed a couple of little dresses from yellow and skyblue fabric for his baby girl, Sonya. She soon began to babble, calling me Mum. Martin was gentle, never raised his voice, and gave me his wages without complaint. He never said I love you, but after three years of marriage I finally heard those words, though not from him. One afternoon Sonya ran in from the garden, clutching a handful of yellow dandelions, and placed them in my hands. She kissed my cheek with candysweet lips and whispered, Mum, I love you more than anyonemore than Daddy, more than Aunt Alice, more than my doll Julie. In that instant, tears of joy and relief welled up; I finally felt loved.
A year later Sonya gave birth to a boy, Ilya. Martin stayed up late, changing nappies, pulling the pram from the stairs. The factory granted us a spacious flat, bright and airy. We raised our children, watched our grandchildren arrive, and on summer evenings wed sit on the back porch, making jam and preserving fruit on the garden shed.
Grandma, I love you, shouted my granddaughter Olivia, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
I love you too, dear, replied my grandson Daniel, echoing her words.
My love you, Grandma, mumbled the baby, Lily, in her sleepy babble.
Our grandfather, Martin, chuckled, We all love Grandma, even if our teeth are a bit crooked, and the whole family burst into laughter. I quietly wiped away a stray tear, amazed that a girl once deemed unloved could end her days surrounded by affection, grandchildren, and the simple pleasure of a wellmade jam.
