The wind howled over the fields of Whitby as the doorbell rang, and Margaret Hughes glanced up from the kettle. Her sisterinlaw, Claire, stood there, arms outstretched, as if offering to whisk her own daughterinlaw back home with the grandchildren. We could take them back, Claire said, waving her hands. Weve been here five years, youve only been a yeardont count on us.
Margaret heard the gate shut behind Emily Clarke as she left, but she paid it no mind. Emily liked to wander the lane alone, away from the children. Margaret and her husband, John, had grown accustomed to feeding the grandchildren, playing with them, and often tucking them into bed themselves because the young couple were either at work or napping.
When Emily didnt return that night, Margarets heart leapt.
Tom, wheres Emily? I cant get a line on her! she called, voice trembling.
Dont worry, Mum, Tom replied calmly. Shes gone to rest.
Its getting late, she should be back by now, Margaret insisted.
Shes off up in the hills with her friends, Tom said, his tone steady, while Margarets thoughts hammered inside her skull. How could she be left out of this? What kind of respect was this?
She remembered the day Tom married Emily. They were barely twenty, both freshly out of work, and Tom moved into Emilys cottage, hoping to bring a husband into his home. Margaret had no objections. Soon a baby arrived, then a second, and the house filled with new life.
The first time Tom wheeled his grandchildren in a pram, hed been on his way home from work, and Emily would arrive shortly after. The three of them would sit down for dinner, then head back to Emilys. Margaret loved those moments; the children didnt visit often, and Emily lived on the far edge of the villagehardly a place you could dash to in a hurry. Yet the visits kept coming, the nights grew longer, and whenever rain or snow fell, the young couple would stay over. Margaret and John were delighted, busily preparing meals, walking the little ones, washing and folding clothes so the parents could sleep in.
When the children announced they were moving in with them, Margaret felt a surge of triumph. Im the best grandma, the best mother, she thought, as the kids praised her.
John travelled for work across the country, earning a good wage in pounds, while Margaret tended the house and their modest garden. She never minded cooking or cleaning; she even kept the small garden herself.
But age was creeping in, and the childrens tastes were becoming a burden. Emily often left the twins with Margaret because she had errands to run. Margaret couldnt scold herEmily wasnt her own childso she turned to Tom, asking, Could you all at least wash the dishes and tidy up? Im exhausted.
Mum, Emilys sister whispered one afternoon, Shes expecting another baby and cant even step into your kitchen; the smell is too much. She didnt want to tell you, but could you tidy up a bit? The words made Margarets skin crawl. Another child? The older grandson rose at dawn, demanding the TV, and stayed late into the night, hogging their bedroom. Emily, meanwhile, fed the younger one, slept elsewhere, and Davidher sonwas always at home.
Son, the kids should stay with you, Margaret begged.
Theyre running out of space, Tom replied. Maybe you could move to the kitchen and well turn our room into a nursery.
Margaret stared at the cramped tworoom house: a tiny kitchen, a pantry, a hallway. Where will we fit? The sofa is already folded out; theres no room to step. Tom shrugged, Then dont worry about David falling asleep.
Soon a crib was shoved into their bedroom. The baby would cry, be taken back to his parents, then returned againnight after night of endless rocking left Margarets head feeling like a mountain.
The inlaws returned, waving their hands again. They lived with us five years, with you only one, Claire said. Dont count on us.
Margaret realized something was wrong, but where could she turn? Emily never helped, even before the third child came. She always found an excuse: watching the kids, taking a walk, or, in truth, chatting on the phone while Margaret worked the garden.
Now Emily had left for a road trip, refusing to answer calls, only speaking to her husband. The children missed her, yet she didnt call, just rested elsewhere.
Tom, who did she leave the kids with? Margaret asked.
Me, Tom answered.
Ah, then its up to you, Margaret whispered, darkness clouding her eyes. Feed them and get them to bed.
Tom didnt know how the children liked their bedtime, and Margaret turned to John: Im at my limit. They slept in the kitchen to avoid disturbing Tom. In the morning his mood was sour, but she pretended not to notice. The children wanted toast or chicken; she pointed to the fridge. Its all there, cook itafter all, youre standing in for your wife.
Two days later Tom phoned Emily, begging her to return because he couldnt manage. She arrived, bright as ever, shouting, Did I really have to come all the way here? Cant you fry an egg and boil some pasta?
She slammed pots, but the fridge was empty.
Where are the groceries? Margaret demanded.
Did you buy them? Emily retorted. Do you think Im hoarding eggs or potatoes?
No, Im not, Margaret snapped. Go feed the chickens, collect the eggs, get something from the shop, fill the fridge.
Emily grabbed the children, announced she was leaving, and Tom, angry, complained that life with his inlaws was unbearable. Margaret and John clutched each others hands tightly.
All this time the children never asked who was paying for their meals, never thanked the food, never bought anything they liked. It was Margaret and John who did it all, for free.
Margaret pressed her forehead to her palm, wondering why kindness was repaid with such bitterness. She had acted out of lovewhy had they turned on her?
The wind continued to howl outside, echoing the turmoil inside the tiny Whitby cottage.
