“Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind.”
“Theyre my grandchildren, and if theyre such a bother to you”
“Alice, just wait! I invited *you*. Only you. I thought we could walk along the promenade, maybe catch a playremember? Hows that possible with children? Ive only got a one-bed flat. Four kids? Where would we even put them all?”
“Youd make it work if you wanted to. But I get ityou dont.”
“Alice… At my age, hosting a nursery is exhausting,” sighed Margaret. “Even one wears me out. I just cant handle it. I imagined us chatting over tea, reminiscing. Instead, Id be cooking in bulk and, no offense, enduring the racket. If youre set on bringing them, I can help you find a rental nearby.”
“Right. Well, Margaret, if theres no room for my grandchildren, theres no room for me,” Alice stated flatly. “Seems weve gone our separate ways. Happy New Year.”
The line went dead. Margaret exhaled, pressing a palm to her forehead. When had Alice become such a brood hen? Then again, theyd always been different.
…
Margaret and Alice met through mutual friends at sixteen. Three years later, they married around the same timeMargaret was Alices maid of honour, Alice was hers. They stood as godmothers to each others firstborns, then Alice had a second child.
Margaret stopped at one daughter. She was an introvert by nature, but Sophie grew up loud and restless, always demanding attention. Nursery was her salvationthose hours when she could finally breathe, cook, tidy. When Sophie was ill, dark days followed. The girl turned fussy, whining, never settling on what she wanted.
Alice amazed her. Two children, yet she never complained. She was always bright-eyed, unflappable.
“How do you manage? Doesnt it drain you? Mine drives me up the wall.”
“First few years were rough, but then I shifted perspective. Muddy hands? Immune boost. Clothes backwards? Fashion statement. Ate the cats dinner? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each othergives me a breather. Well, mostly. Still have to stop them wrecking the house.”
Margaret could only shake her head. Shed never manage that. She bundled Sophie in layers against winter chills, held her hand everywhere. Maybe Alices way had meritbut Margaret was wired differently.
With grandchildren, it was the same. Margaret had one: Emily. Alice had a battalion of four boys.
Emily mirrored her motherneedy, attention-hungry. When Margarets husband was alive, she coped. After he died, the weight of childcare crushed her. Emily refused to play alone. If building puzzles, she demanded Grandmas involvement.
And the questionsrelentless. One topic barely broached before she leapt to the next. Margarets mind spun, exhaustion fogging her by the third hour.
Alice was cut from different cloth. Constant noise, chaos, summer photos of strawberry-stained faces, trampled flowerbeds, hose fights.
“How do you keep up?”
“Olivers nine nowhelps mind the others. Theyre self-sufficient. Find their own fun.”
Margaret learned just how self-sufficient during a visit.
Life had scattered them. Alice stayed in their hometown; Margaret moved to London when Sophie was eight. Decades passed with only fleeting reunions.
“Youve no kids or responsibilities nowSophies grown. Come see my cottage! Youve only seen it in pictures,” Alice urged.
Margaret agreed, craving a break from monotonyevenings on the porch, shared nostalgia.
How wrong she was. Two grandsons were there when she arrived; the rest appeared by lunch. Then the madness began.
A toy car sparked a food fightoatmeal dripped down Margarets temple as the boys howled with laughter. Alice just scrubbed walls between half-hearted threats.
(“No pudding if this continues!”)
The children ignored her or wailed louder. Pots became drums, toy guns fired at anything moving. By day three, Margaret packed early.
“I need quiet,” she said, calm but strained.
The unspoken rift lingered.
Now history repeated. A month ago, Alice lamented her grandchildren abandoning her for New Yearssome to in-laws, others to a ski resort. Margaret saw her chance: a proper reunion, just them.
“Lets celebrate together,” she proposed.
Alice agreed instantly. Plans formedThames walks, a play, *Love Actually*. Margaret mapped routes to Alices favourite bakery for rum cake, stocked her flat, polished every surface.
Then:
“Margaret, your son-in-law only has one car seat, right? No spare?” Alice asked casually.
“Why? What for?”
“Im bringing the grandchildren! Theyve never seen London. Their parents could use a break.”
Margaret froze. *All of them?*
“Alice… I cant relive the oatmeal war. This was meant to be *us*.”
“Whats the issue?” Alice bristled.
“My nerves cant take it.”
For Alice, her grandchildren were extensions of herself. Leaving them was betrayal. Margaret couldnt fathom why every meeting had to be chaos.
They never reconciled. On December 31st, Margaret sat alone, reminiscingriver trips in their youth, Alice accidentally hooking her husbands sleeve while fishing, her homemade elderflower cordial.
Back then, their bond felt unbreakable. Now? Something had fractured.
She gave in, joining Sophies family.
“Grandmas here! I *told* you shed come!” Emily crowed.
That New Year was warmpine scent, roast lamb, sparklers. Noise, yes, but *her* noise. Temporary.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Alice, though, stayed angry. Weeks later, she ignored Margarets birthday call. Setting the phone down, Margaret sighed. Their paths had truly diverged. They aged differently: one craving grandchild-filled orbits, the other quiet corners.
The real tragedy? They didnt speak the same language anymore.
