My mothers words still echo in my mind, as if they were spoken in a stonecobbled house on the outskirts of London many years ago.
Eleanor Whitwell stood frozen in the doorway, a strawberry cake teetering in her hands. Her mother, Mrs. Whitwell, stared at her with a displeased look, as though Eleanor had committed some unseen offence.
Mother, what are you on about? Eleanor set the cake down on the kitchen table. What does Michael have to do with this?
Mrs. Whitwells voice rose. Hes already in his seventh year at a standard secondary school! No sixthform college, no specialised courses. How on earth will he get into a respectable university? How will he ever achieve anything?
Eleanor bit her lip. The argument fell into its familiar pattern, and a hot sting of injustice flared in her chest.
Mother, Michael does well at school. He gets mostly As. He has a maths tutor and wants to go into programming, just like his father. She gestured toward Samuel, her husband, who was fixing a leaky tap in the garden.
Exactly! her mother snapped, flinging her hands wide. Programming! Sitting at a computer like your brother Sam. Thats a modest job with a modest wage. And you? A teacher! A private tutor! You scrape together a pittance. Do you even feed your child properly?
The words hit Eleanors most tender spots. Yes, Samuel and she were not rolling in money; they counted every pound. Yet Michael grew up a happy boy.
Were fine. Michael is happy, Eleanor replied.
Happy? her mother scoffed, moving to the window. Victors son, though, is a proper treasure. Anthony attends a school with an intensive English programme. From the first year hes spoken fluently. Victor and Linda have spared no expense for him.
Eleanor listened in silence. Victor, her elder brother, had launched a small plumbing business, bought a larger flat, and his wife Linda stayed at home to look after the house and their child. Every chance her mother got was used to set Victors family against hers.
Anthony is such a bright lad, her mother continued, warming to the subject. Hell be sent abroad for a language course at thirteen! Thats thinking ahead, thats a future. Not your runofthemill school.
Eleanor stepped closer, seeing the tension in her mothers shoulders and the stern set of her face.
Mother, I know you want grandchildren who succeed. Michael isnt worse than Anthony. He simply walks a different path.
A different path! her mother snapped, turning sharply. One leads to the top, to success. The other drifts in gloom and poverty. Is that what you want for your son? To live in penury?
Something tightened inside Eleanor.
Were not poor. We live within our means. Michael will grow into a good mansmart, kind, hardworking.
Hardworking! her mother huffed. That wont cut it in this world, dear. You need connections, money, a prestigious education. What does Michael have? An ordinary school and a motherteacher who can barely keep the household afloat.
Eleanor turned away. The cake, now garnished with berries, stared back at her, a token of love that now seemed superfluous.
Mother, Im not here to argue. We raise our son how we think best, and he is content.
The future is what matters! her mother pressed closer. Youre spoiling the child with your carelessness. Victor understands. He does everything so Anthony becomes someone of note. Youre just drifting.
Eleanor shook her head. The debate was pointless; her mother would not budge.
Very well, Mother. Lets just have lunch. Sam and Michael will be here soon.
As expected, the meal unfolded under a taut atmosphere. Mrs. Whitwell boasted repeatedly about Anthonys brilliance and Victors pride. Michael ate quietly, glancing at his grandmother. Eleanor forced a smile, trying to assure herself that all was well.
After that lunch Eleanor resolved to keep contact with her mother to a minimum. The endless comparisons were too painful. She still called her mother and Victor on holidays, offered congratulations, but she no longer hosted family gatherings. Mrs. Whitwell took offense, yet Eleanor stood firm, protecting Michael from the constant negativity.
Years passed. Michael grew, studied, and fell in love with programming. Eleanor occasionally heard from her mother about Victors side of the family. Anthony graduated with a gold medal, entered a prestigious university with a few of Victors oldboy connections.
Michael also finished school and earned a place at a reputable technical university on a scholarship, without any favour. He passed his exams honestly. By his third year he was already working for a modest IT firm. Eleanor swelled with pride. Sam beamed with satisfaction. Yet her mother never ceased to sing only of Anthony.
More years slipped by. The children were nearing thirty. At their matriarchs birthday, the whole family gathered. Victor and Linda arrived, as did Anthonytall, goodlooking, his hair a careless tumble. He had quit his engineering job shortly after graduating to pursue music, forming a band. Victor had funded some equipment. Two years later the band was still unknown, and Anthony lived with his parents, unemployed.
Eleanor watched her mothers eyes light up as she fussed over Anthony, patting his head, asking about gigs, while he lazily scrolled through his phone. The grandmother saw only a golden grandson, oblivious to his indifference.
Michael sat beside his wife, Anne, who was four months pregnant. He worked for a large tech company, earned a solid salary, rented a flat, and saved for a house. Yet his grandmother seemed blind to his achievements.
Eleanor saw Samuel tense his jaw, Anne worrying beside him, but Michael kept a calm smile, hand on his wifes arm. The evening stretched on. Mrs. Whitwell regaled the guests with stories of Anthonys brilliance and how his band would soon be famous. Anthony gave a halfhearted nod. Eleanor remained silent.
At last the night drew to a close. Samuel, Michael and Anne were the first to leave, promising to wait by the car. Eleanor was fastening a scarf in the hallway when her mother called her over.
Eleanor, hold on. I have something to say.
Eleanor froze. Her mothers voice was low, yet edged with resolve.
Your Michael is dull, Eleanor. Grey, ordinary. Just like you and Sam. No spark. Anthony, on the other hand, is a genius, a star. Hell still prove himself. Your son merely lives, works, marries, and will have a child. Theres nothing spectacular about that. Hes as common as the rest of them.
Eleanor stared at her mother, feeling something inside shatter. She exhaled slowly and met her mothers gaze.
Mother, Ive thought about this for a long time. I assumed you wanted me to be a better mother, to push harder for Michael, to invest more in him. I thought your criticism came from a good place, meant to spur me on.
Her mother frowned, but Eleanor raised a hand.
It turned out to be simpler. You never loved my son. All these comparisons, all that praise for Anthony, were just a way to tell me my child wasnt good enough. You never wanted him to improve; you just wanted me to know he fell short of your ideal.
Mrs. Whitwells face paled. Eleanor buttoned the coat calmly.
But you know what? My son is the best. Intelligent, kind, diligent, decent. Hes grown into a fine man, soon to be a father, and will be a wonderful dad. I kept him from ever hearing that you saw him as a disliked grandchild. I shielded him from your poison, Mother. I did everything to let him grow happy.
Her mother stared, eyes wide and silent. Eleanor grabbed her bag.
Your opinion of me, Sam, and our son can stay with you. Im done listening. I spent too many years trying to prove we deserved your love. No more. Live as you will, love whomever you choose. I wash my hands of this game. Ill soon have a grandson of my own, and Ill love him as a grandmother should.
Eleanor left the flat, closed the door behind her, and walked down to the car where Samuel, Michael and Anne waited. Samuel embraced her, Michael grinned. She slipped into the passenger seat, leaned back, and felt a strange, unfamiliar calm settle over hera weight lifted from her shoulders. No longer did she have to pretend, no longer did she have to fit a mould, no longer did she have to prove anything.
It took years, but at last she was free from her mothers judgment. She had what truly mattered: a real family. What else could a person ask for?
