Oh, you dont worry, love. Shes a preterm baby, but shes a tough little thing. Everything will turn out finefor your daughter and for your granddaughter too.
God willing, the mother replied as the doctor slipped away, then muttered under her breath, what a sorrow.
The tragedy hit Margarets family about six months ago when a nosy neighbour, a chatty old lady who loved her tea and apple jam, drifted into the kitchen and, without thinking, blurted out:
When are you expecting the baby? Have you started stocking up on nappies yet?
What baby? What are you on about? Margaret snapped, bewildered.
Which one? Your Clara was on the farm last week, washing the milking shed twice. I saw her scold the calf and dash out.
Maybe she ate something she shouldnt have, Margaret tried to keep the peace.
Ah, youve never been through a pregnancy yourself, so you dont know a thing. Im not a midwife and I dont understand any of this.
That evening Aunt Margaret grilled Clara, then wept for hours, cursing the fate that left her with an unborn child, a sunburnt bloke whod already vanished from the village, taking the whole male line with him.
When little Emma arrived, there was no joy, only trouble, resentment and a burning shame. Clara never showed any warmth or tenderness toward the child; she would pick her up only when feeding or when she was about to cry, and that was the limit. Aunt Margaret looked at her granddaughter with indifference and gave her no love either. It was already the fourth grandchild what was there to be happy about? Her own daughters own children werent any better. So Emma came into the world unloved, stumbling on shaky legs through life.
A year later Clara moved to a council estate, chasing a sliver of her own happiness. Emma stayed with Aunt Margaret, who was, after all, family. The girl required no special care: she ate what was given, went to bed at the proper hour, never fell ill. The doctors prognosis was right Emma was a sturdy child, though still unloved.
Emma lived with Margaret until she was seven. In that time Clara learned the trade of a housepainter, got married and had a son, Charlie. Thats when Clara finally remembered Emma, thinking the girl might now be a grownup helper. She travelled back to the village for her daughter, but Emma, who saw her mother only twice a year, showed little excitement. Clara looked at the child with a sharp rebuke:
Oh, Emma, youre as cold as a stone. If it were anyone else, shed be fawning, but you stand there like a stranger.
Seeing Emma off, Aunt Margaret shed a few tears, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday two more grandchildren arrived Lucy and Olive, the beloved daughters of her eldest son. The bustle of caring for them quickly pushed Emma out of Margarets thoughts. Emma felt little sorrow for the aunt, but the loss of those newborn chicks did bring a tide of tears.
Life in the council estate didnt win Emma over, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, went to school, did her homework, ran to the shop for bread and milk, peeled potatoes before her mother got home. As she grew older she accompanied Charlie to nursery and, imitating her mother, would warn a boisterous boy:
Watch your step, youre testing my patience. Im running on empty and you give me no help!
She never heard affectionate words from Charlies sister, and she never expected them from anyone. Emma was used to being unloved, and the girl barely suffered; she simply didnt know any other way.
At home she wasnt pampered, but she wasnt starved either. No fancy treats, no salty snacks, but a slice of bread every now and then. She wasnt a pauper, just an unloved child.
At fifteen Emma left the cold house that had never felt like home. Eight years later she enrolled in a city college, training as a pastry chef, dreaming of eating endless cakes. In the city she shared a dormitory with three other girls and kept the place tidy herself.
Then she met Victor. The grey November sun seemed to shine just for her. The other dormmates would pop out for a bit of TV in the little red corner, while Victor, unflinching, whispered sweet, dizzying words that made Emmas head spin.
Youre my darling, he murmured, and Emma, accustomed to perpetual neglect, felt a flicker of happiness.
Soon morning nausea set in. She should have rushed to the doctor, but she missed the appointment. By eighteen Emma had to produce a doctors note and, hand in hand with a suddenly homesick Victor, headed for the registry office.
Thus began Emmas married life, and at the same time her brief romance faded. The young couple moved into Victors family home. Victors mother and grandmother showed no special affection for Emma, but they gave her a small room of her own. She wasnt the first nor the last to make do; life would go on, perhaps for the best, especially now that a child was on the way and Victor would settle down.
A friend from the council estate envied her:
Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a proper citygirl.
Emma didnt argue. Her city life was simple: a terraced house with suburban comforts, a water tap at the end of the lane, a bucket for each wash. She never complained; she was used to it. She carried water in a bucket, the cold splashing her feet, and in that chill she imagined the unborn child shed soon bring into the world. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but Emma shrugged it off.
Victor seemed to care for a while, a day or two, then went off with his mates. His mother and grandmother didnt drive Emma out, letting her stay and help around the house. Perhaps something would work out, but it didnt. After a short time Victor introduced another woman, declared that he never loved Emma, never did.
Emma poured out to her friends, wept a little, but soon accepted that shed spent her whole life being unloved. She packed her belongings, obeyed the motherinlaws order to leave, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into the factorys dormitory, where the canteen was on site, the entrance close to the gates, and the workers club just down the hall. Lifes a bowl of cherries, theyd say. Emma found herself laughing, not cursing, not feeling bitter. She went to work, to the club, to the cinema with her mates.
She rarely visited her mother, stepfather, or brother; they didnt expect her, and she didnt press. Aunt Margaret passed away when Emma was twentyone. Emma attended the funeral, glanced at the old family homestead one last time.
Margaret left her cottage to her beloved granddaughters Lucy and Olive. Emma held no grudge; after all, they were the darlings, the berries on the bush. She was, in Margarets eyes, the cutoff branch, the unloved granddaughter.
If Emma had claimed the inheritance, the relatives would have torn each other apart over Margarets modest £500. The most vocal was Clara, Emmas mother, wailing that the crooked spoon meant for her dear Charlie had been given away. Wasnt he a grandson? How could Lucy and Olive be any less? She never mentioned her older daughter, because Emma never got that spoon.
Emma tried twice to sort out a relationship, dating men, but nothing stuck. No suitor ever led her to the registry office, so she never felt rushed there. Shed been once; that was enough.
Her love life failed for similar reasons: one bloke drank and ran off with his wife, another drank and beat. Choose whats worse, you decide. Emma was glad she never married in a hurry; otherwise, trouble would have followed. She tossed her few belongings into a cheap suitcase and returned to the modest bed she shared with her dear friends.
For over a decade she drifted from one dorm to another, growing tired of foreign bunk beds. It wasnt surprising she was almost thirty, and any lady at that age wants a corner of her own, a pot on her own shelf. Single women get flats last, families get them first.
Sometimes Emma would pop into Aunt Aishas pantry at the factory, where Aisha washed floors in the evenings, and theyd talk hearttoheart. After a few months, Aisha coaxed Emma into a conversation:
Emma, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a baby and a husband behind. Ive been watching you; youre sturdy, hardworking. Her husband, Matthew, is a decent bloke. Hes gentle, only drinks on holidays, and while he isnt a poet, hes kind. Think about moving in with him. The little girl would call you Mum.
Emma thought it over and moved in with Matthew. She brightened his modest room for May Day, bought curtains, sewed little dresses from bright fabrics for the toddler, Sonya, who soon began to babble and call Emma Mum.
Matthew was gentle, never harsh, paid the bills, never uttered crude words. Emma never heard romantic phrases from him, but shed grown used to a life without such niceties. Shed accepted it from birth.
Three years into the marriage, Emma finally heard words of love not from Matthew, but from Sonya. The little girl ran from the garden, clutching a handful of yellow dandelions, hugged Emma, pressed a candysweet kiss to her cheek and whispered:
Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Aisha, more than my doll Yulia.
Emma wrapped her arms around her daughter, laughing and crying at once. At last she felt truly loved.
A year later Emma gave birth to a boy, Isaac. Matthew cared for him, rising at night, changing nappies, helping push the pram up the stairs. The factory later gave them a spacious, bright flat. Live and be happy, they said, and Emma finally had reason to smile.
They raised their children with Matthew, watched their grandchildren grow. In the summer house, greyhaired Emma boiled jam, while the little ones played nearby.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
Grandma, we love you too, replied Daniel.
Grannie, I love you, babbled baby Molly.
We all love our grandma, hiding smiles in our silver beards, said Grandpa Matthew.
Emma wiped away a stray tear unnoticed. Many years ago she never imagined that a girl whod known only neglect would one day be surrounded by such love.
