Mother, could you look after little Charlie today? Emily asked, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. I have to dash to the office; there are urgent papers I must collect.
Emily, I have a meeting with the editor at seven this evening, Margaret replied, leafing through her diary. Im afraid I cant.
Come on, Mum, youre always busy! Hes your grandson, isnt he? Is work really more important than family?
Margaret pressed her lips together. The familiar guilttrip had begun again.
Emily, I warned you that having a baby with a man you barely know was reckless. You ignored me. That was your choice and your responsibility.
Fine, Emily snapped coldly. So you dont care about me or the child. Thanks for the support.
The line went dead.
Margaret had just turned fiftytwo, and for the first time in years she felt she could finally exhale. A bitter divorce had turned her world upside down. For fifteen years she raised two daughters alone, worked two jobs, and denied herself every pleasure. Five years earlier James had entered her life a steady, dependable man who accepted her with all her baggage and never asked for the impossible.
Both daughters grew up, earned qualifications. With James, Margaret bought a onebedroom flat for the elder, Emily, and a studio in a new development for the younger, Sophie. Margaret herself secured a respectable position at a publishing house, enrolled in an Italian language course, and began saving for a trip to Italy the dream she had harboured all her life.
Emily, however, at twentythree married the first man who came along. Six months later she gave birth. Margaret had cautioned her against such haste, but Emily would not listen. Now her husband proved an unreliable sort, working sporadically and bringing home money only when luck smiled. Emily was torn between the infant and odd jobs, struggling to make ends meet. From then on her phone rang constantly with Emilys frantic calls.
Margaret pressed her forehead against the chilly windowpane, weary of the endless demands to sacrifice herself. Emily began to hint at moving back with her parents, arguing it would be easier for everyone with a baby in the mix. Margaret refused, explaining she had her own life, work, and plans. The daughter sulked, weeping into the receiver about a lost youth.
A week later another astonishing piece of news arrived. Sophie, just twenty and fresh from university, announced she was pregnant. The father was a lad shed only known three months, a courier who rented a room in a hostel and had no prospects. Sophie burst into the living room, beaming, expecting support and celebration.
Can you believe it, Mum? Tom and I are going to be parents! she chirped, flopping onto the sofa. Well have a little one isnt that wonderful?
Margaret watched her youngest, a fresh wave of irritation rising. The same story as with Emily.
Sophie, have you and Tom thought about how youll raise the child? she asked calmly. Where will you live? In a studio with a baby? How will you afford everything?
Sophies hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her jumper.
Well, Toms room is still free well figure something out. Youll help us, right? Well need you.
Margaret set her teacup down a little harder than intended.
No, Sophie. Its your right to have a child, Im not opposed to that. But I wont bankroll a young family. Ive already bought you a flat; thats all I can give. Now youll have to manage on your own.
Sophie sprang up, tears welling.
How can you say that?! Youre heartless! Im your daughter, and the baby will be your grandchild!
Im telling you the truth, Margaret replied. Youre both adults. Youve finished university, Tom works. If youve decided to have a child, you must bear the responsibility yourselves. Ive fulfilled my part. I have my own life and my own plans.
What plans? Nothing is more important than family! How can you have plans when your own daughters are in trouble? Sophie shrieked, snatching her bag. Emilys right youre selfish!
Both daughters fled the flat. Margaret stood in the middle of the lounge, eyes shut, as the two united against her. The family group chat filled with accusations of greed and coldness. Emily sent long messages lamenting how hard it was for her, insisting mother should help it was a sacred duty. Sophie echoed, adding that she never imagined her mother could be so indifferent to her own children.
James comforted his wife each evening, holding her close as best he could, but the strain grew. Emily began showing up unannounced with the baby, pushing the pram through the hallway and leaving a note:
Mum, Ill be back in a couple of hours, could you mind Charlie?
Margaret tried to protest, but Emily was already descending the stairs. James frowned but said nothing. Sophie called, crying, demanding at least moral support, complaining that Tom didnt understand her, that money was nonexistent, that she was at a loss.
Margaret felt cornered. The daughters kept demanding, as if she were an endless well from which they could draw forever.
Saturday evening was quiet. James and Margaret had planned a peaceful night at home, a film and a chat about the upcoming Italian trip. Then there was a sharp knock at the door.
James opened it. Emily stood there, suitcases in hand, the baby cradled against her chest. Behind her, Sophie entered, eyes red from tears.
Mum, were moving in temporarily, Emily announced without preamble, dragging a suitcase into the hallway. Sam will bring the rest of our things tonight. Well let go of the flat and rent it out for income, so you can spend more time with Charlie while I work!
What? Margaret froze in the doorway. Emily, what are you saying? We never discussed this.
Why discuss? Youre my mother youre supposed to help, Emily retorted. Who else will?
Sophie slipped in behind her.
Mum, we need money for a cot, she sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. We have nothing. Tom earns barely enough, and I cant stay on maternity leave forever; I need to work.
Something inside Margaret snapped. All the fatigue, resentment, and hurt of the past months burst forth.
No, she said sharply, stepping forward. Emily, turn around and go back home. Sophie, there will be no money. Thats final.
Both daughters froze, staring at her.
Youre serious? Emily asked, swaying with the baby in her arms. Are you really doing this?
Absolutely, Margaret said, crossing her arms over her chest. I raised you, gave you education, bought you homes. Now fly the nest and build your own lives. Dont hang my name on your childrens burdens.
How can you say that?! Were your daughters! Your blood! Sophie wailed.
I can because Im telling the truth. Youre adults. You chose your partners, you chose when to have children. I warned you, I advised you. You ignored me. This is your responsibility, not mine.
Emily shifted the baby to her other arm, glaring at Margaret with a mixture of disbelief and fury.
Youre throwing me out? Out in the cold with a baby?
Im not throwing you out. You have a house, Margaret replied, eyes steady. And a husband, Emily. Sort your own problems.
You coldhearted selfish thing! Sophie shouted, stamping her foot. You mean nothing to us! All you think about is Italy!
Yes, Im thinking about Italy, Margaret said calmly. My own plans, my own life. I spent twenty years living for you. What more do you want? To be a nanny until the day I die?
The sisters exchanged a look. Emily grabbed her suitcase, turned, and fled down the stairs. Sophie followed, their voices a low, bitter murmur that Margaret could only hear in tone.
For a week there was no call, no message. James told Margaret she had done the right thing, but inside a knot of anxiety tightened. Had she been too harsh?
Later she learned Emily had indeed given up her flat. She and her husband moved into his parents cramped twobedroom, where she was hounded by endless housework and criticized for every slip. Her motherinlaw raised the baby as she saw fit; her fatherinlaw muttered that todays youth were lazy and useless.
Sophies fate was learned from a neighbour who saw her sobbing on a bench outside the block. Tom had fled, abandoning her with a swollen belly and no means of support.
Margaret stood in the kitchen, wrestling with these news, torn between pity for her daughters and the firm decision not to intervene. She had given them a solid start; how they used it was no longer her concern.
The daughters began calling again. Emily complained about the motherinlaw, begged for help, cried that she could not go on. Sophie wailed that she was utterly alone, unable to cope. Margaret listened, offered sympathy, but no assistance only advice.
But the daughters wanted more than advice. They wanted Margaret to solve everything, to open her home, to hand over money. Each time she refused.
James and Margaret finally bought tickets for a threeweek Italian sojourn the longpromised journey postponed countless times. Before departing, Margaret phoned the girls.
Are you mad, Mum? Emily asked, bewildered. What about us?
Youre grown. Youll manage, Margaret said, eyeing the suitcase by the door. When you learn to deal with your own problems and stop treating me as a freestanding nanny and cash source, Ill be glad to speak with you as an equal. Until then, grow up.
Youre abandoning us? Emily whispered. What are we supposed to do?
Im not abandoning you. You have the right to err. I have the right not to foot the bill for those errors, Margaret replied, taking her coat from the rack. Ill always be your mother, but Im not obliged to sacrifice myself for adult children and their reckless choices.
James waited by the car. Margaret descended the steps, slipped into the back seat and breathed in deeply. She decided then, with finality, that guilt would no longer gnaw at her. She had given her children education, shelter, love. Shed offered counsel, but they never heeded it. Her mission was complete. It was time to think of herself.
She imagined the Roman cobbles, the Florentine galleries, the Venetian canals the freedom shed earned. It was a wonderful thought, a sweet ending to a long, tangled tale.
