*The Weight of a Lifetime*
“If you’re asking those kinds of questions, then maybe you shouldn’t have children. And don’t listen to anyone else. I made that mistake once…” her mother sighed. “All those people giving advice vanish when it matters, but the burden stays with you forever.”
It sounded like sensible advice, but inside, Emily felt everything turn cold and shrivel. A lump rose in her throat, her eyes stung. She knew if she didnt end the call now, shed be sobbing into the phone. The worst part? Her mother probably wouldnt even understand why.
“Right. Thanks, Mum. Ill think about it… Well talk later,” Emily managed before hanging up.
She clutched a pillow to her chest, hunched forward. This wasnt just adviceit was a careless confession. She could almost feel the door to her past swinging open, pieces clicking into place.
…With her daughter, Margaret had been diligent, methodical. She ensured Emily ate well, always giving her the best, even when she went without. Emily had toys, clothes. Raised by a single mother, she still went to music lessons and dance classes.
In short, Emily had everything. Except love.
Margaret never told her she loved her. Never hugged her, never spoke heart-to-heart, never praised. Hell, she never even scolded. Margaret was indifferent, as though her daughter were a chore, not a child.
Emily remembered one day when she and her desk mate, Charlotte, both failed a maths test. Charlotte had been gutted.
“Lucky you. You wont get shouted at. But Im in for it tonight… If I dont text you back, its because theyve taken my phone and laptop,” Charlotte groaned.
“Youre the lucky one. At least they care enough to shout…” Emily murmured.
Charlotte gaped at her. Who in their right mind *wanted* to be yelled at?
“You off your head or what? Fine, take my scolding for me,” Charlotte scoffed. “I wont stop you.”
Emily just turned away. Shed have *loved* to be scoldedbut her mother never checked her schoolbook. Why would she? Emily was top of the class. Until she wasnt.
At first, she thought if she were *good enough*, her mother might notice. Praise her piano recitals, her straight As, her dance performances. No. Margaret reacted with detached approval, as if it were expected.
So Emily faked being ill. Said her stomach hurt. Wanted her mother to fuss, to care. Yes, it was wrongbut how else could she get attention?
It half-worked. Margaret *did* give her more time. But Emily didnt rejoice. Instead, she was dragged to doctors until they diagnosed mild gastritis. Then it was medicine on schedule, strict meals. No comfort, no worryjust clinical efficiency.
So Emily escalated. Skipped school. Failed tests. Quit dance, quit music, stopped helping at home. Even snapped and mouthed off.
Nothing.
“Fine. Dont studyyour loss,” her mother said one day, utterly calm. “Ill feed you till youre eighteen, then youre on your own. But if you leave school early, good luck finding work. Even shop assistants need decent grades now.”
As for chores? No clean floors, no going out. Emily tried a full-blown tantrum. Her mother pointed to the door.
“Save the drama for your room,” Margaret said, shutting herself away.
That night, Emily cried herself to sleep, feeling worthless. Like she was just a doll to be dressed and put to bednot a person with feelings.
So she pushed further. One night, she stayed at a friends without warning. Would Margaret panic? Forget she even had a daughter? Maybe even *relief*?
No. Margaret called everyone, found her, brought her home. And againno shouting, no reproach.
“Keep this up, and youll end up in care. They wont coddle you,” her mother said flatly.
Emily almost wished shed smash plates, scream, even grab a belt.
Years passed. She didnt accept itjust endured. Moving in with her fiancé, James, helped. They married quickly; starved for love, Emily clung to him.
Luckily, he was decent. Steady, ambitious.
“What do you think about kids?” he asked long before the wedding.
Emily froze. Children were the natural next stepbut the thought of having her own terrified her. What if she was as bad as her mother? What if her child felt as unloved as she had?
“I dont think Im ready,” she admitted.
But life had other plans. She got pregnantbad timing. They had no house, prices rising faster than wages.
“Honestly, most people are in the same boat. You manage,” her friend said dismissively.
James wanted the baby.
“Your choice, but were married, things are stable. Id like to be a dad.”
Yet the more she heard it, the more she doubted. So she asked her motherand got the answer that shattered her. Had *she* been unwanted too?
Margaret said it without malice. Just facts. As they saytruth cuts deeper than lies.
For days, Emily moved like a ghost. Work, dinners, TV with Jamesall mechanical. Would she *ever* hear “I love you” from her mother? And what about her own child?
Finally, she went to her mother-in-law. Eleanor was tough but warmexactly what Emily craved.
“Emily? No call, no warning?” Eleanor frowned, opening the door.
“Just… needed to talk,” Emilys voice wavered.
Eleanor didnt pry. Made tea, brought out jam and bread.
“Theres stew if youre hungry,” she said, eyeing the fridge. “You and James havent rowed?”
“No. Its… Mum.”
And the floodgates opened. Emily spilled it allthe loneliness, the desperate bids for attention, the crushing indifference.
Eleanor listened in silence. Finally, she set her cup down with a sigh. Emily braced for dismissal.
“Listen, love,” Eleanor said softly. “I knew things were cold between you, but not like this. Still… dont hate her. Shes not crueljust broken. Some people cant love. Its awful, but it happens.”
“*Good* people dont neglect their children!”
“Sometimes they do. Some dont even love themselves.” Eleanor sighed. “As for the baby… follow your heart.”
“What if Im like her?”
“You wont,” Eleanor snorted. “James told me how you nursed that stray cat. People who cant love dont do that.”
“A baby isnt a cat! What if I fail?”
“Who doesnt? Good mothers *worry* about failing. Theres no perfect parentwe all mess up. Me, your mum, you. And its okay. Wanting to love is enough. Christ, I told you not to listen to anyone, and here I am lecturing…”
Emily smiledsmall, but real. The fear didnt vanish, but the weight lessened. For once, she felt warmth, not ice.
She kept the baby. The pregnancy was hardsickness, fear, mood swings. But James was there: fetching midnight oranges, rubbing her back, weathering her tears. Eleanor helped toodoctors visits, baby care lessons.
Her mother called rarely. Asked if she needed anything. After the birth, she brought a bag of baby clothes. Nothing more.
Years passed. Emilys daughter grewcurious, loud, stubborn. She threw tantrums, broke toys. Emily lost patience, got angry. But when her girl was ill, she sat by her bed, stroked her hair, read stories. And couldnt explain why *she* cried in those moments.
She was ashamed to admit it: she was giving her daughter what shed once longed for.
Things with her mother didnt warmbut they held. Emily stopped expecting the impossible. She helped with money, brought groceries, asked about Margarets health.
No, Margaret wasnt a good mother. Or grandmother. But she was *there*. Maybe she couldnt lovebut in her way, she tried.
And sometimes, thats enough.
