“Come visit, just leave the grandkids behind.”
“Well, they’re my grandkids, and if they bother you that much…”
“Linda, hold on! I invited *you*. Just you. I thought we could stroll along the riverside, maybe catch a showremember? How’s that possible with kids? Ive only got a one-bed flat. Four children? Where would we even fit?”
“Youd make it work if you wanted to. But I get ityou dont.”
“Linda… At my age, hosting a nursery is exhausting,” sighed Margaret. “I can barely handle one. Its too much. I imagined us chatting over tea, reminiscing. Instead, itd be cooking in bulk and, no offense, listening to shrieking. If youre set on bringing them, I can help find you a rental nearby.”
“Right. Well, Margaret, where my grandkids arent welcome, neither am I,” Linda said flatly. “Seems weve gone our separate ways. Happy New Year.”
The line went dead. Margaret sighed, pressing a palm to her forehead. When had Linda become such a mother hen? Then again, theyd always been different.
…
Margaret and Linda met through mutual friends at sixteen. Three years later, they married around the same timeMargaret was Lindas maid of honour, and Linda was hers. They christened each others firstborns, then Linda had a second child.
Margaret stopped at one daughter. She was an introvert by nature, but her girl, Emily, was a whirlwind, constantly demanding attention. Nursery was her only respitethose hours when she could breathe, cook, and tidy. Sick days were dark times. Not only did she fret over Emily, but the girl turned fussy, whining, never settling on what she wanted.
Margaret marveled at Linda. Two kids, yet she never complained, always bright-eyed.
“How do you manage? Doesnt it wear you out? Im climbing the walls with just one!”
“First few years were rough, but you learn to let go. Muddy hands? Immune boost. Clothes backward? Style pioneers. Ate the cats food? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each other while I put my feet up. Mostly. Just have to stop them wrecking the place.”
Margaret could only raise her brows. Shed never cope like that. She bundled Emily in layers each winter, held her hand everywhere. Maybe Lindas way workedfor her. Margaret was different.
With grandkids, it was the same. Margaret had one, little Lucy. Linda had a battalion of four grandsons.
Lucy mirrored her motherneedy, never playing alone. If she built Lego, Margaret had to join. If she chattered, it was nonstop questions, leaping topics before Margaret could reply. An hour with her was joy; three, and Margarets temples throbbed, craving silence under a duvet.
Linda thrived in chaos. Photos showed her lot trampling flowerbeds, hosing each other, eating strawberries straight from the patch.
“How?” Margaret would ask.
“Oldest is ninehe watches the others. Theyre independent. Find their own fun.”
Margaret saw just *how* independent when she visited. Theyd drifted apartLinda stayed in their hometown, while Margaret moved to London after Emily turned eight. Over the years, theyd met just twice, briefly.
“Youve no kids or ties now Emilys grown. Come downyouve only seen my cottage in photos!” Linda said.
Margaret agreed. Life had grown dull; this was a change, evenings on the porch with an old friend.
How wrong she was. Two grandsons were there at arrival; the rest arrived by lunch. Thenchaos. A toy car sparked a food fight, oatmeal dripping down Margarets cheek as boys howled with laughter. Linda scrubbed walls, half-heartedly threatening, “No supper if you dont stop!”
It barely worked. They drummed on pans, shot toy guns, wailed. By day three, Margaret packed early.
“Sorry, but I need quiet,” she said. The air stayed heavy between them.
…
A month later, Linda moaned that her kids were “ditching her for New Years”some off to in-laws, others skiing. Margaret saw a chance: just the two of them, like old times.
“Lets celebrate together,” she offered.
Linda agreed eagerly. They planned: Thames walk, a play, *Love Actually*. Margaret mapped out Lindas favourite bakery for rum cake, stocked up, cleaned flat. Then
“Margaret, your son-in-laws caronly one child seat, right? No spare?” Linda asked casually.
“Why? What for?”
“Well, Im coming to yours, remember? Told the grandstheyre thrilled! Show em London while their parents get a break.”
Margaret froze. *Grandkids?* All four?
“Linda… I cant survive another oatmeal war. We planned *just us*.”
“Whats the issue?” Linda tensed.
“My nerves. They cant take it.”
For Linda, grands were part of her. Going without was unthinkable. Margaret couldnt fathom why every meet had to be a circus.
They never reconciled. On New Years Eve, Margaret sat alone, remembering riverside picnics decades backLinda hooking her husbands sleeve on her first cast, their homemade elderflower cordial. Back then, their friendship felt unshakable. Now?
She ended up at Emilys.
“Grans here! I *told* you shed come!” Lucy cheered. “Better than that other aunt anyway.”
That New Year was warmpine scent, roast lamb, sparklers. Noise, yes, but *her* noise. Maybe this was best.
Linda didnt answer her birthday call weeks later. Margaret set the phone down. Their paths had truly split. They aged differently: one craving to be the sun in her grands orbit, the other, a quiet corner to breathe. The real trouble? They didnt speak the same language anymore.
