**Diary Entry 15th January**
I should have seen this coming.
“Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind.”
“If theyre my grandchildren, and they bother you that much”
“Lucy, just listen! I invited *you*. Just you. We were supposed to stroll along the embankment, maybe catch a playremember? How is that possible with children? Ive only got a small flat. Four kids? Where on earth would we all fit?”
“Youd make it work if you wanted to. But I get ityou dont.”
“Lucy At my age, hosting a nursery is exhausting,” I sighed. “I can barely handle one, let alone a crowd. I thought wed chat, have tea, reminisce. Instead, Id be cooking in bulk andno offencelistening to their screeching. If youre set on bringing them, I can help you find a rental nearby.”
“Right. Well, Marina, if theres no room for my grandchildren, theres no room for me either,” Lucy said firmly. “Seems were on different paths. Happy New Year.”
She hung up. I pressed my palm to my forehead. When did Lucy turn into such a mother hen? Then again, weve always been opposites
We met at sixteen through mutual friends. By nineteen, wed both marriedLucy was my maid of honour, I was hers. Later, we became godmothers to each others firstborn. Then Lucy had a second child.
I stopped at one. Ive always been introverted, but my Sophie was a whirlwindconstantly demanding attention. Nursery was my only respite. Sick days were torture; shed whine, cling, never settle.
I never understood how Lucy managed two so effortlessly. She never complained.
“How do you do it? Doesnt it drain you? Im climbing the walls with just one.”
“It was hard at first,” shed shrug. “But I learned to let go. Muddy hands? Builds immunity. Clothes backwards? Developing their style. Ate the cats food? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each otherI can relax. Mostly.”
Id stare, baffled. *I* bundled Sophie in layers to ward off colds, held her hand everywhere. Maybe Lucys way workedfor her.
Now, with grandchildren, history repeats. Ive one granddaughterLottie. Lucy has four grandsons.
Lotties just like Sophieneedy. After my husband died, keeping up with her became a struggle. She wont play alone. Puzzles? I must join. And the questionsconstant, rapid-fire. By the third hour, my temples pound. I crave silence under a duvet.
Lucy thrives in chaos. Summer photos show her grandsons trampling flowerbeds, hosing each other, eating strawberries straight from the patch.
“How do you cope?” Id ask.
“Oh, the eldest is ninehe watches the others. Theyre independent.”
Once, I saw just *how* independent
Years ago, we drifted apartLucy stayed in Bristol, while I moved to London with my husband. We met a handful of times, briefly.
“Come visit!” Lucy said recently. “Youve never seen my cottage properly.”
I agreed, craving a break from monotonytea on the terrace, old stories.
How wrong I was. Two grandsons were there when I arrived; the others followed. Chaos erupted: toy cars hurled, food fights, porridge dripping down my cheek. Lucy just scrubbed walls, half-heartedly scolding, “No supper if you dont behave!”
They ignored her or wailed louder. Pots became drums, toy guns fired at anything moving. By day three, I packed early.
“Sorry, I need quiet,” I said. The air between us soured.
Last month, Lucy moaned her kids were “abandoning” her for New Yearssome to in-laws, others skiing. I saw my chance: “Lets celebrate together!”
We planned it allthe Thames walk, a play, *Love Actually*. I booked her favourite rum baba at the bakery, deep-cleaned the flat. Then
“Marina, your son-in-law only has one car seat, right?” Lucy asked casually.
“Why?”
“Well, Im bringing the grandchildren. Theyre so excited to see London!”
I froze. All *four*?
“Lucy I cant relive the porridge war,” I joked weakly. “This was supposed to be *us*.”
“Whats the issue?”
“My nerves. They cant take it.”
For Lucy, her grandsons were extensions of herself. Going without them was unthinkable. To me, it was bafflingwhy must every visit be a circus?
We never reconciled. On New Years Eve, alone, I reminiscedsummers by the lake, Lucy accidentally hooking her husbands sleeve while fishing, her homemade elderflower cordial. Back then, our friendship felt unbreakable.
Now? Somethings shifted.
In the end, I went to Sophies.
“Grans here!” Lottie shrieked. “I *told* you she wouldnt stay with that other lady!”
Dinner was noisy, but warmroast beef, pine needles, sparklers. *My* noise. Manageable.
Lucy never answered my birthday call. Maybe our paths truly have diverged. She ages as a matriarch, surrounded by chaos. I crave quiet corners. The real tragedy? Weve stopped speaking the same language.
