“Come visit, but leave the grandchildren behind.”
“Oh, so my grandchildren are a bother now? Fine then”
“Linda, hang on! I invited *you*. Just you. I thought we could stroll along the seafront, maybe catch a play at the theatreremember those days? Hows that supposed to work with kids in tow? Ive got a one-bed flat, for heavens sake. Four children? Wed be packed in like sardines!”
“Youd make it work if you wanted to. But clearly, you dont.”
“Linda At my age, hosting a full-blown nursery is exhausting,” sighed Margaret. “I can barely keep up with one, let alone a herd. I pictured us chatting over tea, reminiscing. Not cooking vats of pasta andno offenceenduring a symphony of shrieks. If youre dead set on bringing them, I can help you find a holiday let nearby.”
“Right. Well, Margie, where my grandkids arent welcome, neither am I,” Linda declared flatly. “Suppose were on different paths. Happy New Year.”
The line went dead. Margaret sighed, pressing a palm to her forehead. When had Linda turned into such a mother hen? Then again, theyd always been chalk and cheese
Margaret and Linda met at sixteen through mutual friends. By nineteen, theyd both marriedMargaret was Lindas maid of honour, and vice versa. They godmothered each others firstborns, then Linda had a second while Margaret stopped at one.
Margaret was an introvert by nature, but her daughter, Emily, was a whirlwind of energy. Nursery was Margarets lifelinethose precious hours to tidy, cook, *breathe*. When Emily was home sick, it was mayhem. The clinginess, the indecision (“I want juice! No, milk! Waitjuice!”)it drained her.
Meanwhile, Linda juggled two kids effortlessly, never complaining.
“How dyou manage? Doesnt it wear you out? Im climbing the walls with just one!”
“First few years were chaos,” Linda admitted, waving a hand. “But you learn to let go. Muddy hands? Immune boost. Clothes on backwards? Fashion statement. Ate the cats dinner? The cats problem. Plus, they entertain each otherI just referee to keep the house standing.”
Margaret could only gape. She bundled Emily in layers to fend off chills, held her hand crossing streets. Maybe Lindas approach workedfor *her*.
Fast-forward to grandkids: Margaret had one, sweet little Sophie. Linda had four grandsonsa riotous pack.
Sophie was Emily 2.0needy, chatty, allergic to solitude. Puzzles? Required Grans participation. Playtime? Mandatory audience. The questions never stopped (“Whys the sky blue? Do worms have ears? Can I have crisps?”), leaving Margaret mentally winded. An hour was delightful; by hour three, her temples throbbed, craving silence under a duvet.
Linda, meanwhile, thrived in the chaos. Summer photos showed her lads trampling flowerbeds, hosing each other down, stealing strawberries straight from the patch.
“How dyou cope?” Margaret would ask.
“Oldest is ninehe herds the others,” Linda shrugged. “Theyre self-sufficient. Entertain themselves.”
Margaret witnessed this “self-sufficiency” firsthand during a visit. Life had scattered themMargaret moved to London after Emily turned eight; theyd barely seen each other since.
“Come down!” Linda urged. “Youve no kids at home nowEmilys grown! Youve only seen my cottage in photos.”
Margaret agreed, craving a break from her dull routine. Visions of lazy evenings on the porch, just like old times
Oh, how wrong she was. Two grandsons were there upon arrival; the rest descended by lunch. And thenchaos. A toy car sparked a food fight (oatmeal landed in Margarets hair). Linda scrubbed walls mid-lecture (“No pudding if this continues!”), ignored or met with wails. The boys “composed music” with saucepan lids, staged shoot-outs with Nerf gunsa cacophony that frayed Margarets nerves by day three. She fled a fortnight early.
“Sorry, but I need peace,” she said. The air between them chilled.
Now, history repeated itself. A month ago, Linda moaned that her family was “ditching her for New Years”some off to the in-laws, others skiing. Margaret saw her chance: just the two of them, like before.
“Lets spend it together!” she提议.
They planned seaside walks, a panto, *Love Actually*. Margaret mapped routes to Lindas favourite bakery (their rum babas were legendary). She stocked up, deep-cleaned, cancelled her own familys gatheringthen
“Margie, your son-in-laws caronly one child seat, yeah?” Linda asked casually.
“Why?”
“Well, Im bringing the grands! Theyve never seen London!”
Margarets mind blanked. *All four?!*
“Lin I cant survive another oatmeal war,” she joked weakly. “This was supposed to be *us*.”
“Whats the issue?”
“My sanity. Its not built for that.”
For Linda, grandkids were non-negotiableleaving them felt like betrayal. To Margaret, every meet-up shouldnt be a circus.
They never reconciled. On NYE, Margaret sat alone, reminiscing: lazy river trips, Linda accidentally hooking her husbands shirt while fishing, her famous elderflower cordial. Back then, their bond felt unshakeable. Now?
She caved and joined Emilys family.
“Grans here! *Told* you shed come!” Sophie crowed. “Better than that *other* auntie.”
The evening was warmpine needles, roast beef, sparklers. Noisy, but *her* noise. Restful in its way.
Linda, though, stayed frosty. Weeks later, she ignored Margarets birthday call. Setting the phone down, Margaret sighed. Perhaps their roads had truly diverged. They aged differently: one the sun of a bustling solar system, the other craving a quiet nook. The real tragedy? They didnt speak the same language anymore.
