“You’re spoiling the child, nine years old, and she can’t even wash a floor,” Eleanor Whitaker snapped at me. “Emily, that stain over theresee? Your father was the same at your age”
“What are you doing, Eleanor?” I asked, my tone flat and foreboding.
“I’m looking after your baby now because her own mother can’t manage,” my motherinlaw replied. “Raise the lady proper, we weren’t raised like this.”
***
A week earlier I had taken Emily away from Eleanors house and told myself it would be the last time she set foot there. No explanations, no debates, no endless justificationsjust a hard line drawn.
When I arrived to collect Emily that Saturday, I found my nineyearold standing in the kitchen, a damp rag clutched in her small hands. Unopened textbooks lay scattered in the hallway, while Eleanor barked, “You didnt clean under the fridge properly! What are you, some lazy bum?”
Emily sobbed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, smearing the grime across her cheek.
“What’s going on?” I stepped into the flat, my voice barely a whisper.
“Oh, darling,” Eleanor turned, her voice devoid of any remorse, “I’m just teaching Emily some basics. Her father cleaned the whole house when he was seven! Your pampered princess cant even lift a cloth!”
I dressed the crying Emily, buttoned her jacket, and slung her schoolbag over my shoulder.
“Olivia, why are you acting like a child?” Eleanor followed us into the hallway. “A girl should be able to”
I halted at the doorway.
“Emily will never come back here.”
And we left.
At home, Emily clung to my waist, wailing for a good twenty minutes. I stroked her hair, wondering how I had endured it all this time. Every Saturday I drove my daughter to her grandmothers, fielding the same criticism”Shes not dressed right,” “Youre feeding her wrong,” “Youre not raising her at all.”
I put up with it because Emily loved her grandmother, and those visits were the only breath of fresh air I could findtime to sit in a café with a book, a quick haircut, a moment alone.
But when I saw my nineyearold being ‘educated’ by Eleanor…
“Mum,” Emily asked, eyes red and swollen, “are we really not going to see Grandma again?”
“Not for a while, love.”
“Why?”
How could I explain that to a child?
“Because that’s what we must do,” I said. “Grandma will have to learn her lesson too.”
Andrew came home late that night, just as Emily was already asleep. He sat opposite me, his face telling me his mother had already called.
“Olivia, whats happened?” he asked, his nose twitching. “Mum was crying on the phone She says youve banned Emily from seeing her.”
“Exactly.”
“But why?”
I could have gone on about the floors, Emilys tears, the decade Eleanor had spent trying to dictate my life. I was exhausted. Explanations felt like excuses, and I was innocent of any wrongdoing.
“I just decided so.”
He stared at me, baffled.
***
For three days Andrew tried to reason with me. Eleanor called, but I let the phone ring. Every night Emily asked about Grandma. My resolve crumbledhad I overreacted? Had Eleanor really just wanted to teach her granddaughter something useful, and I had blown the whole thing out of proportion?
On the sixth day, Andrew attempted to whisk Emily away to her mothers house without my knowledge.
I returned early from work; they were just about to leave. Emily was already in her jacket, Andrew holding the house keys.
“Where are you off to?” I asked.
Andrew flushed.
“Olivia, think of it as a kindergarten Mum apologises, she understands”
“Emily, go to your room,” I whispered.
My daughter darted past me, and we were left alone.
“If you drive her to her mother now,” I said, looking straight into Andrews eyes, “you can stay there yourself, with whatever youve got.”
He fell silent, then tossed the keys onto the side table.
“Youve lost your mind…”
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
On the seventh day, Eleanor called me herself, and for some reason I answered.
We arrived at her flat at exactly two oclock, after school. Emily raced up the stairs, eager as ever. I walked slowly, bracing myself for whatever lay ahead.
Eleanor opened the door, looking drained, almost deflated. She pulled Emily into a hug, kissed her, and whispered, “My dear grandchild”
On the table lay Emilys favourite cottagestyle pancakes with curd cheese, still warm from the kitchen. Eleanor seated her, poured tea, and made no comment about the stained jumper or the elbows on the table.
I sank into an armchair with a mug of coffee, thinking, this is it. At least she showed a sliver of kindness, however unpedagogical.
We spent two hours together; Eleanor never raised her voice. She offered no valuable advice, just sat beside her granddaughter, listening to her chatter about school, friends, and the new teacher.
When Emily slipped into the bathroom to wash her hands, the kitchen fell silent. It was just the two of us, no Andrew, no child, no witnesses.
“I’ve spent my whole life ordering people around,” Eleanor began suddenly. “My husband obeyed, my son obeyed now I’m terrified to speak, fearing you’ll take Emily away again. I feel useless.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I said. “I just wanted you to understand.”
Eleanor lifted her eyes to mine.
“I get it. Its terrifying, living like thisevery word weighed, every step monitored”
“And I’ve lived like that for ten years,” I replied. “Every trip to your house, I brace for another critique. Why should Emily endure the same? Did you see her face with that rag? You did nothing.”
A thought struck meperhaps we were alike. She feared losing control over her family; I feared losing control over my daughters upbringing. Two sides of the same battle line.
“Ill bring Emily as before,” I said slowly. “But if she returns home and says she spent the afternoon washing floors instead of doing homework or playing, shell be grounded for a month. No negotiations.”
Eleanor nodded quickly, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Fine, fine, Olivia”
“And one more thing,” I added, pouring tea for myself. “If you have any questions about Emilys upbringing, ask me directly. Keep her out of it.”
“Ask?” Eleanor looked at me as if Id spoken in another language.
“Yes. If you think Im doing something wrong, tell me. Ill think about it.”
“Think?” she chuckled, a thin, uneasy grin forming. “You wont start raising her your way again?”
“Maybe I will,” I admitted. “But at least well be honest with each other.”
Emily burst from the bathroom, hair plastered to her face, dripping.
“Gran, can I stay the night?” she pleaded, eyes shining.
Eleanor and I exchanged a lookno longer as enemies, but as two women who loved the same child and tried not to destroy each other in the process.
“Yes,” I said. “But tomorrow Ill collect her at eight. No more floorwashing. Remember, my child wont shed another tear in this house.”
“Understood, Olivia,” Eleanor promised, her smile finally reaching her eyes, however shyly.
Emily squealed with delight, clinging to her grandmother. The next morning I arrived at precisely eight. Eleanor stood by the window, saw me, and waved.
