“I didn’t ask you to come,” my daughter said, pushing me out the door.
She didnt shout. Didnt raise her voice. Just said it flatly, coldly, like I was a stranger whod wandered into her flat by mistake. Then she shut the doorslowly, firmly. I stood there on the doorstep, a bag in my hand, not knowing where to look, where to step, what to do with the pain suddenly flaring in my chest like an old, half-healed burn.
“Emily…” I managed. “Im your mother.”
“You *were*,” she said. “Now go. I need to be alone.”
The door clicked shut. I was left in the stairwell, the smell of dust and someones dinner hanging in the air. Downstairs, a door slammed, a dog barked. I stared at the number “9” on the plaquethe ninth floor. The same floor where my daughter was born, where I walked her through the night when she wouldnt stop crying, where I changed her, fed her, rocked her to sleep, dreaming of her future.
And nowkicked out. Like an unwanted guest. Like a stranger.
I walked down the street, no idea where to go. The bag weighed on my arm, but I barely felt it. Just the hollowness inside, like someone had scooped me out.
Thirty years I gave to that family. First my husband, then Emily. Quit my job when she was little. Cooked, cleaned, nursed her through colds, sat with her over homework, spoke to teachers when they complained. I was the one who held everything together. Who never complained. Who endured.
Then my husband left. For a younger woman. Said, “Youre like a wall. No emotion, no passion.” I cried for two months straight. Then got upbecause Emily was eleven, and she needed a mother, not a broken woman.
I found work. Cleaner at a school, then a hospital, then delivering meals. My hands ached, my back seized up, but I kept going. Paid rent, school fees, dance classesall for her.
When she grew up, moved to London, I thought: *Now I can rest. Finally.* But a year later, she was back. Pregnant. No husband. Said, “Mum, Ive got nowhere else to go.”
I opened the door. Took her in again. Became everything againmother, nanny, cook, advisor, crutch.
Her son, my grandson, was born in my flat. I held him those first nights while she slept, exhausted. Fed him with a spoon when he refused the bottle. Took him to the doctor when he coughed. Sang him the same lullabies Id sung to her.
Then he started walking. Talking. Calling me “Gran.” And I thought: *This is my light. My joy.*
But Emily pulled away again. First with menone after another. Disappearing for days, bringing strangers home. I stayed quiet. Didnt interfere. Just did my partcleaned, cooked, minded my grandson.
Then she said, Mum, I bought a flat. You could move in with me. Its hard, raising a child alone.
I believed her. Packed my things. Sold my flat. Gave most of it for her renovations. Thought: *Now well be a proper family. Helping each other.*
And nowkicked out.
I made it to a park bench. Sat. The bag slumped beside me. People walked pastsome with dogs, some with kids. Everyone busy, going somewhere. I stared at a puddle reflecting the grey sky.
*Why? What did I do wrong?*
I never interfered. Never criticised her choices. Even when she brought home that bloke who drank, I never said a word. Just watched as he chucked empty bottles in the corner, yelled at her for under-salting soup. Then he vanished. Like the rest.
Maybe I stayed too quiet. Maybe I shouldve said “I love you” more. But didnt she see it? Didnt she know?
I remembered arriving last night. Brought a jar of jammade from apples in my garden. Brought fresh bread, potatoes, cabbage. All homegrown. Thought: *Thisll help. I know moneys tight.*
She opened the door. Saw meno smile, no surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“Came to visit,” I said. “Brought food. Hows Jake?”
“Jakes asleep,” she said. “And I was about to sleep. You didnt call.”
“I tried,” I said. “You didnt answer.”
“Well, you shouldnt have come,” she said. “Ive got my own life now. I didnt ask you to barge in.”
“Im not barging in,” I said. “I just wanted to see my grandson.”
“See him?” She scoffed. “Youve seen him every day of his life. Now let me be his mother*without* you.”
“Emily, Im not taking him from you,” I said. “I just want to be close.”
“Close?” She looked at me with such bitterness it chilled me. “Youve been *too* close for thirty years. You smothered me. With your care, your silence, your *sacrifices.* Ive spent my life feeling guiltyfor laughing, for loving, for *living.* You always looked at me like I owed youfor being born.”
“I never thought that,” I said.
“But *I* felt it,” she said. “And Im done. Im tired. I want to live*without* you.”
“But Jake”
“Jake is *my* son,” she cut in. “And youre just his gran. If you cant accept that, dont come back.”
I stood in the hallway, clutching my bag, my heart pounding in my throat.
“Emily,” I said. “I dont want to be in the way. I just love you. And him.”
“Love shouldnt *weigh* people down, Mum,” she said softly. “You made it a burden. Im sorry.”
Then she handed me my bag and shut the door.
Sitting on the bench, it hit me: she was right. Not entirelybut partly.
I *had* stayed silent. Always. Thought silence was strength. That if I didnt yell, didnt demand, didnt blameI was a good mother.
But maybe silence is pressure too. When you dont say youre hurt, but your eyes make them feel guilty. When you give everything, then wait for gratitudeeven if you never ask aloud.
I remembered when she was fifteen, begging to go on holiday with friends. I said no. “Moneys for the flat.” But really, I was saving for a fur coat. Bought it. Wore it twice. She never went away.
Or her first crusha boy from another school. I said, “I dont trust him.” Turned out he was just shy. She cried for days because I wouldnt let him visit.
I thought I was protecting her. Really, I was controlling her.
I sat till dark. Till the park emptied. Till the street lamps flickered on.
Then I left. Not homeI had none now. To my sisters. She lives in the countryside. Said, “Come. Theres room.”
The bus took me there. She met me at the door.
“What happened?”
I didnt explain. Just said, “Emily kicked me out. Said she doesnt need me.”
She hugged me. Made tea. Gave me a scone.
“Youre not alone,” she said. “And rememberyoure not just a mother. Youre a woman. A person.”
I stared out the window. An old orchard, apple trees long past fruiting. But they stood. Lived. Bloomed every year.
A week passed. I helped my sisterdug the garden, made jam, shopped. Sometimes my phone rang. I ignored it. Knew it was Emily. Or one of her men. Or a nosy neighbour.
One morning, a car pulled up. Emily stepped out. Jake held her hand.
I froze.
She walked up. Silent. Stood Jake beside her.
“Gran!” He hugged my knees.
I knelt, held him tight. So tight he giggled.
“Mum,” Emily said. “Im here.”
I nodded.
“Ive been thinking,” she said. “I was too harsh. I didnt mean to hurt you. I just… couldnt breathe. Felt like I owed you my whole life.”
“I never asked for that,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “But you never let go. Even now. Even here. I see how you look at Jakelike youre scared Ill take him away.”
“I *am* scared,” I admitted. “Of losing you both.”
“You wont,” she said. “But I need you to live *your* life. Not through
