“I didn’t ask you to come,” my daughter said, and shut the door in my face.
She didnt shout. Didnt raise her voice. Just said it calmly, coldly, like she was dismissing a stranger whod wandered into her flat by mistake. Then she pushed the door. Slowly, firmly, until I stood there on the threshold, clutching my bag, not knowing where to look, where to step, what to do with the sudden pain flaring in my chest like an old, poorly healed burn.
“Emily” I managed. “Im your mother.”
“Were,” she replied. “Now go. I need to be alone.”
The door clicked shut. I was left in the hallway. The air smelled of dust and someones dinner. Somewhere below, another door slammed, and a dog barked. I stared at the number ‘9’ on the doorthe ninth floor. The same floor where my daughter had been born, where Id paced with her at night when she wouldnt stop crying, where Id changed her, fed her, rocked her, dreamed about her future.
Now, shed turned me away like an intruder. Like a stranger.
I walked down the street with no destination. My bag dragged at my arm, but I barely felt the weight. Only the hollowness inside, as if everything had been scooped out.
Thirty years Id given to this family. First to my husband, then to Emily. I gave up my job when she was little. Cooked, cleaned, nursed her through illnesses, sat with her over homework, even went to see the headteacher when her teachers complained. I was the one who held everything together. Who never complained. Who endured.
Then my husband left. For a younger woman. “Youve become like a wall,” he said. “No emotion, no passion.” I cried for two months straight. Then I picked myself up. Because Emily was eleven, and she needed a mother, not a broken woman.
I found work. A cleaner at a school, then at a hospital. Later, delivering meals. My hands ached, my back burned, but I kept going. Paid the rent, her tuition, her dance classes. Everythingfor her.
When she grew up and moved to London, I thought, now I can rest. Finally. But a year later, she was back. Pregnant. No partner in sight. “Mum, Ive got nowhere else to go,” she said.
I opened the door. Took her in again. Became everything once more: mother, nanny, provider, counsellor, crutch.
Her son, my grandson, was born in my flat. I held him those first days while she slept, exhausted. Fed him from a spoon when he refused the bottle. Took him to the doctor when he coughed. Sang him the same lullabies Id once sung to her.
Then he started walking. Talking. Calling me “Nana.” And I thought, here he ismy light. My joy.
But Emily began drifting away again. First with men. One after another. Disappearing for days, bringing strangers home. I stayed quiet. Didnt interfere. Didnt ask. Just did what I always didcleaned, cooked, looked after my grandson.
Then she said, “Mum, Ive bought a flat. You can move in with me. Its hard doing this alone.”
I believed her. Packed my things. Sold my flat. Gave nearly everything for the renovations in hers. Kept just enough to get by. Thought, now well be a proper family. Helping each other.
And nowshed shut me out.
I reached a park bench and sank onto it. My bag slumped beside me. People passedwalking dogs, pushing pramsall busy, all going somewhere. I just sat there, staring at a puddle reflecting the grey sky.
Why? What had I done wrong?
I never interfered. Never criticised her choices. Even when she brought home that man who drank, I didnt say a word. Just watched as he tossed empty bottles in the corner, shouted at her if the soup wasnt salty enough. Then he vanished. Like all the others.
Maybe I stayed silent too long. Maybe I shouldve said “I love you” more. But didnt she see it? Didnt she feel it?
I remembered arriving last night, bringing a jar of jammade from the apples in my garden. Brought fresh bread, potatoes, cabbage. All homegrown. Thought, itll be useful. I know how tight money is for her.
She opened the door. Saw meno smile, no surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came,” I said. “Brought some veg. Hows Oliver?”
“Sleeping,” she said. “And I was about to sleep. You shouldve called.”
“I did,” I said. “You didnt answer.”
“Well, you shouldnt have come,” she said. “Ive got my own life now. I didnt ask you to be part of it.”
“Im not interfering,” I said. “I just wanted to see my grandson.”
“See him?” She smirked. “Youve seen him every day of his life. Now let me be his mother. Without you.”
“Emily, Im not trying to take him from you,” I said. “I just want to be near him.”
“Near me?” Her face twisted with something bitter, something that made my stomach drop. “Youve been near me for thirty years. And what? You smothered me. With your silence, your sacrifices. I felt guilty for everythingfor laughing, for loving someone, for just living. You looked at me like I owed you for 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 Oliver” I started.
“Oliver is my son,” she cut in. “And youre just his grandmother. If you cant accept that, dont come back.”
I stood in the hallway, my bag in hand, my pulse hammering in my throat.
“Emily,” I said. “I dont want to be in the way. I just love you. And him.”
“Love shouldnt be a burden, Mum,” she said softly. “But you made it one. Im sorry.”
Then she took my bag and shut the door.
Sitting on that bench, I realisedshe was right. Not entirely, but in some ways, yes.
I had stayed silent. Always. Thought silence was strength. That if I didnt yell, didnt demand, didnt blameI was being a good mother.
But maybe silence was its own kind of pressure. When you dont say youre hurt, but your eyes make the other person feel guilty. When you give everything, then wait for gratitude, even if you never ask for it aloud.
I remembered when she was fifteen, begging to go to the seaside with friends. I said no. “Moneys for the bills.” But I was saving for a fur coat. Bought it. Wore it twice. She never went to the sea.
Or her first crusha boy from another school. “I dont trust him,” I said. 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 until dark. Until the park emptied. Until the streetlights flickered on.
Then I walked. Not homeI didnt have one anymore. To my sisters. She lives in a village outside the city. “Come,” shed said. “Theres space.”
The bus took me there. She met me at the door.
“What happened?” she asked.
I didnt explain everything. Just said, “Emily shut me out. Said she doesnt need me.”
My sister hugged me. Poured tea. Handed 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 stood there, the apple trees long past bearing fruit. But they were still alive. Still blooming every year.
A week passed. I helped my sisterdug the garden, made jam, went to the shops. Sometimes the phone rang. I didnt answer. Knew it was Emily. Or her latest man. Or someone else I used to know.
One morning, a car pulled up. Emily stepped out. Oliver held her hand.
I froze.
She walked over. Silent. Stood Oliver beside her.
“Nana,” he said, hugging my knees.
I knelt, pulled him close. So tight he giggled.
“Mum,” Emily said. “Im here.”
I didnt speak. Just nodded.
“Ive been thinking,” she said. “I was too harsh. I didnt mean to hurt you. I just Im tired. Of everything. Of the past. Of feeling like I owe you for existing.”
