Don’t worry, love. She’s a preterm baby but sturdy. Everything will be finefor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
God willing, the woman whispered to the nurse as she slipped out of the consulting room, then muttered to herself, here comes the trouble.
The tragedy struck the Thompson household six months earlier when a chatty neighbour, Mrs. Whitaker, stopped by for tea and apple jam. She blurted out, almost accidentally:
When are you expecting the little one? Have you started buying nappies yet?
What are you on about? Margaret clutched her pearls, stunned.
What? I saw your calf on the farm two weeks ago, all clean. I even watched it dart out of the barn with its mouth covered by a rag.
Maybe she ate something wrong, Margaret tried to defend herself.
Right, as if youve ever been through labour yourself. Im no midwife, but I know a thing or two.
That night Aunt Margaret interrogated Clara, then wept for hours, cursing the misfiring of fate that left a sunburnt, illfated infant a tiny, mottled boy who died before he could even cry, taking the whole male line with him.
The arrival of little Emma brought no joy, only chores, resentment and a burning shame. Clara never showed warmth to the child; she held her only when feeding or when the baby squirmed, and nothing more. Aunt Margaret watched her granddaughter with indifference, offering no love either. It was already the fourth grandchild why celebrate? Her own daughter had given birth to a daughter who was no better. So Emma entered this world unloved, stumbling on unsteady legs through a life of neglect.
A year later Clara fled to the council estate in Manchester, chasing a sliver of her own happiness. Emma stayed with Aunt Margaret, who, despite her own harshness, was still a grandmother. The girl required no special care, ate what was given, slept on schedule, fell ill rarely. The doctor was right Emma was robust, yet still unloved.
Grandmother Margaret watched Emma grow to seven. In that time Clara learned the trade of a housepainter, married a man named Colin, and had a son, Kyle. It was then that Clara remembered Emma, now a teenager, who could become a helper for her mother. She returned to the village, but Emma, who saw her mother only twice a year, greeted her with no enthusiasm. Clara stared at the girl, reproachful:
Oh, Emma, youre as cold as a stone. The other girls would melt at the sight of you.
Seeing Emma off, Aunt Margaret shed a tear, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday two cherished granddaughters Lily and Sophie arrived from her eldest son. The bustle of caring for them quickly erased Emma from Margarets thoughts. Emma, spurned by Aunt Margaret, felt little sorrow for the old woman, but the loss of the freshly hatched, goldencapped chicks brought tears to her eyes.
Emma disliked the council estate, but she had no choice. She made friends, went to school, did homework, ran errands for bread and milk, peeled potatoes for her mother. As she grew older she escorted Kyle to nursery, and, imitating her mother, snapped at a bully:
Watch your step, youll answer to me. Im running out of strength, and you give me none!
Love never came from Kyles sister, nor from anyone else. Emma never expected it; she was born unloved. She barely suffered, never knowing a different way. Still, she heard the tender nicknames friends mothers used, and heard her own mother call Kyle sunshine or kitten. Emma once Zinaida, now simply Emma believed she would never be sunshine herself; she was older, unlike Kyle.
At home she wasnt pampered, but she wasnt starved either. No fancy meals, no excess salt, yet she wasnt left to starve. She was simply unloved.
At fifteen Emma fled the cold house that had never been a home. Eight years later she enrolled in a city college, training as a pastry chef, dreaming of eating cake until she could not move. In the dorm she shared a flat with three other girls, becoming her own mistress after lectures.
When she met Tom, life suddenly burst into colour. Though November was bleak, the sun seemed to shine just for Emma. The flatmates would pop out for an hour to watch the telly in the communal lounge. Tom spoke in smooth, honeyed phrases that made Emmas head spin and her breath catch.
Youre my favourite, he whispered, and Emma, accustomed to perpetual neglect, melted with happiness.
Soon morning nausea plagued her. She should have rushed to the doctor, but missed the appointment. At eighteen Emma was still waiting for a proper medical note, so she and a suddenly restless Tom headed to the registry office.
Thus began Emmas marital life, and at the same time ended her brief romance. The young couple moved into Toms parents house. Toms mother and aunt showed little affection for Emma, but they allowed her to stay on the property. She was not the first, nor the last, to be shuffled around. Perhaps it was for the best; a child was on the way, and Tom would settle down.
A flatmate from the estate envied her:
Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a city girl.
Emma didnt argue. She didnt need to proclaim that city life was all glitz. The suburban house had village comforts; water still came from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Emma didnt complain; she adapted. She fetched water in buckets, the cold soaking her feet, and later, as she washed a newborns tiny hands, she felt the chill of destiny. Toms mother scolded her, but Emma never meant any harm.
Tom seemed to pity her at first only for a day or two. Then he fell back into old habits, out with friends, neglecting his wife. His mother and aunt never drove Emma out; she stayed, helped around, hoping something might change. It didnt. After a while Tom introduced another woman, declaring he never loved Emma.
Emma confided in her flatmates, shed a quick tear, but the pattern remained: a life of unlovedness. She packed her few belongings, obeyed his mothers harsh command to leave, and closed the door behind her.
She moved into a factory dormitory, where the mess hall and club were just a short walk from the gates. Live, laugh, love, they said. Emma found a sliver of contentment, joining coworkers for drinks, cinema, and dances. She rarely visited her mother, stepfather, or brother; they didnt expect her, and she didnt impose.
When Aunt Margaret died on Emmas twentyfirst birthday, Emma attended the funeral, looking at the empty rooms she once called home. Margaret left her modest cottage to her cherished granddaughters Lily and Sophie. Emma held no grudge; they were the beloved berries of the family, while she was the discarded stone.
If Emma had claimed the inheritance, the relatives would have fought over the £5,000 left behind. The loudest cries came from Clara, who wailed that the greedy grandma had left no silver spoon for her son Kyle. Hes a grandson too! she sobbed, forgetting her older daughter entirely. Emma was denied any heirloom.
Emma tried twice to forge a new life with men, but both failed. One was a drunk who kept other women; the other was violent. She never pursued the registry office seriously; one visit was enough. Her romantic life collapsed for the same reasons abuse and neglect. She decided not to chase marriage any longer, tossing her few belongings into a battered suitcase and returning to the modest dorm bed she shared with friends.
For over a decade she drifted between dorms, growing weary of strangers beds. By her thirties, any woman craved a corner of her own, a personal kettle, a private shelf. Yet single women were the last to receive council flats; families came first.
Occasionally Emma visited Aunt Alice, who cleaned the factory floors at night, to talk hearttoheart. After a few months, Alice suggested a match:
Emma, my niece died in childbirth a year ago. Her husband, Mathew, is a decent man quiet, only drinks on holidays, never abusive. He needs a wife, and youre strong and reliable. Think about it.
Emma considered and moved in with Mathew. She brightened his modest room with fresh curtains, sewn from green and white cloth, and crafted little dresses for his daughter, little Sophie, in yellow and blue. Sophie soon began to babble and called Emma Mum.
Mathew was gentle, never raised his voice, paid his wages, and never uttered harsh words. He never said I love you, but Emma, accustomed to silence, didnt need it. Three years into the marriage, Sophie ran in from the yard, clutching a bunch of dandelions, pressed them to Emmas cheek and whispered:
Mum, I love you. I love you more than anyone more than Dad, more than Aunt Alice, more than my doll.
Emma hugged her, laughing and crying together, finally feeling the love shed been denied since birth.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Isaac. Mathew cherished the infant, changed nappies at night, helped push the pram out of the stairwell. The factory granted them a spacious, bright flat. Emma rejoiced; there was finally something to celebrate.
They raised their children, welcomed grandchildren, and Emma, now silverhaired, would simmer jam on the summer porch while the youngsters played.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
I love you too, echoed Daniel.
I love you, babbled little Molly.
Grandfather Mathew, his beard peppered with grey, chuckled, We all love our granny, hiding smiles in our whiskers. Emma brushed away a stray tear, amazed that the woman once unloved now swam in affection.
