Your nineyearold has been spoiled beyond belief, yet she cant even mop a floor, my motherinlaw announced, waving a damp rag. Mia, theres a stain over there. What are you, a child? Your father was like that at your age
Excuse me, Eleanor? I asked, my tone already foretelling trouble.
Im raising your child now, since his mother cant manage, the old woman replied. Raise a lady, not a spoiled brat. We werent raised that way.
A week earlier I had snatched Mia from Eleanors house and swore I would never set foot there againno explanations, no negotiations, no endless justifications. The promise was absolute.
When I arrived to collect Mia that Saturday, my daughter stood in the kitchen clutching a soggy rag, textbooks scattered untouched in the hallway, while Eleanor barked:
Youve barely wiped under the fridge! What are yougrowing extra hands?
Mia sobbed, wiping her nose with the same hand and smearing grime across her cheek.
Whats happening? I stepped inside, still in my nightclothes.
Oh, dear, Eleanor turned, her voice utterly devoid of remorse. Im teaching little Mia the basics. Her father cleaned the whole house at seven! Your pampered princess cant even pick up a rag!
I dressed the whimpering Mia, buttoned her coat, grabbed her school bag, and followed.
Olivia, why are you acting like a toddler? Eleanor chased us into the hallway. A girl should know
I halted at the doorway.
Mia will not come back, I said.
And we left.
At home, Mia pressed her face into my chest, sobbing for twenty minutes while I ran my fingers through her hair, wondering how Id endured it all this long. Every Saturday Id driven her to Eleanors, listened to criticismsYou dress her wrong, You feed her poorly, Youre not raising a childand kept quiet because Mia adored her grandma, and those visits were the only breath of freedom I had: a quick stop at the hairdresser, a coffee in a café with a book, a moment alone.
When I finally saw my nineyearold, the same one Eleanor claimed to be educating, she looked up with tearfilled eyes.
Mum, she whispered, are we really not going to Grandmas any more?
Not for now, love, I replied.
Why?
How do you explain that to a child?
Because its necessary, I said. Grandma will have to learn her lesson too.
Andrew arrived late that night, just as Mia was already asleep. He sat opposite me, his face telling the story before he even spokeher mother had already called.
Olivia, whats wrong? he asked, rubbing his nose. Mum was crying on the phone She says youve banned Mia from seeing her.
Exactly.
Why?
I could have spoken of floors, of Mias tears, of a decade of Eleanors unsolicited tutoring. But I was exhausted. Explanations felt like excuses. I wasnt to blame for anything.
I just decided, I said.
He stared, bewildered.
For three days Andrew kept trying to persuade me. Eleanor called, but I let it ring. Every evening Mia asked about Grandma, and the weight of the decision grew heavier. Had I overreacted? Had Eleanor truly wanted to teach her granddaughter something useful, and I had blown the situation out of proportion?
On the sixth day Andrew attempted a covert rescue, planning to slip Mia to her mothers house.
I came home early from work; they were about to leave. Mia was already in her coat, Andrew holding the keys.
Where are you going? I asked.
Andrew blushed. Olivia, its just a childrens home Mum apologises, she understands
Mia, go to your room, I whispered.
My daughter darted past me, leaving us alone.
If you now take our daughter to her mothers, you can stay there yourself, with your things, I said, looking into Andrews eyes.
He fell silent, then tossed the keys onto the side table.
Youve lost your mind
Perhaps, I admitted.
On the seventh day Eleanor called herself, and for some reason I answered.
We arrived at her suburban flat precisely two oclock after school. Mia raced ahead up the stairs, excited as always. I walked slowly, unsure what awaited me.
Eleanor opened the door, a wilted husk of a woman, and embraced Mia, kissing her forehead, whispering:
My dear granddaughter
On the kitchen table lay Mias favourite pancakes with curd, still warm from earlier. Eleanor seated her, poured tea, and made not a single remark about the smudged shirt or the elbows on the table.
I sank into an armchair with a mug of coffee, thinking, finally, it had worked. At least something had changed, even if it wasnt pedagogically perfect.
We spent two hours there; Eleanor never raised her voice. She offered no valuable advice, just sat beside her granddaughter and listened to chatter about school, friends, a new teacher.
When Mia disappeared to the bathroom to wash her hands, we were left alone in the kitchen. Eleanor seemed lost, not knowing where to go, but we needed to talkjust the two of us, no Andrew, no Mia, no witnesses.
Ive spent my whole life giving orders, Eleanor confessed suddenly. My husband obeyed, my son obeyed Now Im scared to speak, fearing youll take Mia away again. I feel useless.
I never meant to hurt you, I said. I just wanted you to understand.
Eleanor met my gaze. I get it. Its terrifying, weighing every word, watching every step
How have I lived ten years like this? Every visit to you, fearing another critique. And why should Mia bear that too? Did you see her face with that rag? And you did nothing
A thought struck meperhaps we were alike. Both terrified of losing control. She over a family, I over my daughters upbringing, each from opposite sides of the same barricade.
Ill bring Mia back, as before, I said slowly. But if she ever comes home and says she spent an hour washing floors instead of homework or a walk, there will be a months break. No discussion.
Eleanor nodded, quickly, nervously.
Okay, okay, dear.
I poured myself tea. And if you have any questions about Mia, her upbringing, ask me. Keep me 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 about it? she smirked gloomily. You wont go back to raising her your way?
Maybe I will, I admitted. But at least well be honest with each other.
Mia burst from the bathroom, drenched and dishevelled.
Grandma, can I stay the night tonight? Please!
Eleanor and I exchanged a glancenot as enemies, but as two women who loved the same child and tried not to break each other in the process.
Sure, I said. But tomorrow Ill pick her up at eight. No floors, no tears. She must not shed a single drop in this house again.
Got it, dear, Eleanor promised, for the first time flashing a crooked smile.
Mia squealed with joy and clung to her grandmother. The next morning I arrived precisely at eight. Eleanor waited by the window, saw me, and waved.
The day felt like a strange, lingering dream, where logic floated like smoke and the ordinary turned into something uncanny, yet somehow, everything settled into a new, fragile peace.
