Bringing Up a “Softie”
Why have you signed him up for music lessons?
Patricia Bennett breezes past her daughter-in-law, tugging off her gloves as she enters.
Good afternoon, Patricia. Do come in. Im delighted to see you too, Emma replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Patricia barely registers the remark. She tosses her gloves onto the hall table and turns to Emma.
Tommy was on the phone with me, absolutely beaming says hes going to play the piano! What on earth is all that about? Is he your little girl now?
Emma closes the front door slowly, carefully, doing her best not to snap and start shouting.
It means your grandson is going to learn music. He loves it.
Loves it! Patricia snorts as if Emmas just suggested something absurd. Hes six! He hasn’t a clue what he likes. Its your job to guide him. Hes a boy, my grandchild and youre raising him into what exactly?
Patricia marches into the kitchen, flicks the kettle on like she owns the place. Emma follows, teeth clamped so tight her jaw aches.
Im raising him to be a happy child.
Youre raising him to be a wimp and a pushover! Patricia stands arms akimbo. You shouldve signed him up for football! Or rugby! Make a man of him, not some pianist!
Emma leans against the doorframe, counts to five. It doesnt help.
Tommy asked for it himself. He likes music.
Oh, please! Patricia waves her hand dismissively. When Paul was his age, he was out playing cricket with the lads and kicking balls all over the green! And yours? Hell be playing scales? What a disgrace!
Something snaps inside Emma. She pushes off the frame and steps closer.
Are you done?
No! Ive got plenty more to say
And Ive wanted to say this for ages, Emma practically whispers. Tommy is my son. Mine. And Ill decide how to raise him. I wont have you interfering.
Patricia flushes crimson.
How dare you speak to me like that?!
Leave.
What?!
Emma marches past her, grabs Patricias coat off the hook, shoves it into her arms.
Leave my house.
Youre throwing me out?! Me?!
Emma flings the door open, takes Patricia by the elbow and ushers her outside. Patricia tries to pull free, protesting, but Emma is firm. She pushes her out onto the front step.
You wont win! Patricia shouts from the porch, face twisted in fury. Are you listening?! I wont let you ruin my only grandchild!
Goodbye, Patricia.
Ill tell Paul everything! Hell hear all about this!
Emma shuts the door, leans back against it, and exhales long and slow, emptying every last drop of air.
For a while there are muffled shouts behind the door, then angry stomps down the front path. Peace descends after a couple of minutes.
Patricia has finally driven her past breaking point. The constant criticism, unsolicited advice, lectures how to parent, what to feed him, what clothes to buy. And Paul never saw a problem. Mum means well, Shes got experience, What harm is there in listening? He worshipped his mother. Every word she uttered was gospel. And Emma had to endure it. Day after day, visit after visit.
But not today.
Paul gets home around eight. Emma hears the key in the lock and knows, by the violent way it hits the side table and how he storms into the kitchen without stopping to see Tommy watching cartoons, that Patricias rung her son already.
Tommy, sweetheart, stay here, Emma says, kneeling, sliding headphones onto his ears and putting on his favourite robot show on the tablet. Mummy and Daddy need to chat.
Tommy nods, eyes glued to the screen. Emma closes his bedroom door and heads to the kitchen.
Paul stands at the window, arms crossed, not turning as Emma enters.
You kicked my mother out.
Not a question. A cold, hard fact.
I asked her to leave.
You shoved her out the door! Paul spins around, jaw clenched. She sobbed down the phone for two hours! Two hours, Emma!
Emma sinks onto a chair. Her legs ache after a full day at work, and now this.
Doesnt it bother you that she hurt me?
Paul hesitates, waves a hand.
Shes just worried about her grandson. Whats wrong with that?
She called our son a wimp and a pushover, Paul. Our son. Hes six.
She got carried away, it happens. But honestly, Emma, Mums got a point. Boys need sport. Team spirit, resilience
Emma looks up, locking eyes for a long, heavy moment until Paul looks away.
My mum forced me into gymnastics when I was little. Decided I would be a gymnast, end of. Five years, Paul. Five years of sobbing before every session. Splits through pain, starving myself to keep up, begging her to let me quit.
Paul says nothing.
To this day I cant step into a gym. Still. And I wont wish that on my child. If Tommy wants football, fine. But only if he asks. Pushing him into it never.
Mum just wants whats best
Shes welcome to have another child and raise them how she likes, Emma stands. But she wont meddle in Tommys upbringing again. And neither will you, if you take her side.
Paul bristles, as if to argue, but Emmas already left the room.
They dont talk for the rest of the evening. Emma puts Tommy to bed and sits for ages in the dark, listening to his quiet breathing.
Two tense days pass in silence. Then, over dinner, Paul cracks a joke, Emma smiles, and slowly the ice thaws. By Friday theyre talking again, both careful to avoid the subject of Patricia.
Saturday morning, Emma wakes with a jolt. Its barely eightfar too early for the weekend. Paul snores beside her, Tommy is probably still asleep.
What woke her?
Metal against metal. The front lock turning.
Emma bolts upright, heart hammering. Burglars? In broad daylight? She grabs her phone from the side table and tiptoes into the hallway.
The door swings open.
Patricia stands on the threshold, keys jangling triumphantly.
Good morning, Emma dear.
Emma stands barefoot on cold tiles, baggy T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, while Patricia stares down at her, as if walking into someone elses home at 8am on a Saturday is perfectly natural.
How do you have a key?
Patricia dangles the keys in front of Emma.
Paul gave it to me. Came by the other day, brought it round. Said Mum, forgive her, she didnt mean to upset you. Begged forgiveness for your behaviour.
Emma blinks. Once. Then again. Trying to process it.
What are you doing here? At this hour?
Come for my grandson! Patricia shrugs off her coat, hangs it. Get ready, Tommy! Grandmas signed you up for football, first training is today!
Rage surges, hot and blinding. Emma spins around and storms to the bedroom.
Paul lies facing the wall. Pretending to be asleepEmma sees the tension in his shoulders.
Get up!
Can we do this later
Emma yanks the duvet back, grabs his arm, and drags him out to the lounge. Paul stumbles along, helpless as Emma marches him in.
Patricia has made herself at home on the sofa, flicking through a magazine.
You gave her keys, Emma stands, gripping Pauls wrist. To my flat.
Paul is mute, shuffling awkwardly.
Its my home, Paul. Mine. I bought it before we got married. With my own money. How dare you give your mum my keys?
Well arent you possessive! Patricia tosses the magazine down. Me, mine, my! Selfish, thats what you are! Paul was thinking about his son, thats why he gave me the keys. So I can see him, since you wont let me through the door.
Just stop talking!
Patricia gasps in outrage, but Emma focuses only on Paul.
Tommy isnt going to football unless he chooses. Not otherwise.
Not your place to say! Patricia leaps up. Youre nothing! Temporary in my sons life! You think youre the only one? Think you cant be replaced? Paul only sticks with you for the child!
Silence.
Emma slowly turns to her husband. He stands with his head bowed. Silent.
Paul?
Nothing. Not one word in her defence.
Right, Emma says, surprising herself with icy clarity. Temporary. Well, my times up. You can have your son, Patricia. Hes no longer my husband.
You wouldnt dare! Patricia blanches. You cant just throw him out!
Paul, Emma says softly, looking him straight in the eyes. Youve got thirty minutes. Pack your things and go. Or Ill shove you out in your pyjamasI dont care.
Emma, wait, can we just talk
Weve talked already.
She turns to Patricia, giving her a crooked smile.
Keep the keys. Ill change the locks today.
The divorce takes four months. Paul tries to come back phone calls, texts, flowers. Patricia threatens court, child services, even talks about her connections. Emma hires a decent solicitor, blocks their calls.
Two years fly by in a blink
The community hall at the arts school buzzes with chatter. Emma sits in row three, clutching the programme. Thomas Bennett, age 8. Beethoven, Ode to Joy.
Tommy steps onto the stage, solemn and focused, in a crisp white shirt and black trousers. He sits at the grand piano, fingers poised over the keys.
As the opening notes fill the hall, Emma holds her breath.
Her boy is playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old, who asked for music lessons himself, who spent hours practising, who chose this piece for his concert.
The last chord rings out, the hall erupts in applause. Tommy stands, bows, spots his mum and grins wide and overjoyed.
Emma claps, tears rolling down her cheeks.
She did everything right. She put her son firstabove others opinions, above marriage, above the fear of losing everything.
Thats what a mother should always do.
