Ill make a proper lad out of him!
My grandson is not going to be left-handed, huffed Margaret.
I turned to face my mother-in-law, barely hiding my irritation.
And whats so wrong with that? Alfie was born left-handed. Thats just who he is.
Who he is! snorted Margaret. Its not an individual trait, its a sign of something lacking. Thats just not how things are done, never has been. The right hand is proper, the leftwell, people used to say it was from the devil.
I nearly burst out laughing. Here we were in the twenty-first century, and Margaret still judged things like some villager from feudal times.
Margaret, you do realise medical science
Ive no use for your science, she snapped. I trained my own son out of it, and he turned out perfectly fine. Do the same for Alfie, before its too late. Youll thank me.
With that, she spun on her heel, leaving me alone with the dregs of my tea and an odd aftertaste from the conversation.
At first, I didnt make much of it. After all, a mother-in-law with odd, old-fashioned views is par for the course, right? Every generation has its prejudices. I watched as Margaret gently corrected Alfie at the table, switching his spoon to his right hand. I told myself it wouldnt do any real harmkids are resilient, and grandmas have their quirks.
Alfie had been left-handed since he could pick things up. I recall how, at only eighteen months, he always reached for toys with his left hand. When he started doodling, clumsy and childlike as it was, it was always with his left. That just felt right for himlike his eye colour or the birthmark on his cheek.
But Margaret saw things differently. To her, left-handedness was a faultsomething to be fixed, not accepted. Every time Alfie grabbed a crayon with his left, she pressed her lips together as if hed done something shameful.
Right hand, Alfie. Use your right.
Theres never been a lefty in our family, and there isnt going to be.
I sorted Mike out, and Ill sort you too.
I once overheard her boasting to Hannah, my wife, about her achievement. Shed caught Mike, her eldest, doing it wrong as a boyso she trained it out of him. Tied his arm, watched him constantly, and punished him for disobedience. And now, so she claimed, he was a proper man thanks to her efforts.
The pride in her voice, the absolute certainty shed done the right thing, left me unsettled.
I didnt spot the change in Alfie straight away. At first, it was subtle. He paused before picking things up, hand hovering in the air as though it was a puzzle. Soon, hed glance quietly towards his grandma, checking if she was watching.
Dad, which hand should I use? he asked one evening, staring anxiously at his fork.
Whichever feels right, mate.
But grandma says
Dont listen to your grandma. Just do whats natural for you.
But natural wasnt easy anymore. Alfie hesitated, dropped things, froze halfway through what hed been doing. His movements, once so sure, became awkward and cautious. He looked like he didnt trust his own body anymore.
Hannah saw it too. Id catch her biting her lip as Margaret corrected Alfies grip once again, looking away when the lectures about proper upbringing began. Hannah had grown up under the steamroller of her mothers will and learnt one thingdont argue. Best just keep your head down and let the storm pass.
I tried to talk to her.
Hannah, this isnt right. Just look at him.
Mum means well.
Is that really the point? Cant you see what its doing to him?
Shed just shrug and walk away, the habit of obedience stronger than parental instinct.
It only got worse. Margaret grew bolder, no longer merely correcting Alfie, but commenting on everything he did. She praised him if he happened to use his right hand, sighed dramatically if he used his left.
There you go, Alfie, thats better! Just takes practice. I made a proper lad of your uncle, and Ill do the same for you.
I realised it couldnt go on. One afternoon, when Alfie was in his room, I approached Margaret.
Margaret, please, just let Alfie be. Hes left-handed, its perfectly normal. Dont try to change him.
Her reaction was predictably explosive.
You telling me what to do? I raised three children, and you think youre going to teach me?
Im not teaching. Im asking you to stop meddling with my son.
Your son? Dont Hannahs genes count for anything? Hes my grandson as well, and I wont have him growing up like that.
She practically spat the words, as though they referred to something disgusting.
I knew then that thered be no peaceful solution.
The following days were tense. Margaret would ignore me, speaking only through Hannah. I responded in kind. The air hung thick with resentment, broken only by clipped exchanges.
Hannah, tell your husband the soups ready.
Hannah, tell Mum Ill sort myself out.
Hannah drifted between us, pale and exhausted, while Alfie retreated ever more into himself, shrinking away onto the sofa with his tablet, as though trying to disappear.
The idea came to me that Saturday morning. Margaret was in the kitchen, expertly chopping cabbage for her Sunday roastrhythmic, confident, as she must have done for decades.
I came up behind her.
Youre slicing it wrong.
She didnt bother to turn.
Pardon?
The cabbageyou should slice it thinner, lengthways, not across.
She tutted and kept going.
Im serious, I pressed. Nobody slices it that way. Its the wrong technique.
Mark, Ive been cooking roasts for thirty years.
And doing it wrong all that time. Let me show you.
I reached for the knife. Margaret yanked her hand back.
Have you lost your mind?
No, I just want you to do it properly. Looktheres too much water in the pot, and the gas is far too high. And youre not even adding the carrots at the right time.
Ive done it this way all my life!
Thats no argumenttime to retrain your habits. Lets start over.
She froze, knife still in hand, staring at me as though Id grown an extra head.
What on earth are you talking about?
The same thing you tell Alfie every single day, I leaned closer. Retrain. What you do isnt proper. Not the way its done. Try using your other hand.
Thats completely different!
Is it? Looks the same from here.
Margaret put down the knife. Her cheeks were flushed, indignant.
Youre comparing my cooking to Ive always cooked like this! Its what Im comfortable with!
And Alfie is comfortable with his left hand. But that doesnt stop you, does it?
Its different! Hes young, he can still change!
And youre set in your waysno changing you, is there? So what gives you the right to try to change him?
She pressed her lips together, furious.
How dare you? I raised three children! I changed Mike, didnt I?
And hows he now? Happy? Confident?
Silence.
I knew it stung. Mike, Hannahs older brother, lived up north somewhere, called Margaret once in a blue moon.
I was only ever trying to do the right thing, she managed at last, her voice wavering.
I know you were. But your idea of right just means my way or the highway. Alfies his own person. Little still, but his own. I wont let anyone push that out of him.
So now youre lecturing me?
I will if you dont stop. Ill comment on every little thing you do. Every movement, every habit. Lets see how long you last.
We glared at each other, both wound tight, neither willing to back down.
Thats petty and childish, she spat.
But thats the only language you seem to understand.
I saw something shift in her. That iron certainty cracked. She looked for a moment much older, smaller, suddenly fragile.
I only do it out of love she began, but trailed off.
I know. But its time to love differently. If not, you wont be seeing your grandson anymore.
The pot on the stove began to boil over. Neither of us moved.
That evening, when Margaret retired to her room, Hannah sat down beside me on the sofa, silent for a long time, leaning against my shoulder.
No one ever defended me like that, she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. Mum always knew best. I just accepted it.
I put my arm around her.
Your mother wont be forcing her views on anyone in our house ever again.
She squeezed my hand in gratitude.
From Alfies room came the light, reassuring scratch of a pencil on paper. He was drawing. With his left hand. And no one was telling him he was wrong.
