**A Laugh Through the Hurt**
Margaret Davies set a bowl of beef stew in front of her granddaughter and sat across from her, watching as Emily distractedly swirled her spoon through the thick broth.
“Not to your taste?” Margaret asked, though she already knew the answer. Emily had been pushing the same meal around her plate for days.
“It’s fine,” Emily muttered without looking up. “Just not very hungry.”
“Ah, not hungry,” Margaret echoed. “Yet I saw you rummaging through the fridge last night—looking for those frozen chicken pies I bought special, were you?”
Emily sighed and set her spoon down.
“Gran, must you? I said it’s fine. Just tired from work, that’s all.”
“Tired, she says,” Margaret shook her head. “At your age, I’d come home and still tend the garden, hand-wash the laundry, iron till midnight. You sit at a computer all day and claim exhaustion.”
Emily shoved her chair back, the plate rattling.
“You know what? Enough! Every single day it’s something—the food’s wrong, the job’s not good enough, the blokes I date aren’t up to scratch. I’ve had it, honestly!”
“Is that how you speak to your elders?” Margaret snapped. “Is that how your mother raised you?”
“My mother didn’t raise me at all!” Emily blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Silence hung between them. Margaret slowly stood, gathering the dishes with trembling hands, though her voice stayed steady.
“Right. So it’s all my fault. Taking you in after your parents split was a mistake too, was it? Feeding you, looking after you—all wrong.”
“Gran, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Then how *did* you mean it?” Margaret turned, and Emily saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “That I’m just a meddling old woman in your way? Maybe you’re right. Youth and age don’t mix, do they?”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret had already retreated to the kitchen. The clatter of dishes and rush of tap water filled the silence. Emily hovered, then trudged to her room.
Margaret scrubbed the plates, tears dripping into the soapy water. The ache in her chest burned hotter than the steam. Had she really become a burden? Was all her care just nagging to Emily now?
She remembered three years ago—Emily arriving with a single suitcase, eyes red from crying. Her parents’ ugly divorce, her father off with his secretary, her mother lost to the bottle. Where else could a twenty-year-old girl go? Of course, to her gran. Margaret hadn’t asked questions, just cleared out the best room, cooked her meals, folded her laundry.
And now? Had it all been pointless?
“Margaret! You in?” A voice called from the hall.
Margaret wiped her face quickly and opened the door. Their neighbor, Dorothy Bell, stood with a small bag.
“Come in, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Oh, no time. My granddaughter brought these down from London,” Dorothy beamed, handing over the bag. “Fancy chocolates. Thought I’d share.”
“Ta ever so,” Margaret took it. “She staying long?”
“Just a week. Work, you know. But the minute she arrived—straight to her gran! Brought flowers, perfume. Kept saying, ‘My darling Gran, I missed you!'” Dorothy glowed. “Proper lovely, she is.”
Margaret nodded, smiling through the sting in her chest. *Her* granddaughter was all sharp words, while Dorothy’s doted.
“How’s your Emily? Still at that design job?”
“Oh, yes. Good girl, helps me loads,” Margaret lied.
“Course she does! Bright, pretty—you’re lucky.” Dorothy patted her arm. “Best be off. Enjoy the chocolates!”
The door shut, and Margaret leaned against it, eyes closed. The lie sat heavy. Once, she’d boasted about Emily—her talent, her wit, her graceful dancing. Now?
“Gran? Who was that?” Emily peeked out, guilty-faced.
“Dorothy. Brought chocolates.”
“…Fancy a brew?” Emily moved closer. “I—I wanted to say sorry. That was rotten of me.”
Margaret wordlessly filled the kettle. Emily laid out the chocolates on a saucer.
“Pretty wrappers,” she mumbled. Gold foil glinted under the light.
“Dorothy’s granddaughter brought them. Thoughtful, isn’t it?”
Emily flushed.
“Gran, come on. I love you. It’s just… sometimes it feels like you’re on at me. Like with the stew.”
“On at you?” Margaret turned. “Or maybe I notice you’re pale, losing weight. Are you ill?”
“No. Just work’s mad right now. Big project due.”
Margaret poured the tea, sat beside her.
“Why don’t you tell me? You used to—about work, your mates. Now it’s all silence.”
Emily fiddled with a chocolate.
“Dunno… Figured you wouldn’t get it. Design programs, digital art—”
“Try me!” Margaret huffed. “I’m not senile yet.”
“It’s not that. Just…” Emily exhaled. “Work’s a nightmare. New boss, some slick bloke with a chip on his shoulder. Hates me ’cause I won’t suck up.”
“And?”
“Nothing’s ever good enough. My designs are ‘unprofessional,’ deadlines missed—but three years I’ve worked there, no complaints before!”
Margaret listened. So *that* was why Emily was snappish—not because of her, but that wretched boss.
“Have you told the others?”
“They say he’s like it with all the women. Thinks we ‘don’t belong in design.'”
“Prat,” Margaret muttered.
Emily snorted.
“Gran! Language.”
“Well, he *is*! Talented girl like you—I’ve seen your work! Remember those posters you did in school? Brilliant, they were.”
“You *remember* those?”
“Course! I’ve still got them, and that competition certificate.”
Emily stared.
“Really? But I always thought… I thought I disappointed you. No steady bloke, no proper career yet—”
“Good Lord, Emily! You’re twenty-three! Bright, capable—”
“But you never like the boys I date.”
Margaret paused. She *had* been critical—too flashy, too rude, too tight with money.
“Maybe… maybe I fuss too much,” she admitted. “I just want someone worthy of you.”
“Or maybe I’m not ready yet,” Emily said softly. “Need to sort work first, maybe move out…”
“No rush,” Margaret said quickly. “I like having you here. Livelier.”
“Really? I thought I annoyed you—music too loud, mates over, mess everywhere…”
“Rubbish!” Margaret waved her off. “Better than rattling round this house alone, telly blaring to drown out the quiet.”
They sipped tea, nibbled chocolates. Emily talked about work—designing logos, website layouts. Margaret listened, asked questions.
“Show me some of your work?”
“Seriously?”
“Course! You’re my granddaughter.”
Emily fetched her laptop, displayed sleek logos, vibrant ads. Margaret gasped.
“These are *yours*? Proper professional!”
“Yeah, that restaurant one’s my favorite. Client loved it.”
“And that boss of yours? What’s *his* problem?”
Emily grimaced.
“Says they’re ‘tacky.’ Wants everything corporate and dull.”
“Well, he’s a fool!” Margaret declared. “You’ve got an eye for beauty. Don’t let some suit squash that.”
Emily grinned.
“Didn’t think you’d get modern design.”
“I know what I like. And I like *your* talent. Stick to your guns.”
“Ta, Gran. Means a lot.”
Margaret patted her hand.
“I just want you happy. And to know I nag ’cause I care.”
“I know. I’ve been a git, taking work stress out on you.”
“That’s all right. We’ve talked now. Thought I’d lost you.”
“Never.”
That evening, they watched telly, giggled at the silly bits. Emily curled up beside her, just like she had as a child, and Margaret’s heart thawed.
Next morning, Emily cooked—scrambled eggs, toast, strong coffee.
“What’s all this?” Margaret blinked.
“Breakfast for the best gran,” Emily grinned. “Sit.”
Margaret took a bite.
“Lovely! Didn’t know you could cook.”
“A bit. You taught me, remember? Just never bothered much.”
“Too busy saying, ‘Takeaway’s easier!'”
“Stupid, wasn’t I? Now I get it—home cooking’s love on a plate.”
Margaret’s eyes pricked.
“Oh, Em…”
“Don’t cry! Tell me your plansThey spent the afternoon in the garden, laughing over old photo albums, and Margaret realized that sometimes love doesn’t need grand gestures—just a shared pot of tea and a listening ear.
