When my grandma discovered that her daughtermy mumwas pregnant without a husband, she had an absolute meltdown. For reasons best known to herself (and possibly the Queens corgi), she proceeded to make mums life a proper misery, though mum bore it all quietly, saints and patience and tea.
On my birthday, Grandma locked mum in the house and waltzed out, taking the only key like she was starring in an East End drama. Thankfully, my sister, formerly a paramedic, was visiting, and with some quick thinking (and not a little dramatic flair), managed to retrieve the key and rescue mum. Thats how I came into the world, and, despite the soap opera beginnings, mum showered me with lovemore than a bath-time rubber duck.
Grandma, who was getting on a bit, taught me all sorts of things about gardening and farming in our little corner of Hertfordshire, because nothing says English childhood like planting potatoes in the rain. I was surprisingly good at some bits, but when I messed up, Grandma unleashed a barrage of words that sounded like theyd leapt out of a Dickens novel. I didnt properly get what they meant as a child, but Im pretty sure her intention was to make me feel like a petulant turnip. I could never figure out why she was so frosty, or what on earth Id supposedly done wrong. After all, she herself had had a tough time raising a child after Grandpa had popped off to the great tea party in the sky, so youd think shed have a bit more empathy, wouldnt you?
I grew up with not a whiff of masculine affectionno granddad, no dad, no brother; just women, strong tea, and the occasional disapproving look.
Eventually, mum got married and had two more children. Tragically, her husband didnt stick around nearly long enough for anyones liking. Strangely, Grandma poured affection over those kids like they were her own personal favourites at the village fete, leaving me feeling a tad green-eyed and wondering if there was a secret recipe for her love Id missed.
Grandmas long gone now, and Im not exactly a spring chicken myself, but sometimes I think back on those childhood days when I felt like the odd sock in the drawer. Her biting words still echo, stirring up memories like a brisk wind through a cricket match.
One afternoon, while shopping with mum in our local Tesco, we ran into a woman laden with fruits and sweet treats, her face gleaming with pride. She shared happily that her daughter was about to become a mother, with a wedding on the horizon. Everyone in the village knew Victorias girl didnt have a husband, but the womans candour and unconditional love moved mum deeply, reminding her of her own struggles and the judgements shed endured for years.
I love my mum and am eternally grateful for everything shes done for me, for braving lifes tempest on my behalf. She never treated me badly; her boundless, motherly love is as genuine as English rainpersistent, pure, and never-ending.
As for the question of what Id have done if I were my grandma, well, its hard to say without walking a mile in her muddy wellies, but Id like to believe understanding, empathy, and support would have been the order of the day. Love and compassion should always take centre stage in family relations, regardless of how tangled those relations might be.
