I remember it as if it were a foggy afternoon in a little village in Yorkshire, the kind of day when the wind whistles through the hedgerows and every conversation seems to linger longer than it ought. My motherinlaw, Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves, had taken to reminding me that I had become a strange sort of woman ever since I found out I was carrying our first child.
Ah, Mother says Im odd now, I muttered, a halfsmile tugging at my lips. The words brought to mind the latest quarrel wed had. How could she possibly recount the way Id snapped at her after shed broached the subject of her own sad pastfor the hundredth time, perhapswhile she was still rattling off the familiar tale of her miscarriages?
Mrs. Hargreaves, perhaps we could change the subject, I said politely but firmly.
She, deep in the throes of yet another weary monologue about her premature pregnancies, choked on the air and stared at me with bewildered eyes.
Im only trying to support you, Evelyn, she replied, her voice trembling with the same feigned concern.
Thank you, but I dont need support from someone whose empathy is about as thin as a crumpet, I retorted, feeling a flash of irritation.
Did you just call me dull? tears welled in her eyes.
On any ordinary day my reaction would have been to smooth things over, perhaps to slip out of the house with a feigned urgent work call or a sudden meeting Id just remembered. I would have crafted an excuse to dodge Mrs. Hargreaves and her endless airing of personal tragedy, but grief is a strange beast that refuses to be shunted aside, especially when it rebuilds the very foundations of ones body during pregnancy.
By the fifth month my temperament had shifted from patient and gentle to a woman who, sleeves rolled up, demanded answers as if she were asking for a horse and a cottage in a nursery rhymeonly to set about solving the problems herself.
What am I supposed to call you, after youve told me three hundred times I dont wish to discuss your failed attempts at motherhood? I snapped.
I once knew a highfunctioning autistic friend who could suddenly break into a dance in a public square or miss a joke entirely; even he understood that bringing up such matters with a pregnant woman was sheer folly.
So not only am I a shrew, you think Im an idiot too? Thats how you treat me, and you call it kindness? Ive never heard a kind word from you
Then why would I ever say such things? I whispered, slamming the front door shut, taking a deep breath, and smiling, wholly satisfied with myself.
I hoped the silence would last weeks, perhaps forever. Yet hope, as often, proved a poor ally. The argument with Margaret set off a chain of further troubles.
Thomas, my husband and Margarets son, sat at dinner looking pensive and withdrawn. At first I tried my usual chatter, but soon realised his replies were monosyllabic, his mind clearly elsewhere.
When I pressed for an explanation, he merely assured me everything was fine, and I let the matter drop. I could not link his quietude to the mornings row with his mother; perhaps he was tangled up at work, or something else he didnt wish to burden me with.
A few days later Thomas finally broached the subject, though it was a different one altogether.
Evelyn, have you heard about postnatal depression? It can affect pregnant women as well, cant it? he asked.
Maybe its not quite postnatal, but I dont feel depressed at all, do I? I replied, halfjoking.
Honestly, if it would ease your mind, I could accompany you to see a psychiatrist, but only if youd explain to the doctor what made you suspect I was slipping into a depression. he said.
I reminded him of Margarets habit of turning every conversation into a subtle critique. If anyone needs a specialist, its your mother, I said. Do you recall what she told me?
Youre always fighting, Margaret thinks youre deliberately giving her a hard time with advice about hair masks or misaddressed parcels, Thomas muttered.
What on earth are you talking about? I asked, genuinely puzzled.
Thomas recounted how a few weeks earlier his mother had bought the same hair mask I kept on the shelf and claimed Id suggested it to her. She used it and then accused me of steering her towards a poor product while keeping a better one for myself.
Honestly, Thomas, youre hopeless when it comes to womens things, I replied, halfamused. If youd understood, youd have seen the trick straight away.
I spent three minutes explaining that my hairnever coloured with ammonia, never straightened, thick by naturecouldnt have been the source of her advice. The mask shed bought was meant for maintaining alreadyhealthy hair; it would have done no good for a woman who regularly bleached and chemically treated her locks with a bioperm, a concoction that did more harm than good.
I even showed Thomas the text message where I had sent Margaret the correct address for a parcel from his friend, proving Id not misdirected anything.
Right, Im sorry. I shouldnt have trusted my mother, he admitted. She used to be reasonable. What did you two argue about, exactly?
Well, she started recounting her past griefs againfour miscarriages in a row, all before you came along. I get that its her pain, but its exhausting to listen to it constantly, especially given my own situation. I sighed. It feels like shes dumping all her sorrows on me.
Are you saying she wants to kill me? Thomas blurted, his voice shaking.
Soon after, he called his mother, and when they spoke, he returned home with a decision: he would no longer maintain a relationship with Margaret.
I welcomed the verdict. Her relentless, erratic behaviour had worn thin, and she had repeatedly tried to malign me in front of Thomas. The familys chatter turned to accusing me of stealing his mother, but Thomas dismissed it with a contemptuous snort, declaring that his mother was not a strangershe was the source of all the trouble, and the blame lay squarely on her shoulders.
Now, the lingering question is why his mother felt the need to pit him against a pregnant wife. The answer, I suspect, is the classic tale of a mother unwilling to share her son. She didnt just lose a share; she lost the whole lot, and she bears that responsibility herself.
At least let the child see his grandmother, the relatives whined. A grandmothers only joy is to spoil her grandchild in old age, and a wayward son deprives her of that.
What kind of grandmother would you shove onto your grandchildren? Thomas retorted. And what strong marriages will survive that meddling?
It seemed Thomas derived a perverse pleasure from these family spats, perhaps even regretting that the older generation now had nothing left to do but sideline themselves.
He had seen clearly that his mother harboured a deep dislike for him, and he understood why things had fallen apart. He could not amend the past, so after a few pointed remarks to the relatives telling them to mind their own business, he cut off contact completely. With that, any help they might have offered vanished, and at last his familyhim and mefound some peace.
Our little boy now grows up in quiet, his days untroubled by the old quarrels. Thomas and I do everything we can to keep that calm for as long as possible, hoping it will stretch through his early childhood. When he reaches school age well teach him both manners and how to answer clever remarks without losing his temper.
Theres still plenty for me to learnmy teeth, which survived pregnancy better than many expected, and Thomas, whose modesty is as plain as a country lane. Modesty these days does little but keep you from being noticed; it has little practical use.
Im grateful I recognised all this early, before the rot could settle too deep. It allowed me to shed the parasites of old grievances and move forward with a clearer heart.
