Raising a Mummy’s Boy – Why Did You Enrol Him in Music School Instead of Football? A British Family …

Making a Milksop Out of Him

Why on earth did you sign him up for music lessons?

Barbara White breezed past her daughter-in-law, yanking off her gloves with theatrical vigour.

Hello, Barbara. Lovely to see you too. Dont be shy, come right in, Emma replied, her words dripping with honey and sarcasm in equal measure.

The sarcasm, alas, bounced right off Barbara, who tossed her gloves onto the hall table and turned to glare at Emma.

“Ive just spoken to Jack on the phone. He was positively beamingsays, ‘I’m going to play the piano!’ Honestly, what is this nonsense? Hes not your little girl!”

Emma shut the front door, slowly, as if restraining herself from slamming it and screaming at the top of her lungs.

It means your grandson is going to study music. He absolutely loves it.
“Loves it!” Barbara snorted, as if Emma had just proposed they raise alpacas in the living room. “He’s six. He doesn’t know what he likes. It’s your job to steer him. A boy, an heir, my grandsonand you’re turning him into a right wimp!”

Barbara swept into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle as though she herself were the Queens personal tea lady. Emma followed, her jaw clenched so tightly she feared she might break a molar.

Im raising a happy child, Emma muttered.

Youre raising a milksop and a doormat! Barbara spun around, hands planted firmly on hips. You shouldve signed him up for football! Or rugby! Something to toughen him upa proper lad. Notpardon mea pianist!

Emma leaned against the doorframe and counted to five. It didnt help.

Jack asked for music lessons himself. He loves music.

Loves, pfft! Barbara waved a dismissive hand. Jack senior, at his age, was kicking a ball round the park, playing cricket with the lads! And yours? Scales and arpeggios? Embarrassing!

Something snapped inside Emma. She straightened and moved towards Barbara.

Are you quite finished?

Oh, not remotely! Ive been meaning to say for a while

And Ive been meaning to tell you for even longer, Emma whispered fiercely, Jack is my son. Hes mine. And Ill decide how to raise him. And you will keep your nose out.

Barbara flushed an impressive shade of beetroot.

How dare you speak to me like that?!

Please leave.

Excuse me?

Emma swept past, grabbed Barbaras coat off the peg and shoved it into her hands.

Out. Now. Please.

Youre throwing me out? Me?!

Emma flung open the door and, taking Barbara by the elbow, ushered her briskly onto the front step. Barbara struggled, spluttering, but Emma held firm, depositing her mother-in-law on the pavement with no regard for dignity.

Ill see to it Barbaras voice reverberated down the street, her face contorted with indignation. I wont let you spoil my only grandson! Mark my words!

Goodbye, Barbara.

Ill tell Jack everything! Hell hear the truth from me!

Emma slammed the door, sagged against it, and exhaled every last molecule of pent-up frustration.

Barbaras indignation rumbled and stomped down the stairs. Two minutes later, glorious silence.

That woman was the proverbial thorn in her sidea relentless campaign of criticism, interference, and unsolicited lectures about how to raise, feed, and dress her son. And Jack? Blind as a bat, singing the praises of his mother: She means well, Shes got experience, Would it kill you to listen? If Barbara said that the moon was made of cheese, Jack would order crackers. Emma, meanwhile, was expected to grit her teeth and carry on, visit after visit, day after day.

Well, not today.

Jack arrived home just after seven. Emma could tell his mother had already called himhe threw his keys on the hall table with unnecessary force, trudged into the kitchen without so much as glancing at Kieran, who was glued to a cartoon.

Kieran, darling, keep watching, she said, plopping headphones on him and starting up his robot series on the tablet. Mummy and Daddy need a chat.

With Kieran safely distracted, Emma braced herself and stepped into the kitchen. Jack stood arms crossed, staring solemnly out the window.

You threw my mum out. Not a question, a statement.

I asked her to leave.

You physically threw her out! he spun round, jaw clenched in outrage. She cried on the phone for two hours! Two hours, Emma!

Emma sat down heavily. Her legs ached after work, and now this melodrama.

Does it bother you at all that she hurt me?

Jack hesitated, then brushed off the question with a wave.

Shes just worried about her grandson. Whats wrong with that?

She called our son a milksop and a doormat. Our son, Jack. Hes six.

She got carried away, it happens. But she has a pointboys need sport, competition, resilience

Emma held his gaze long enough for him to look away.

When I was little, my mum forced me to do gymnastics. Decided Id be a gymnast, end of story. For five years I sobbed before every class, stretched beyond pain, lost weight, begged her to let me quit.

Jack said nothing.

I cant even look at a gym now, Jack. And Ill never do that to my son. If he wants football, fine. But only if he wants it. Not by force. Never.

Jack shrugged awkwardly. Mum just wants whats best.

Then perhaps she should have another child and raise him as she pleases, Emma said, standing up. But she will never meddle in Kierans upbringing again. Nor will you if youre siding with her.

Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but Emma had already left the room.

They spent the rest of the evening in icy silence. Emma put Kieran to bed, then sat in the dark nursery listening to his gentle breathing.

The next two days passed under a frosty truce. Then, over dinner, Jack cracked a jokeEmma laughedsomething thawed. By Friday, they conversed civilly, although both tiptoed around the topic of Barbara.

Saturday morning, Emma woke with a jolt and squinted at the clock8 a.m. Far too early for a weekend. Jack snored beside her; Kieran surely still asleep.

Then she heard itthe soft metallic clunk from the hallway. The turn of a key.

Emma leapt up, heart pounding right up her throat. Burglars? In broad daylight? She grabbed her phone and tiptoed into the corridor.

The front door swung open.

Barbara swept in, keys dangling in one hand, face aglow with triumph.

Good morning, Emma!

Emma stood there, barefoot in an oversized tee and pyjama bottoms, while Barbara loomed with the fakest smile Britain has ever seen.

How did you get keys?

Barbara jangled them under Emmas nose.

Jack gave them to me. Popped round two days ago, said Mum, forgive her, she didnt mean it. Grovelled for your behaviour, he did.

Emma blinked, twice, feeling her brain freeze up.

What are you doing here? At this hour?

Came for my grandson! Barbara declared, hanging up her coat. Come on, Kieran! Grannys signed you up for footballfirst session’s today!

Emmas temper exploded. She spun on her heel and stormed into the bedroom.

Jack, conveniently facing the wall, pretended to be asleepEmma recognised those rigid shoulders.

Get up.

Em, can we do this later?

She ripped off his duvet, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him into the lounge. Jack stumbled, stammering, but Emma didnt let go.

Barbara had made herself perfectly at home, leafing through a magazine shed liberated from the coffee table.

You gave her keys, Jackto my flat.

Jack squirmed, trying to vanish into the carpet.

This is my flat, Jack. Mine. I bought it before we married. With my own money. How dare you give your mother my keys?

Oh, dont be so petty! Barbara tossed the magazine aside. Mine, yoursalways about you! Jack cared about his son, which is why he gave me the keys. So I could see my grandson properly, given how you shut me out!

Would you kindly shut your mouth! Emma barked.

Barbara gasped theatrically, but Emmas eyes stayed locked on Jack.

Kieran is not going to football. Not unless he wants to.

Thats not your decision! Barbara shot up from the sofa. Youre nobody! Here today, gone tomorrow! You think youre irreplaceable? Jack only puts up with you for the boy!

Silence.

Emma slowly turned to her husband. He stood there, head bowed, saying nothing.

Jack?

Nothing. Not a syllable of support.

Fine, said Emma, suddenly chilled and clear-headed. Temporary, am I? Well, my time is up. Barbara, your grandson is yours. Jack is no longer my husband.

You wouldnt dare! Barbara paled.

Jack, Emma said quietly, eyes cold. You have half an hour. Pack your bags and go. Or Ill chuck you out in your pyjamasI really dont care.

Emma, just give me a minutelets talk

Weve finished talking.

She turned to Barbara and smirked.

Keep the keys. Im changing the locks this afternoon.

…The divorce took four months. Jack tried to win her back with flowers, phone calls, pleading texts. Barbara threatened court, custody battles, her friends cousins brother-in-lawa solicitor somewhere in Slough. Emma hired an excellent lawyer and stopped answering the phone.

Two years whizzed by…

The arts centres hall hummed with chatter. Emma clutched a programme in her hands. Kieran White, 8 years old. Beethovens Ode to Joy.

Kieran appeared on stageserious and composed, crisp white shirt and black trousers. He sat at the piano, placed his hands on the keys.

The first notes filled the hall, and Emma stopped breathing.

Her boy was playing Beethoven. Her eight-year-old, whod begged for piano lessons, spent hours at the instrument, chosen this piece for his concert.

When the last chord rang out, the hall erupted. Kieran stood, took a bow, spotted his mum in the crowd and flashed a wide, glowing smile.

Emma clapped furiously, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Shed done it right. Chosen her son above opinions, above her marriage, above her fear of being alone.

Thats what mothers are supposed to do, isnt it?