You’re Not Welcome: How a Daughter Rejected Her Mother Because of Her Appearance “I’m Sorry, Mum, B…

I remember it as if it were yesterdaythose quiet words my daughter uttered as she bent down in the hallway to tie her trainers. “Mum, would you mind not coming by for a while? Just stay home and rest, please. Thank you for everything, truly, but its really better if you dont come round for now.”

I already had my bag in hand and was wrapping my old wool coat around me, ready to do as I always did: set off to look after my granddaughter so my daughter could go off to her pilates class. It had long become our routineI’d arrive, mind the little one, and later shuffle home to my tiny bedsit on the edge of town. But something was different this morning. I stood rooted after she spoke, my heart suddenly heavy.

Had I done something wrong? Put the baby down the wrong way? Dressed her in the wrong vest? Fed her at the wrong time? Or perhaps not given her the right sort of smile?

But no, the truth was both simpler and far more painful.

It had to do with her in-laws. Well-off, respected, and always dressed to the nines, they’d suddenly taken a fancy to dropping in every single day to “visit” their granddaughter. Stone-faced, theyd unpack hampers of gifts and stake their place at the dining tablethe one they’d bought for the newlyweds. The very flat was their wedding present.

The chairs, the teait was all theirs. They brought in a special tin of Earl Grey and spread themselves out, taking charge of everything. The granddaughter became theirs as well. And I I became invisible.

Me, a railway worker with thirty years under my belt, plain and unadorned, no impressive title, no sparkling jewellery or designer dresses.

Just look at yourself, Mum, my daughter said. Youve put on weight. Your hair has all turned grey. You look shabby. Those jumpers, you know, theyre just not right. And you always smell of trains. Do you see?

I said nothing. What could I possibly reply?

When shed left, I stood in front of the mirror. Staring back was a woman with tired eyes, lines creasing her face, wearing a stretched old jumper, cheeks burning red with shame. Suddenly I felt utterly repulsed by myself, like a thunderstorm on an otherwise clear afternoon. I stepped outside to catch my breath, blinking back stinging tears that slipped down my cheeks, unbidden and bitter.

I retreated to my bedsitmy little room with its threadbare settee on the outskirts. I sat for a long while, then reached for my battered mobile, scrolling through the old photos. There was my daughter, just a slip of a thing, a bow in her hair on her first day at school. School leavers do, her degree, the wedding day, and latermy granddaughter, grinning up at the camera from her cot.

My whole life lived for these moments, now nothing more than images on a screen. Everything Id worked for, given my last ounce of strength for. Now, told, please dont visit, it seemed that was my cue. My time was up; my role played. The best thing now was to keep out of the way. Not to be a burden. Not to let my plain appearance mar their lives. Id be called if I was ever needed. Perhaps.

Time passed. Then, at last, the phone rang.

Mum came her strained voice. Can you come by? The nannys quit, and the in-laws well, they were useless. Andrews gone out with his mates. Im all alone.

I paused, collecting myself. Then replied softly, Im sorry, love. But right now, I cant. I need to look after myself for once. Become worthy, like you said. Perhaps, when the time is right, Ill come.

I put down the phone, and for the first time in ages, I smiled. There was a sadness in it, yesbut more than that, a quiet pride.