Page 18 of The Mother-in-Law

In truth, I think I’ve stayed away because of that darn bear. When I gave it to Ghezala it seemed absolutely the right thing to do. That teddy would likely be the best toy that child ever received. Perhaps the only toy. And as I handed it over to Ghezala and watched her tear up, suddenly the bear didn’t seem so silly after all. I should have known Tom would tell Lucy and Ollie about the teddy bear. When I showed up to the hospital, late and empty-handed, I’ll admit I felt guilty. I should have done better than that for my first grandchild. I should have done better than that for Lucy.

So today, I will do better.

I knock on the door again, even though part of me wants to get back in the car and drive home. But if I did that, what would I do with the chicken? I look down at it doubtfully, raw and heavy in its blue plastic bag. Lucy is probably asleep or having some quiet time while the baby naps. If the baby naps. According to Ollie, Archie has barely slept a wink since he was born. The maternal health nurse, apparently, said he had colic. The last thing Lucy will want through all of this is her mother-in-law showing up unexpectedly.

I should take my chicken and get out of here.

‘Diana?’

I look up. Lucy is standing in the doorway, dressed in a grey tracksuit and pink fluffy slippers. Despite her quick smile, it is clear that she’s not thrilled to see me. Archie is perched on her shoulder, wailing.

‘This is a surprise,’ Lucy says, sweeping a few threads of hair off her face.

‘Yes. I, er . . . just brought you a chicken.’

I’m aware it’s an odd gift; I’m not an idiot. But when Ollie was a baby, someone brought me a chicken and it was one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. It was before the days of Ubereats and home delivery, and sometimes the exhaustion of motherhood was too great to get to the supermarket. I thought today I might tell Lucy the story and . . . I don’t know . . . it could become a Goodwin family tradition or something, bringing a chicken to women who’ve just had a new baby. Now it just seems dreadfully twee.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well why don’t you come in?’

I follow Lucy into the house, registering the milky posset on her shoulder, and one further down her back. Archie’s little hands stretch up and I have a full view of his perfect, angry little face as he howls. Sweet boy.

The sitting room is glorious in its filth. A bag of popcorn has spilled on the floor, a bowl of cereal is congealing on the coffee table. Packets of baby wipes, nappy sacks and dirty dishes are strewn all about. In one corner of the room a used nappy is rolled into a ball, unbagged. It takes all of my self-control to stop from gasping.

‘I cleaned last night,’ Lucy says defensively, ‘but it just . . . Archie has been so unhappy . . . he has colic . . . and I just haven’t had a minute to . . .’

‘I’ll do it,’ I say, because honestly, I can’t stand to be in this filth a moment longer. Not to mention the fact that cleaning, unlike small talk, is something I know how to do. Besides, Archie is rooting about, clearly hungry, and his cry is like nails on a chalkboard. ‘You sit down and feed the baby.’

‘Okay, well, if you’re sure—’

‘I’m sure.’

I set the chicken on the kitchen counter and get to work. I roll up the nappy, bag it and take it to the outside bin. Then I gather up the dirty mugs and plates and take them to the kitchen. I have no idea how they can live like this. The last time I visited—Ollie’s birthday, I think—the place was tricked up like a show home, with flowers and cushions and soft music. Poor Lucy spent the entire evening sweaty-faced in the kitchen, cooking the most ridiculous Vietnamese banquet. I’d suggested that we might just order in, but Lucy had insisted. It was some new recipe she wanted to try, she’d said.

For goodness sake.

I empty and reload the dishwasher, and I’m about to set it going when I notice something in the oven—half-a-dozen chicken nuggets. They’re hard as rocks. Classic Lucy, I think to myself. Feast or famine.

Lucy appears behind me as I drag the tray of nuggets out of the oven. ‘Oh!They must be Ollie’s . . . oh my goodness . . . he’s always putting things in the oven and then forgetting about them. Oh no, let me.’

She snatches the tray out of my hands while Archie screams on her shoulder. I want to tell her to deal with him and let me sort out the kitchen, but I’ve tried that and it clearly didn’t work. So what do I do? The problem is it’s just so easy for a mother-in-law to get it wrong. It seems there is an endless list of unwritten rules. Be involved but not overbearing. Be supportive but don’t overstep. Help with the grandkids but don’t take over. Offer wisdom but never advice. Obviously I haven’t mastered this list. The sheer weight of the requirements makes it intimidating even to try. The most frustrating part is that it’s nearly impossible for a father-in-law to mess it up. He has to be welcoming. That’s it.

People have higher expectations of a dog.

Archie is still wailing, pulling his little legs up toward his belly as Lucy struggles with the tray. Up close, I can see Lucy’s exhaustion. She has acne on her chin, and it has to be said, she’s a little on the whiffy side. On her T-shirt I see an old stain . . . spaghetti sauce by the look of it.

‘Lucy, please let me do it,’ I say. There’s a hint of begging in my voice which I’m not proud of. ‘You sit down and feed that baby. Go on!’

I must have said it right because Lucy nods and disappears to the sitting room. I let out a long breath. It’s so rare that I get something right with Lucy, and it’s not for want of trying. I tried when I lent her my most beloved possession, my Celtic knot necklace, on her wedding day. My own mother-in-law, Lillian, lent it to me on my wedding day. The knot represents strength, and Lillian had bought it to stay strong while Tom’s dad was away at war. She left it to me in her will, with a note that said:For strength. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should have told Lucy the story when I gave it to her. Silly me.

‘Has he been fussy all day?’ I ask Lucy, when I’ve finished tidying the kitchen. I bring her a cup of tea which I set on the coffee table. Archie lies flat on her lap, red-faced and wailing, despite having been fed.

‘All day every day,’ she says. ‘And all night every night.’

‘Have you tried gripe water?’ I sit beside her. ‘When Ollie was a baby it sorted him out when he was gassy.’

‘I’ve tried it. I’ve tried everything.’

‘May I?’