An Unattainable Ideal
Margaret stood in the doorway with such suddenness that the hem of her housecoat flared like a flag in the breeze. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at her granddaughter with unconcealed indignation. Emily was seated at her desk, intently peering at something on the computer screen.
What are you sitting around for? Margarets voice was unnervingly sharp. Your ballet class starts in half an hour!
Emily slowly raised her eyes. She looked weary, faint shadows gathered beneath her eyes. She tried to reply calmly, though her voice trembled despite her effort.
Gran, I dont feel well. Ive already told the teacher I wont make it today.
Margaret paused for a mere second, as if unable to believe what shed just heard. Her lips pressed into a strict line; her nostrils flared. Then she let out a curt breath, struggling to contain her mounting frustration.
Says who? I said youre going, so youre going! Not feeling wellfunny how youre fine if its the computer though!
Emily instinctively tightened her fingers around the edge of her desk. She knew all too wellfor her grandmother, ballet was not simply a pastime, but a matter of principle. Consistent practice was proof of discipline, tenacity, and keeping ones word. But today Emily truly wasnt herself: her head was light, her stomach hurt, and nausea gnawed at her.
She took a deep breath and gathered herself, answering softly but firmly.
Im finishing my history paper. Its due tomorrow.
A tense silence fell. Emily looked at her grandmother, hoping shed finally listen, notice how sick she felt, maybe even offer to take her to the doctor.
Instead, Margaret strode to the desk and, without another word, pressed the power button on the computer. The screen went black with abrupt finality; any chance to continue Emilys work vanished in an instant.
Emily flinched as if struck. Her eyes widened as she stared at the blank monitor, willing the lost image to reappear. Her hands clenched into fists, and her lips trembled with the sting of injustice. Two painstaking hourscareful research, each word chosen, facts checked, paragraphs arrangedgone in an instant.
I hadnt saved it! Her voice broke, raw and hurting. Id been typing for two hours!
She looked at her grandmother, tears brimming, feeling utterly helplesslittle more than a cornered creature.
Margaret showed neither surprise nor remorse. Her face stayed hard, her tone steely and unmoved.
Get yourself ready. Now.
Emily squeezed the desk edge, fighting her tears. She knew better than to argue. Her grandmother always got her way, regardless of others feelings. Life with her had become a stream of demands, reproaches, and rigid rules. Each day left Emily simmering with a muted resentment and bitter sense of hurt.
Youre just like your mother! Margaret didnt pause for breath, her voice sharp with grievances stored up over the years. She was always glued to a screen, too! And what did it lead to? Where is she now?
Margaret gave her head a sharp shake, as if to banish the painful memories. Her daughter was the wound that never healed, the subject she could neither forgive nor forget. Years ago, Margaret had tried being gentler, a softer parentand look what came of it: her daughter was gone, leaving little Emily in her grandmothers care.
Margaret had always believed the answer to everything was disciplinea rigid plan followed to the letter. When shed found herself widowed, raising Anna alone, she worked tirelessly to support them both, her days blurring into weeks of morning shifts, late-night extra jobs, a cascade of paperwork and meetings. Thered hardly been time for heart-to-hearts, shared walks, or quiet evenings with a book.
Anna grew up alone. In nursery school, they called her the invisible girlshed sit for hours with a book or sketch pad, content in solitude. School wasnt better; teachers grumbled that Anna lived with her head in the clouds, never listening, always drifting off in thought.
With age, Annas stubborn streak only grew. She shunned any worthwhile pursuits. Ballet? Awful strain, whats the point? Music lessons? Ive no ear, and the piano takes up half my room. Painting? I cant and I wont. Even the after-school clubs Margaret pushed were quickly abandoned. Its all nonsense, Anna declared.
Left to her own devices, Anna gravitated to the computer: games, online forums, endless chats with strangers. Margaret tried imposing limits, but talks ended in slammed doors and long, sullen silences.
Shes just lazy! Margaret would fume, watching Anna absorbed in her laptop. No ambition, no goals. Just stares at that blinking thing all day.
She couldnt understand why her daughter didnt want to achieve somethingwin contests, earn awards, chase a career. To Margaret, a normal girl ought to strive, to become someone. But Anna always paddled stubbornly against the current.
At eighteen, Anna startled her with an announcement: she was getting married. Not to a promising young professional, but to Toma mechanic from the next street, full of dreams about opening his own garage.
Margaret was beside herself.
Do you even know what youre doing? she barked, fists clenched. That isnt a husband, its a joke!
Anna only shrugged, Im happy with him. I dont need your prospects.
There was another blow: Anna quit her university course. The very one Margaret had pulled strings to get her into.
I dont want to be an accountant, Anna said calmly. It doesnt interest me.
Anna worked for a small web design companynot much pay, cloudy prospects, and a name so unremarkable Margaret was embarrassed to mention it to anyone.
Look what happens when youre soft, Margaret told herself in despair. Ive lost her. Completely lost her.
Shed never been able to accept that Anna had chosen her own pathnot Margarets, but her ownand no amount of regret could change it.
But with Emily, shed never make the same mistake. She was determined her granddaughter would be disciplined, responsible, ambitious. No dawdling, no daydreaming in front of screens. Just order, straight lines, a future done the right way.
Suddenly, Emily sat up, indignation burning in her eyes. She could hardly bear it when anyone spoke ill of her mother. To her, Anna was more than just a parentshe was a role model, a source of pride, a woman who had accomplished much despite lifes blows.
Mum was an amazing programmer! the words burst out of Emily, her voice shaking with fierce emotion. She had her own project, her workmates respected her, she she could have done so much more!
The words came in a rush, bottled up for yearsthe things shed never dared say aloud. She wanted someone, anyone, to understand: her mother wasnt just that Anna, as Margaret so often scorned. She was gifted and determined, never afraid of a challenge.
And it wasnt her fault Emilys fists clenched, that the taxi driver lost control. It was an accident. A horrible, stupid accident.
The silence was suffocating. Emilys breath was ragged as she stared at her grandmother, who stood at the window, arms folded tight. Margaret turned, her features cold, almost blank.
If shed listened to me, Margaret said flatly, shed have married someone from her own circle. Stayed home, raised children. None of that would have happened.
Emily felt a painful clench inside. Margaret always reduced mums life to a single rule: if only Anna had obeyed, if only shed chosen Margarets route, everything would have been fine.
You dont understand! Emilys voice cracked with bitterness. Mum didnt want to stay at home! She loved workingloved building new things, writing code, sharing ideas with her team, seeing how much her programs helped people!
Margaret shook her head as if listening to a child. Happiness is stability, she said firmly. Knowing tomorrow will be like yesterday, having a family, a home. All those certificates she gestured impatiently at a shelf of Annas awards, empty. And she married the most useless man too
Emily scraped her chair back so abruptly it screeched on the floor. She wasnt listening anymoreanger boiled up inside. Words tumbled out, hot and unstoppable:
My dad is wonderful! And when he comes back, hell take me with him!
She wasnt saying it for her grandmothers sake, but for herselfas if repeating it would help her hold on. She pictured her father: his warm smile, strong arms, calm, soothing voice. With him, she could be herself, not justify her dreams.
Emily was done listening. She jumped up and darted to the wardrobe, eager to leave the flat, to escape the endless criticism and control.
If only dads contract wasnt for another three months! she fumed, zipping up her hoodie. He would have taken me with him, but Gran stuck her oar in
She remembered hearing their raised voices behind closed doors:
Let her finish school in peace! Why upset her with a move?
Emily knew full well it had been Margarets persuasionthe same old habit of choosing on her behalf, deciding what was best.
Margaret watched from the door as Emily rushed about. There was the barest smug twist to her lipsthings were going just as planned. There was no point in continuing to argue now.
He doesnt need you, Margaret tossed over her shoulder with cool indifference. Hes getting on with his own life. Youll be staying here with me till youre eighteen, so youd better get used to it.
Emily flinched as if slapped. She hesitated for a moment, ballet shoes in hand, but shook her head, forcing down the misery. She needed to get out. Now.
Margaret, pretending to soften, continued with a little forced concern.
Ill ask the neighbour to give you a lift. Hurry up.
It was a command; Emily nodded without looking at her. She tied her hair back in a tight ponytail, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. She felt bitter and raw insidebut shed rather go to dance class. At least there, through music and movement, she could forget it all for a while
**********************
Emily pushed open the ballet studio door, blinking as the warm lights dazzled her momentarily. She stepped inside, just as Mrs. Bailey, her gentle but observant teacher, was setting out the barres for practice.
Emily, you dont look well, Mrs. Bailey said quietly, her voice brimming with concern. She approached, scanning the girls face. Youre awfully pale does something hurt?
Emily stopped in her tracks, shoulders drooping. She didnt want to make a fuss, but she couldnt hide how she felt anymore.
My stomach, she whispered.
How long? Mrs. Bailey stepped closer, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Since yesterday. Emily avoided her gaze; her voice was stripped of its usual spark.
The teachers expression clouded with worry. She was well aware of Margarets hardline waysher stubborn refusal to accept illness, her belief that willpower could conquer anything.
Did you tell your grandmother? the teacher asked, trying to sound neutral, even as concern knotted inside.
Emily sighed, a glint of resentment in her eyes. She mimicked Margarets dismissive tone:
Nonsense! You just want an excuse!
Mrs. Baileys manner changed in an instant; her warmth gave way to brisk decisiveness. She straightened, voice confident and clear.
This is no trifling matter. You need hospital attention. What if its appendicitis? Are you hurting badly?
Emily gripped her stomach, curling forward slightly, hoping to ease the discomfort. It frightened her, but the fear mingled with exhaustion.
Instead of answering, she just nodded, swallowing.
And I feel sick.
Mrs. Bailey grew even more serious. She glanced around for help, but the hall was empty. She pulled a phone from her pocket, fingers flying over the keys.
Im calling an ambulance for you, she said, gentle but firm. Lets be safe.
She quickly gave the address and a summary of Emilys symptoms, then brought her to a bench near the wall, helping her to sit down.
Rest here, Mrs. Bailey ordered kindly, sitting beside her. Everything will be fine. Dont worry.
Emily tried to protest, maybe argue that shed be all right, but no words came. She felt cold to her fingertips, her head pounding with anxiety. Sensing her shivering, Mrs. Bailey fetched a warm-up jacket and draped it around her shoulders.
Is that better? she asked, adjusting it with a motherly touch.
Emily nodded silently, too drained even for eye contact. She had long since gotten used to facing things alone, to hearing its nothing, but now even she realised something was seriously wrong.
Mrs. Bailey stayed close, sometimes holding Emilys hand, sometimes asking quietly how she felt. The air still hummed with the scent of beeswax, the faint strains of music from another class drifting inbut all Emily could focus on was her teachers steady hand, her calm voice, and the beat of her own anxious heart.
Outside, the faint sound of an approaching siren grew steadily louder. Mrs. Bailey squeezed her hand:
Thats the ambulance now. Youll be in good hands soon
****************
Emily awoke to a gentle beeping from a hospital machine somewhere nearby. She opened her eyes, head groggy, cheek pressed to the unfamiliar softness of a hospital pillow. The room was bright, pale blue walls and a tall window with trees visible beyond. The air was tinged with antiseptic and fresh linen.
Memories trickled back: Mrs. Bailey calling the ambulance, the ride with flashing lights, the hurried questions and examinations, the injection, then sleep.
The door creaked. Emily saw her father stride in with determined steps. His face was drawn, his eyes anxious, brow furrowed. Margaret trailed behind him, lips pressed tight, eyes darting between Emily and her father.
Im taking my daughter with me, he announced firmly as he reached the bed. As soon as the doctors say she’s fit, were leaving. Shell be better off at home.
Margaret halted, folding her arms and scoffing, And what will you do for her? Always off at work! Shell end up dangling around with friends in the street or glued to the computer like her mother!
Johns hands curled into fists; fury simmered beneath his forced calm. He glanced aroundthe quiet beeping, the sterile smell, white wallsthis was no place for shouting. But inside, he boiled. With each dig from Margaret, his anger scorched hotter.
Shell be healthy! Johns voice trembled with contained rage. You nearly put her in hospital for good!
He caught his breath, steadying himself. Now was not the time for emotional outbursts. But the words pressed at his lips, years of pent-up grievances.
Did you ever ask her what she likes? What makes her happy? Shes a person, not some puppet for your ideal!
Margaret lifted her chin, lips curling into a cold smile. She fiddled with her handbag as if to ready herself for a battle.
Every girl should dancegood posture, proper conversation, music But youd never understand that.
She shot a look of contempt at John.
Oh, Anna, what a choice you madebrought a nobody into this family, she added, her voice bitter and old wounds laid bare.
Johns heart clenched. Margaret had never accepted himwrong background, wrong ambitions, nothing ever right. But this wasnt about him. This was about Emily.
We are not your project, he said, stepping forward, his voice unwavering. Im taking my daughter. Shes living with me now.
He left no room for doubt, steel in his tone.
And if you interfere, youll regret it, he added, and something in his stare made Margaret retreat a step.
She opened her mouth, but the words caught. She only gripped her bag until her knuckles whitened, spun on her heel, and stalked from the ward.
Youll regret this, she flung back over her shoulder.
John did not answer. He watched her go, feeling the knot of tension slowly loosen. He turned back to Emilynow, he needed to reassure her, talk things through, help her feel ready for the changes ahead.
He drew a deep breath and returned to his daughters bedside.
****************
Margaret stormed through the hospital doors, the echo of her heels sharp along the empty avenue. The wind tugged at her coat and she let it, all her energy marshalled to keep herself together.
Well, so be it! she muttered, gripping her bag handle until her knuckles showed white. They dont know what theyre giving up.
Scenes from the argument whirled in her mind: Johns determined voice, Emilys hopeful eyes, herselfleft out after pouring years into raising the girl, after trying to make her into a true young lady.
I tried my best, and what thanks did I get The injustice stung in her chest.
She halted by a bench, standing rather than submitting to weakness. From her bag she drew a compact, adjusted her hair, dabbed her faceas if this well-rehearsed ritual could erase all traces of anger. Slowly, she felt herself settle.
Attempt number two didnt work, she conceded, calming. But its not the end.
Her thoughts shifted. She recalled the tidy house a road awaya well-kept home, lawns neat, bright windows: the local childrens home. Surely there were girls in there dreaming of a family, of someone to teach them ballet, piano, how to behave like a proper lady
I could make some child very happy, she mused, a familiar sense of purpose stirring within. Give her what Emily didnt appreciate. Raise a grateful, willing girl, someone wholl cherish what shes given.
She set off down the road, plans already forming. Shed need to make enquiries, meet the staff, see which girls had the right potential.
A gust of wind danced a golden leaf at her feet. Margaret watched its spiral, then set her jaw and marched on toward the bus stop. A new plan already blossoming, her heart full of grim determinationconvinced, yet again, that she would find a way to succeed, if she only tried hard enough.
***
Even when we mean well, forcing others to follow our ideal can blind us to what truly matters: listening, respecting dreams not our own, and understanding that happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes, letting go of control is the greatest act of love.
