My grandson will not be left-handed, Margaret declared, her voice sharp with a conviction that made my skin prickle.
I turned to look at my mother-in-law, trying to keep my irritation from bubbling over.
Whats wrong with being left-handed? I asked, trying to sound calm. Its just something Ilya was born with. Its a part of who he is.
Margaret snorted. A part of who he is! Rubbish. Its not a trait, its a weakness. Its simply not how things are done. The right hand has always been the proper handleft is unlucky, everyone knows that.
I almost laughed. Here we are, deep into the twenty-first century, yet Margaret speaks as if were still living in a remote medieval hamlet.
Modern science disproved all that ages ago
I dont care what your science says, she cut in, not missing a beat. I retrained my own son and he turned out normal enough. Its not too late for Ilya. Youll be grateful to me in the end.
With that, she swept out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with a half-drunk cup of tea and an uneasy sense of foreboding.
At first, I paid it little mind. Margaret with her old-fashioned nonsensewhat harm could it really do? Every generation has its peculiar hang-ups. I noticed how shed subtly correct Ilya at the table, moving the spoon from his left to his right hand, and I told myself it was no big deal. Children are resilient. Surely a bit of fussing from Granny couldnt cause much damage.
Ilya had always been left-handed. Even as a toddler, reaching for toys, it was always his left. Later, when he started drawing, the scribbles came with the left handawkward, childish, but so natural for him. It felt as intrinsic as his green eyes or the birthmark on his cheek.
Margaret, though, saw it differently. In her world, left-handedness was a flaw to curea quirk of fate that needed a firm hand. Every time Ilya picked up a crayon with his left, she pursed her lips, as if hed done something unseemly.
Right hand, Ilya. Use your right.
Again with this? No lefties in our familynever have been, never will be.
I retrained Simon, Ill retrain you too, shed say.
Once, I overheard her telling Emma about her triumphthe story of small Simon, who was wrong too, until Margaret sorted him out with tied hands, hawk-like watchfulness, punishments for disobedience. The result, as she told it, was a normal man. Her voice rang with pride, with an iron certainty that unnerved me.
I didnt notice the change in Ilya at first. They crept inlittle things. Hed hesitate whenever he reached for the salt or his cup, hand hovering, calculating. Then he started glancing at Margaret, a nervous check to see if she was watching.
Dadwhich hand am I supposed to use? He looked up anxiously at dinner, fork frozen in mid-air.
Whichever feels best to you, mate.
But Granny says
Dont mind her. Do what comes naturally.
But it wasnt natural for Ilya anymore. He began dropping things, flustered and awkward. His confident movements became tentative, full of doubt, as if he suddenly couldnt trust his own body.
Emma saw it too. I noticed the way she bit her lip whenever her mother moved Ilyas hand, or how she looked away when Margaret lectured about proper upbringing. Emma had learned young that arguing with Margaret was pointless. Just keep quiet and let the storm blow past.
I tried to bring it up.
Emma, this isnt normal. Look at him.
Mum justwants whats best.
But cant you see whats happening to him?
Shed just shrug and change the subjectyears of bowing to her mothers will had left her unable to stand up to Margaret, even for our son.
Every day got harder. Margaret seemed to relish her new mission. She didnt just correct Ilyashe commented on everything. Praised when he used his right, sighed dramatically when he slipped with his left.
There, you see, Ilya? You CAN do it with your right if you just try. I made a man of your uncle SimonIll make one of you too.
I knew I had to confront Margaret directly. I waited until Ilya wandered off to play.
Margaret, pleaseleave him be. Hes left-handed. Thats fine. Dont force him to change.
Her reaction was explosive. She puffed up, wounded and furious.
How dare you? Ive raised three children. And now youre going to teach me?
Im not teachingIm asking. Dont interfere with my son.
Your son? Arent Emmas genes there too? Hes my grandson, you know. And I will not stand by while he turns outlike that.
She spat out like that as if it were something shameful.
I knew then we wouldnt solve this peacefully.
The next days were a passive-aggressive battlefield. Margaret pointedly ignored me, speaking only through Emma.
Emma, tell your husband his dinners ready.
Emma, tell your mum Ill sort myself out.
Emma darted between us, pale and exhausted, while Ilya retreated to the sofa corner, absorbed in his tablet, trying to vanish from sight.
The solution came to me on a Saturday morning, while Margaret presided over the kitchen, bossing her way through yet another pot of stew. She chopped cabbage by habitswift and certain, just as shed always done.
I stood behind her.
Youre cutting that wrong, you know.
She didnt turn around.
Sorry, what?
You should cut it much finerand along the grain, not across.
She snorted, carrying on.
Really, Margaret. Thats the wrong way. No one cuts it like that, honestly.
Jack, Ive been making stews like this for thirty years.
For thirty years youve been doing it wrong. Let me show you. I reached for the knife and she snatched it away.
Are you mad?
No. I just want you to do it properly. Like this I pointed at her pot, thats too much water. The heats wrong. You add the carrots at the wrong moment.
Ive done it this way all my life!
Thats not a justification. Time to retrain, Margaret. Start over. Use your left hand, even.
She froze, knife in the air, baffled.
Have you lost your mind?
No, Im just saying exactly what you say to Ilya every day. Time to retrain yourself. Thats not how its done.
Thats completely different!
Is it really? Not to me.
Margaret set the knife down. Her cheeks flushed red.
Youre comparing my cooking to Ive always done it this way! It works for me!
And it works for Ilya too. Hes comfortable with his left hand. It doesnt seem to matter to you.
Thats not the same! Hes a childhe can still change!
And youre a grown woman, set in your ways. Nobody expects you to change. So why should he? I crossed my arms. By what right do you make him?
She clamped her lips shut. Her eyes shone with angry tears.
How dare you! I raised three children! I retrained Simon and nobody suffered.
And is he happy? Self-assured?
Silence.
That hit homeSimon, Emmas older brother, lives in another city and rings Margaret twice a year, if that.
I wanted the best, her voice wavered. I always did.
I know. But your version of best doesnt trump his sense of self. Ilya is his own person. Even now. And I wont let that be drummed out of him.
You think you can tell me how to!
I will if you dont stop. And every time you stir a pot, Ill point out how youre doing it wrong. Every habit, every movement. Lets see how that feels.
We stood eye to eyeme and my mother-in-law, both bristling, both on the edge.
Thats petty and spiteful, she spat.
You leave me no choice.
Something in her crumpled. I saw it clearly, that pillar of certainty wavering, making her seem suddenly older, deflated, more vulnerable.
I justloved She trailed off.
I know. But your way isnt love, not for Ilya. If you cant accept that, you wont see him anymore.
The stew began to bubble over. Neither of us moved.
That evening, Margaret retired to her room without a word. Emma joined me on the sofa, curling in close, quiet for a long time.
No one ever stood up for me, she whispered. Mum always knew best. I just went along.
I hugged her tightly.
Your mother doesnt get to rule our home. Not anymore.
Emma took my hand, squeezing with rare confidence.
And from the doorway came the soft scratch of a pencil on paper. Ilya was drawing, left handed. No one telling him any different.
