8 March? Oh, Stephanie, you are simply wonderful, but honestly, I just dont see the point of wishing every woman a happy International Womens Day. Its silly! You should only be congratulating proper women. Well, I mean those who have had children, of course, announced Mrs Margaret Green with all the authority in the world, piling potato salad onto her plate. If you havent had a child yet well, youre still just a girl, not a real woman, are you?
An awkward hush draped itself around the dining table, broken only by the clink of her spoon in the bowl. I gripped my wine glass tightly, feeling a rush of blazing injustice spark inside me.
You know what, Mrs Green thank you for your hospitality, but Im afraid we really must be heading off, I said, every word laced with frost, even as I forced a polite smile at my mother-in-law. I dont want to get in the way of the real women today. Havent quite earned my crown yet.
Why do you have to take everything so personally? Mrs Green arched her eyebrows. I didnt mean it as a dig! But really, who else is going to tell you the truth? Youre thirty alreadyby the time you finally make up your mind, or get around to trying, youll blink and find yourself alone, childless. What then?
I had stopped listening. My jacket was already half on, while Tom hovered helplessly, shuffling from foot to foot, offering my scarf in an attempt to smooth over the sharp edges.
Hopeless. Things had gone too far
Every time I spent any length of time with Mrs Green, I felt like a square peg being forced through a round hole. Her worldview seemed to single me out in particular.
Take Fathers Day, for example. Tomwho skipped National Service thanks to flat feetsat at this very table while Mrs Green presented him with expensive aftershave, beaming with pride and calling him a true protector of England.
On both occasions, all I managed was to keep my composure. I held my tongue, refusing to rain on someone elses happiness with unwelcome commentary.
Unfortunately, Mrs Green was less inclined to such restraint.
Id sensed the gulf between us almost immediately, not long after I met Tom and long before the wedding. At first, the questions from Mrs Green seemed harmless, but the further we got, the more probing she became.
How old are you? had come her insistent inquiry at our third meeting. Been married before? Children?
Thirty, I replied politely. I was married before, but we didn’t have children.
Oh And why not? Why did you split up?
We just werent right for each other, I answered quietly, hoping shed take the hint.
Right she sighed, almost in sympathy. But about childrenare you healthy? Nearly thirty, and none to show for it
I was grateful when Tom intervened that time, steering the subject away. But Mrs Green circled back to this, again and again, ever fixated on the ticking clock.
She adored using Toms sister, Kate, as her shining example: twenty-six, three kidsa saint in her mothers eyes.
I saw a different story. Kate had never set foot in full-time employment. Shed dropped out of university and flung herself headlong into a run of maternity leaves. Her home life was modest at best: each child had a different father. She leaned on her parents for support and picked up occasional child maintenance from just one of her exes. But Mrs Green didnt seem perturbed by any of it.
Next to that bounty, my own thirty years seemed empty. Brilliant degree? No one cared. Independent career, flat bought on my own? Irrelevant. Id hear Mrs Green say, better to fill your lap with children, as if nothing else was worth a jot.
The fact that Tom and I had only been married a year was totally ignored. In Mrs Greens mind, sensible adults dont work on their relationship or lay down financial securitythey dive straight in with a pram, the sooner the better.
No wonder I quietly drifted away from my mother-in-law. It would have stayed that way, had it not been for Tom.
Ever the peacemaker, Tom made endless efforts to patch things up. He dreamed of big family gatherings, Sunday roasts, summer holidays at the seaside, warm Sunday hugs. It was Tom who persuaded me to come to that wretched dinner, begging me to be the bigger person, to show grace and not let anything spoil the day.
None of it worked.
When Mrs Green handed out presents to every woman in attendance but me, I kept my silence. But then her distant aunt, Aunt Sally, pressed a box of chocolates into my hand. After the ensuing lecture on who deserved gifts and who did not, I could no longer contain myself.
Tom gallantly opened the car door for me, helping me in and refraining from his usual 80s playlist.
Steph Dont be upset with her. Shes just old-fashioned, you know. Bit of a prickly one, he mumbled in apology.
I had to restrain myself from whacking him with my handbag.
Old-fashioned? I echoed quietly. Tom, I know many lovely, old-fashioned people. That that wasnt tradition. That was flat-out rudeness.
Steph she just didnt think.
She had time to think, Tom. Enough time to sort presents for everyone but me.
A heavy silence. He couldnt argue.
Now listen carefully, I said, tone calm. I will never set foot in her home again. And when we eventually have children, they wont visit, either. Your mum only knows how to plant insecurities, not any real values. If you want to keep seeing her, thats your business. But leave the rest of us out of it.
He slumped, his family dream slowly slipping away. But after an evening like that, the conclusion was inescapable. Tom simply nodded, lips pressed in a tight line.
The next six years whizzed by, all blissfully free of Mrs Green. Toms stories told me all I needed: his darling Kate had hurried into marriage with a lorry driver, gathered up her brood, and moved them all north to a windswept Yorkshire village. Meanwhile, Mrs Green was left alone.
Another 8 March rolled round. I was laying out plates on the kitchen table. Our five-year-old daughter twirled in her pink party dress, laughing as I called her my little princess.
Suddenly, the cheerful bustle was broken by my mobile. Mrs Greens number flashed up. After a pause, I answered.
Stephanie, hello, came Mrs Greens syrupy voice. Happy International Womens Day, love.
Perhaps she expected me to answer frostily, but I stayed silent.
I was thinking maybe I could pop round? Or you could come here? Id love to see my girls and give you a proper Womens Day cuddle…
Thanks for your kind thoughts, Mrs Green, I replied, chilly and distant as ever. But Im afraid that wont be possible. Tom was planning to visit you later with flowers. The little one and I are staying home.
But why on earth? came her gasp. On a day like this?
Exactly. Thats why well be here. My daughter is enjoying her day, opening presents. She doesnt need to hear how gifts are only for women whove given birth. All the best to you.
Without waiting for a reply, I hung up, put the phone away, and scooped my daughter in my arms, spinning her around the room.
Once, Id felt like an outcast, shamed by Mrs Greens strange views. Now it was she who found herself alonejust as shed once warned me Id be. Turns out, two children is no guarantee against loneliness when a difficult character comes with the package.
