I never expected to become a grandma at forty. But then I never expected my daughter, Lou, to get pregnant at 15. She was always such a sweet, sensible girl. But then it happened and every time I looked at her I couldn’t help thinking…slut.
Harsh, I know. But I’m sure that’s what everyone else thought as she sailed along the street with her big belly on display like she didn’t give a damn. In a crop top, no less. She should’ve been ashamed, not walking around like God’s gift. I told her to cover up but she didn’t listen; said if it was good enough for Rihanna then it was good enough for her.
But I couldn’t stand the looks from passersby, the nudges, the whispers. They probably thought it was my fault, that I should’ve kept her on a tighter rein. They didn’t know how tough it was, bringing her up on my own. Yes, she went to her dad’s every other weekend, but that did her more harm than good. He let her do whatever she wanted, and Tatum – his girlfriend, partner, whatever – didn’t help. She was a failed actress, into all sorts of woo woo. Putting ideas into Lou’s head.
Lou ran wild there – God knows what she got up to. In fact, that’s probably where it happened.
Because this is the other thing: she never told me who the father was. I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Or maybe it was just a casual thing, at a party. Maybe she didn’t know his name.
I’m sure she remembered something, though. She could’ve told me that. I’m her mother, for pity’s sake. There was a time when we didn’t have any secrets from each other. I knew everything about her. Or so I thought.
Quite soon after I found out the dreadful news, I looked into her options. I was just trying to help. She went mad when I spoke to her about it. Told me her baby was marked for great things, there was no way she was getting rid of him. I replied that this wasn’t going to be her only chance, she could have lots of babies, if that was what she wanted. Just after she’d finished her education, that’s all.
But you can help me, she said. With childcare and that.
I’ve done my time, I said.
You make it sound like prison, she said, getting straight on the phone to bloody Tatum, who was so supportive and cool, and didn’t fly off the handle about little things like an underage pregnancy. Tatum, who always told Lou how special she was, that she’d been chosen for an important task, and other such mumbo jumbo.
Tatum, who said she’d do whatever was needed, treat that baby like it was her own.
Of course Tatum was chilled; she could afford to be. It wasn’t her little girl’s future at stake.
But my ex-husband wasn’t much help, either: strutting around pleased as punch, like it was his baby, not hers.
Neither of them were there when it mattered in those terrible days, early on, when Lou could barely keep anything down, sobbing at night and clinging to her bed like it was a life raft. That’s how I discovered she was with child. She didn’t want to tell me, but I managed to get it out of her. I insisted on taking her to a doctor the next morning but then the sickness stopped, like a switch had been flicked.
Even after that, though, Lou seemed drained, not at all herself. I worried she wasn’t getting enough to eat, but there were so many rules, not like when I was pregnant. No raw fish or shellfish; well, I could understand that, but also no coffee, or even cheese. I told her maybe she should lighten up about the diet, but she growled that she didn’t want to endanger her precious cargo. Young people these days. I drank Guinness and smoked through my pregnancy and it didn’t do her any harm.
Tatum had her own list, of course. On top of the banned food and drink, some of it was downright weird. Don’t go outside in the midday sun. Don’t cross running water. Of course, that meant not going into town; by the end Lou hardly left the house at all.
Then there were the supplements. Tatum said they were iron tablets, but they smelt like blood. Made me gag.
Tatum wanted to be present during the birth, and she very nearly was. Lou was hell bent on doing things the natural way so we set up the birthing pool at her dad’s house, which is much bigger than mine. But two days in, when Tatum’s candles and chanting were doing nothing to ease the pain, I decided enough was enough and took Lou to hospital. Tatum had the nerve to try and stop me, saying I shouldn’t interfere with my daughter’s wishes, and that she was in the hands of a higher power. But I put my foot down. Lou was barely conscious by then and I knew she needed help.
I don’t regret it. I wish I’d brought her here sooner.
I knew something was terribly wrong when we got into the ward – midwives rushing around, people shouting, monitors going haywire. All I could do was hold Lou’s hand and tell her everything was going to be all right, even though I wasn’t sure it would be. She was bleeding, a lot. Jabbering, not making any sense. Talking in tongues.
The midwives were trying to get her in for a caesarean, but then it all started happening so quickly.
I saw that thing claw its way out of her, while she screamed and writhed on the bed. So much hair, so dark it looked like fur. Its little body twisted and misshapen. And those eyes. I only saw them for a second but that was enough. They burned.
When the midwife took it away, tried to clean it up, Lou was babbling. Hail Tatum, she kept saying. I’ve no idea why she was thinking about her stepmother at that moment. She was delirious. I tried to get a better look at the creature she’d birthed, but there was a crowd of hospital staff around it, all whispering in panic.
Then Lou passed out.
I’m glad she didn’t see it. It was enough to give anybody nightmares, but it came from inside her. She created it.
Why won’t anybody tell me what they’ve done with it? I can’t bear to think of it in the hospital, waiting, watching with those beady little eyes. I know it sounds awful, but I hope it’s dead. Some things just aren’t meant for this world.
Like I said, Lou can have another baby, can’t she? Once she’s recovered, once she makes it out of this coma. The doctors are doing the best they can. She’s in the right place.
But my God, there was so much blood. Nurse, please tell me she’s going to be all right. Is my baby girl going to be all right?
Madeleine is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Bunker Squirrel, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Punk Noir, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Waffle Fried and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social
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