Memories of Leentjie: A Love Grown Over Time

Some people don’t enter your life all at once.

They arrive slowly — through habits, through presence, through the ordinary days that quietly shape who you become.

Leentjie came into my life as my mother-in-law, but she became much more than that. She became part of my learning — how to mother, how to hold space, how to love without needing softness all the time. She was not someone who announced herself. She showed who she was through consistency, through showing up, through hands that knew what to do.

These memories are not written in order, because that is not how love lives. They come as moments, details, gestures — a way of holding a baby, a cake baked without being asked, a sentence said at exactly the right time. Together, they tell the story of how we learned each other, how trust was built, and how love grew — slowly, firmly, and deeply.

This is not a tribute meant to idealise her.
It is a remembering of her as she was — strong, practical, opinionated, fair, and deeply loving.

It took us some time to find each other.

At first, I was a question mark to Leentjie. She didn’t quite know where to place me, how to read me, or how I fitted into the world she knew so well. For many months, she called me “my friend.” At the time, it felt strange — distant, almost formal — especially within a family setting. Now I understand it. It was her way of keeping me close while still figuring me out. Careful. Observant. Not unkind — just cautious.

One Sunday, early on, around the family table, she made a decision out loud. She refused to switch to English and announced that it was about time she stopped accommodating me and that I should start learning Afrikaans. It wasn’t said softly. It wasn’t negotiable. That was Leentjie — direct, unapologetic, rooted.

Simon came to my defence, saying that if I needed to learn another language for the work I do, I should rather learn Sepedi. Schalk explained that I wasn’t “another English person” born and raised in South Africa, but someone who had arrived only a year earlier — that even English still felt heavy. I remember sitting there, feeling exposed but also protected.

Looking back now, I see that moment differently. It wasn’t rejection. It was expectation. It was the moment she started imagining me as someone who would stay.

Eventually, I became her “grietjie.” And that shift meant everything. It wasn’t just a word. It was belonging.

One of my earliest memories of her still makes me smile. At Dimitris’ baptism — her first ever Greek baptism — she arrived as a proud grandmother, completely unprepared for what was coming. When the priest took baby Dimitris and dipped him firmly into the water, I saw her from across the church. Her eyes widened, her whole body tensed, and for a moment I was convinced she was ready to attack the priest for “hurting” her grandson. I will never forget her face — shock, instinct, fierce protection. In that moment, she became a Greek grandmother without knowing a single word of Greek.

Another unforgettable moment came while we were choosing baby names. We told her we had found a beautiful Greek name — the name of a son of Helene, her namesake — and that the name was Xousous. She looked at us so carefully, trying not to offend, while clearly wondering how she would ever pronounce it. When we told her we were teasing her, the relief on her face was unforgettable. Even then, she was trying — always trying — to meet me where I came from.

In Greece we say that when a daughter-in-law is born, she takes after her mother-in-law. With us, that turned out to be true. During both my pregnancies, Leentjie compared our symptoms almost day by day. When they started. When they stopped. Everything matched, to the T. Sometimes that closeness made us clash — we were both hard-headed, opinionated, very much what you see is what you get. But we were also similar in something deeper: we both tried, always, to be fair.

And through that, love grew.

The truth is, I would not be the mother I am today without Leentjie. My own mom was there at the beginnings — for a month after each birth — and then through phone calls and visits. But the everyday shaping of motherhood happened next to my mother-in-law. She experienced the exhaustion, the worry, the laughter, the chaos — every single day. She didn’t just help with my boys. She raised them with us.

One of the first times I saw how deeply she knew babies was when she confidently took one into her arms and announced that she knew how to get the gas out. I panicked. It looked — and sounded — forceful. Her hands were firm, her movements decisive. I watched closely, half-ready to intervene.

But every time, the baby relaxed. Settled. Became calm.

She knew exactly how to hold them — the right position, the right rhythm on their back. It wasn’t fragile. It was certain. All babies were happy in her arms.

Food was how Leentjie loved.

Every time my mom arrived from Greece, Leentjie welcomed her with cheesecake — always two kinds. One baked. One cold. No explanations needed.

With my dad, the language was bread. She always said that in her house they don’t buy bread because they want to keep their weight down. But for him, she always baked. Big, fresh bread. Every time.

One of the first times I felt truly loved by her was in the kitchen. She noticed that I liked to lick the bowl after she baked. And so, when we were staying there, she wouldn’t wash it. She would quietly keep it aside for me. No announcement. Just a bowl waiting.

She baked all the children’s birthday cakes. Every year. They were beautiful… well, mostly. There was a puppy that couldn’t quite stand. There were Ninja Turtle treats that clearly weren’t Ninja Turtles. But none of that mattered. They were made with love, and they became stories.

She baked our wedding cake too. And I can still taste it. It was the most elegant, classy cake I have ever seen. It didn’t just sit at the centre of the celebration — it belonged there.

My favourite was always her lemon meringue. Opa said it was too sweet. She ignored him and made it anyway. For me. Every time.

Some memories live in objects.

For me, Leentjie will always be her cool drink holder — always full of Tab. She took it everywhere. You didn’t need to look for her. You looked for the holder.

Some memories live in colour.

She always had the same nail colour — a red-orange shade. Never changed. For me, it has become the ouma colour. When I see it, I see her hands.

If you were one of hers, there wasn’t much privacy.

After giving birth, while I was still in the hospital room, she was right there — making sure the baby latched properly. And if you were telling her a story that wasn’t finished yet, she would follow you. From room to room. Even into the bedroom. Stories mattered. People mattered.

There was a moment when Dimitri was in hospital for days, very sick. I didn’t want to leave him, not even for a moment. But it was Schalk’s birthday.

Leentjie came. She climbed into the cot with the baby and said to me,
“You can trust me now. Go have a shower and take my son out for his birthday. I will be here.”

And she was.

When Marius became an angel, it was a devastating time for the family. As soon as they returned from the trip, Leentjie came straight to our house. She sat on the floor with Dimitri and asked to hold Philippos. That was where she found her strength.

She told me what had happened — in detail — without once letting go of Philippos. Grief passed through her, but love held her steady.

And then there is her voice.

Her last long message to me said this:

“You are on the right track following a few non-negotiable rules: stay in control without your son knowing he has a say, allowing him to state his mind, pointing out all possibilities to take into account before decision-making. Show him the same respect that you expect to receive.
In serious situations, I just keep going on until I gradually switch his mind. Never force, never lie. Be humble when you are wrong and admit you made a mistake. Always believe in your child. Tackle and rectify mistakes together.
Be the beacon your child heads to when life gets rough, knowing that you and him are a team. The easiest of all is to love them to pieces. Schalk once said to me: ‘We know you are always right, but sometimes we want to double-check you!’ 😂
Believe in yourself. Be the gardener who loves her plants — snip unobtrusively the dead wood away to make space for new sprouts.
Never say: ‘Because I say so.’
I found a jewel by stating: I am the head of this house. This rule is non-negotiable and for the time we live together it will be followed. But if you can come up with an acceptable new approach, let’s try it out for a while, evaluate, and see. 
A child — a young person — should never feel helpless because other people control their lives.
Enough philosophy for one day. 🤩
Love you!!!”

Reading it now, I realise this message carries everything that she was — firm without cruelty, confident without arrogance, loving without conditions.

This is how I hold her now.
Quietly. Honestly. With love.