“I’ll live in your flat because I’m your mother!”
I was only fifteen when Mum announced she was marrying another man. And me—her only daughter—she sent away to live with my nan without a second thought. I was in the way of her “new life.” No letters, no calls, not a single penny of help. She had everything—a new man, a new family—while I had nothing but Nan’s cramped two-bed flat and her pension, which barely covered the essentials. But my nan loved me fiercely, despite the struggle. She never treated me as “hers” or “not hers.” She shared everything with me—warmth, joy, pain. I grew up under her care, grateful for every hug, every handkerchief that dried my tears.
When Nan passed, I was in my second year at university. The funeral, the shock, the emptiness. Only one thing brought comfort—I was left her flat. An inheritance given not out of duty, but love. I, her only family, became the rightful owner of the little place where I’d first known what it meant to be truly loved.
Years went by. I’d nearly forgotten about my mother—like some dark chapter in my past. Then, a knock at the door. There she stood. No “hello,” no “how are you.” Just demands.
“Mine and my husband’s two-bed is too small. You’ve got a three-bed. So hand it over. You’re my daughter, after all!”
I stared at her, my chest burning with fury.
“You didn’t want me then,” I said. “Why do I owe you anything now?”
“Because I’m your mother!” she shrieked. “And I’ll live in your flat! How can you be so ungrateful?”
I shut the door. Thought that was the end of it. But no.
Seven more years passed. I was married now, raising my son. My husband and I worked hard, paid our mortgage, fixed up the house bit by bit, savoured quiet evenings together. Then—another knock.
I opened the door to find her there. Older. Weary. Again, no greeting—just a plea:
“Let me stay.”
My son ran into the hallway. “Mum, who’s this?”
“I’m your gran,” she blurted.
“Mum, is that true?” he asked, doubtful.
I sighed. “Go to your room, love. I’ll explain later.”
Alone, I learned her husband had conned her—talked her into selling her flat, promising a bigger one, then vanished with the money. Now she had nothing. And here she was, turning to the daughter she’d once cast aside.
“You won’t leave me on the street. I raised you!”
“You? Raised me?” I nearly laughed, bitter. “Nan did that. You threw me away for some bloke. And now you want my home?”
I let her stay a few nights—fed her, gave her a bed. Then I rang her cousin, who lived in the countryside. They needed kitchen help at a local B&B. She took her in. Mum left—but not quietly. Shrieking in the stairwell like *I* was the stranger:
“You’re a terrible daughter! You’ll pay for this!”
I stood there in silence. No urge to shout back. I’d forgiven her long ago. But letting her back in? That was different.
Funny, isn’t it? How you can turn up years later, demanding love as if nothing happened—as if pain can just be wiped away like dust from a window ledge. But I’m not a child anymore. Not someone you can betray and forget.
I’m a mother now. I know what real care costs. And I won’t let my son feel what I did. So no. I’m not a bad daughter. Just done being her life raft. Let her swim on her own.
