“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 off to live with Gran without a second thought. I was in the way of her “new life.” No letters, no calls, not a penny of help. She had everything—a man, a new family—while I had nothing but Gran’s tiny two-bed and her pension, barely enough to scrape by. But Gran loved me fiercely, no matter how tight things were. She never split me into “hers” and “not hers.” She shared everything with me—warmth, joy, even the pain. I grew up under her care, grateful for every hug, every hankie that dried my tears.
When Gran passed, I was in my second year at uni. The funeral, the shock, the emptiness. But one thing kept me going—I stayed in her flat. An inheritance left not by law, but by love. The only family left, I became the rightful owner of the place where I’d first known what it meant to be loved.
A few years passed. I’d nearly forgotten about Mum—like some awful chapter in my past. Then—a knock at the door. There she stood. No “hello,” no “how are you.” Just demands.
“Me and my husband are cramped in our two-bed. You’ve got a three-bed. So swap with us. You’re my daughter!”
I stared at her, my chest burning with rage and hurt.
“You didn’t want me then,” I said. “Why should 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. I was married, raising a son. My husband and I worked hard, paying the mortgage, fixing up the house on weekends, cherishing our evenings together. Then—another knock.
I opened it, and there she was. Older, worn out. Again—no greeting. Just a plea:
“Let me stay a while?”
My son ran into the hall. “Mum, who’s this?”
“I’m your grandma,” she blurted.
“Mum, is that true?” he asked, suspicious.
I sighed. “Go to your room, love. I’ll explain later.”
Alone, I learned her husband had turned out to be a fraud. Convinced her to sell the flat, promising a bigger place, then vanished with the cash. Now she had nothing. So she came to me—the daughter she’d tossed aside without hesitation.
“You won’t turn me out, I know it. I’m your mother! I raised you!”
“You? Raised me?” I almost laughed, it hurt so much. “Gran raised me. You left me for a man. And now you want my flat?”
She stayed a couple nights. I fed her, gave her a bed. Then I rang her cousin in the countryside—they needed kitchen help at a local guesthouse. Auntie didn’t mind. 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 in the doorway, silent. Because I didn’t want to shout anymore. Because I’d forgiven her long ago. But letting her back in? That was different.
How could she come back after all this time and demand love like nothing happened? Like pain could be wiped away like dust from a ledge? But I’m not that girl anymore—the one you could betray and forget.
I’m a mother now. I know what care costs. And I won’t let my son ever feel what I did. So—no. I’m not a bad daughter. I just won’t be her lifeboat anymore. Let her swim on her own.
