I let my son and his family move in with me. Now I’m stuck in a rented flat while my former daughter-in-law lives in my apartment with another man…
At the last meeting, the manager didn’t even pretend. “You’ve got two options—find another job or pray for a miracle,” said Emma wearily, dropping her bag beside the desk. “I get it… but where am I supposed to find work now?”
She walked into the store room with a stony face. Inside, everything coiled tight with dread. The firm was sinking—that much was obvious—but she’d still hoped they’d pull through somehow. Now, it was a death sentence. Emma needed this job like air: two kids, no child support, elderly parents who needed more help than they could give.
She sent out CVs like clockwork, rang up every contact, scoured job sites day and night. Sometimes she’d joke with coworkers, “All we think about here is where else to work.” Some had already landed on their feet; others had slipped into the void.
“If things get desperate, come work at the hypermarket,” nodded a friend from another department. “Pay’s decent, shifts are flexible. I’ll put in a word.”
Before, an offer like that would’ve filled her with dread. Now? At least it was something.
A quiet sob cut through her thoughts. Emma turned—by the window stood Margaret, the bookkeeper, a woman with decades of experience, reserved, never one to complain.
“Margaret, love, what’s wrong?” Emma jumped up. “Is it the layoffs? You’re retired! You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll put the kettle on—I’ve got scones left. We’ll have a cuppa and talk.”
“Seems I’ll be retiring under a bridge,” the older woman sighed bitterly.
“Under a bridge? But you’ve got your flat, your son’s grown—you don’t even live with him—”
“I’ve got a flat, alright. Just not for me.” Margaret’s voice was hollow. “£500 a month for a bedsit—and that’s considered lucky.”
Turned out, Margaret did own a two-bedroom flat, which she and her son had bought decades ago. After he married, she let the newlyweds move in—then everything spiralled. The daughter-in-law got pregnant, they registered her, then the baby. Margaret endured the shouting, the rows, her son fleeing to friends’ sofas. They blamed it on the wife’s hormones, the “adjustment period”.
A year later—another pregnancy.
“I couldn’t take it. I left,” Margaret whispered. “Rented a tiny place. Thought it’d be temporary.”
But “temporary” stretched into years. Last Christmas, she turned up with gifts—only to find her own flat listed for council tax arrears. Over £4,000 in debt.
“Why should we pay?” her daughter-in-law had snapped. “It’s *your* flat—*you* sort it!”
Her son just shrugged. “No money,” was all he said. Margaret handed over her savings, signed an agreement—four years to clear the debt.
“I never even complained…” Her voice cracked as she stared out the window. “Just called sometimes. Asked about the grandkids. He’d say they were fine.” Then, by chance, she ran into a neighbour. “That’s when I found out—my son divorced her. A year ago. Now she’s in my flat with some new bloke. And pregnant again.”
“What did your son say?”
“He said, ‘I’ve got a new family now. They’ve got kids—I can’t kick them out.’” Margaret gave a broken laugh. “Couldn’t kick *them* out. But me? No problem.”
Now Margaret pays the bills for a flat she can’t live in. Her ex-daughter-in-law and some stranger treat it like home, while she scrambles between work and a dingy rental. Her pension barely covers medicine and rent. No savings. No help.
“I get she’s got nowhere to go… but why do *I* have to be the one homeless while she’s playing house with some man in *my* flat?” Her hands trembled. “Why didn’t my son stand up for me?”
Emma listened, throat tight. What could she say? How do you answer when a mother becomes disposable to her own child?
“Have you… spoken to a solicitor?” she ventured.
“What’s the point? She’s on the deeds. The kids? You think a court’ll toss out a mother with children?” Margaret’s smile was bleak. “And the debt’s mine. It’s all legal.”
And there it was—the whole tragedy. “Legal.” Not a shred of decency.
That night, Emma lay awake. Margaret’s hunched shoulders haunted her, along with the quiet plea: “I just want to live like a person, just once.”
Where’s the line between family and betrayal? When does a son decide his mother’s just some old woman who’ll “put up with anything”?
Maybe it starts when we stop calling. Stop asking. Or when it’s easier to pretend our parents are “fine” as long as it suits us.
Now Margaret isn’t just paying for a flat. She’s paying for trust, for kindness, for wanting to help. And the question remains:
What do you do when a mother’s given everything—and been left with nothing?
