I let my son and his family stay with me. Now I’m living in rented accommodation while my ex-daughter-in-law shares my flat with another man…
“The director didn’t even pretend at the last meeting,” said Evelyn, dropping her bag heavily by the table. “His advice? ‘Either find another job or pray for a miracle.’ I get it… but where am I supposed to find work now?”
She walked into the office with a face like stone, anxiety coiled tight inside her. The company was sinking—everyone knew it—but she’d still hoped they might scrape through. Instead, it was a death sentence. Evelyn *needed* this job: two kids to raise, no child support, elderly parents who required more help than they could give.
She sent out CVs like clockwork, called every contact, scoured job sites day and night. Sometimes she laughed bleakly with colleagues: “Our only thoughts at work now are about where else to work.” Some had already landed new roles; others vanished into uncertainty.
“If things get desperate, come to the supermarket,” a woman from another department offered. “Decent wages, flexible hours. I’ll put in a word.”
Once, such suggestions would have filled Evelyn with dread. Now? Any lifeline would do.
A choked sob cut through her thoughts. She turned—there by the window stood Margaret Davies, the seasoned, stoic accountant who never complained.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?” Evelyn sprang up. “Is it the layoffs? You’re already retired—you shouldn’t be worrying. Let’s have tea. I’ve got scones left.”
“Retirement? More like life under a bridge,” Margaret muttered bitterly.
“Under a bridge? You have a flat—your son’s grown, you don’t even live with him—”
“Oh, the flat’s still there. Just not for *me*.” Her voice cracked. “I’m renting now. Five hundred quid a month—and that’s lucky.”
The story tumbled out: a two-bedroom she’d shared ownership of with her son for twenty years. When he married, she took the young couple in. Then came the excuses. The daughter-in-law got pregnant, was added to the deeds, then the baby. Margaret endured the shouting, the slammed doors—her son fleeing to friends’ sofas. They blamed it on hormones, on “adjustment.”
Then, another pregnancy.
“I couldn’t take it. I moved out,” Margaret whispered. “Rented a studio. Thought it’d be temporary.”
But “temporary” dragged into years. Last Christmas, she arrived with gifts—and saw a notice on the door. *Her* flat. Over five grand in arrears.
“*We* pay?” her daughter-in-law had scoffed. “*Your* flat, *your* bills!”
Her son just shrugged. “No money.” Margaret emptied her savings, signed an agreement to clear the debt in four years.
“I didn’t even complain,” she said, staring out the window. “Just called sometimes. Asked after the kids. He’d say, ‘Everything’s fine.’ Then a neighbour told me… He’d divorced her. A year ago. Now the ex is living there with some bloke. Pregnant again.”
“And your son?”
“He said, ‘I’ve a new family now. Those are *my* kids—I can’t kick them out.’” Her laugh was jagged. “Funny. He couldn’t throw *them* out. But *me*? Easy.”
Now Margaret paid the council tax on a flat she couldn’t enter. The ex and her new man lived there like it was theirs, while she juggled work and a shoebox rental. Her pension barely covered meds and rent. No savings. No help.
“I get she’s got nowhere to go… but why am *I* on the street while she plays house with some stranger in *my* home?” Her voice trembled. “Why didn’t my son stand by me?”
Evelyn had no answer. What *was* the right response when a mother became disposable to her own child?
“Did you… see a solicitor?” she ventured.
“What’s the point? She’s on the lease. The kids—would a court evict a mother with children? The debt’s *mine*. It’s not criminal. All perfectly legal.”
And there it was. Lawful. Heartless.
That night, Evelyn lay awake. Margaret’s hunched shoulders haunted her, along with the quiet plea: *”I just want to live like a human being, just once.”*
Where *was* the line between family and betrayal? The moment a son decided his mother was just some old woman who’d “put up with anything”?
Maybe it started with unanswered calls. With assuming everything’s “fine” because it’s easier.
Now Margaret wasn’t just paying for a flat. She was paying for trust, for kindness, for love. And the question remained:
What do you do when a mother gives everything—and is left with nothing?
