I go by the name of Evelyn. My husband, William, and I reside in a quiet village near York, raising our two children, only recently freed from the burden of a mortgage. Yet, instead of savouring our hard-won liberty, we find ourselves at the heart of a bitter family feud. My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, hasn’t spoken to us in three months, accusing us of spending our savings on a holiday rather than funding what she calls her “urgent” home renovations. Her resentment looms over our household like a storm cloud, while William’s kin heap scorn upon us. I hardly know how to mend this rift, but it seems our side of the story is drowned beneath their harsh words.
Life was never easy for us. William and I both work—raising our daughter, Amelia, now in her sixth year at school, and our son, Oliver, still in primary. For years, the mortgage weighed upon us like shackles. Holidays were out of the question—the most we could manage was an occasional visit to my parents in the neighbouring town. They keep a cosy cottage with a garden, where the children love to pass the time—fishing with their grandfather, feasting on their grandmother’s pies, or picking berries in summer. These brief escapes were all the joy Amelia and Oliver knew while we toiled to settle our debt. The notion of travelling abroad was but a distant dream.
This year, for the first time in ages, we dared break free from routine. The mortgage was paid, and we had set a little aside. I suggested a trip to my cousin’s seaside home in Cornwall, and William agreed at once. “Evelyn, we’ve earned this,” he said. We packed our trunks, gathered the children, and set off, never dreaming this holiday would spark a family war. We were simply weary of denying ourselves every pleasure—we longed to breathe the salt air, to hear our children laughing by the shore, to feel alive again.
From the start, Margaret made it plain she would not lift a finger to help with the children. “I raised three of my own—now I mean to live for myself,” she declared when Amelia was born. William has a brother and sister, and Margaret, having reared her brood, considered her duty done. We respected her choice and never asked for aid. She saw the children but once in months—popping by for an hour with sweets before vanishing again. I never held it against her—two children alone are exhausting; three must be a torment. Still, her distance stung.
Four years ago, Margaret retired. “At last, I shall live as I please!” she announced. Her days filled with swims at the baths, tea with friends, theatre outings, and spa retreats. Yet her pension could not sate her lavish tastes. Her children helped as they could—though each had burdens of their own. William’s sister refused outright, pleading hardship, while his brother sent occasional small sums. While we still paid the mortgage, we aided Margaret in other ways—bringing her shopping, mending a leaky tap, driving her to appointments. She never asked for money, knowing our straits.
But the moment the mortgage was cleared, she spoke of renovations. “This flat needs a fresh face—new wallpaper, flooring, a proper bath,” she insisted. Her home was perfectly sound, yet Margaret held that refurbishment was due every five years. Meanwhile, our own flat—unchanged since purchase—was far more in want of repair. But Margaret would hear none of it. Her whims took precedence, and she expected us to foot the bill.
We told her nothing of our trip. Why should we? We kept no pets, no plants, and the children came with us. We were not in the habit of accounting for our plans. But whilst by the sea, she rang William suddenly, demanding his aid with some errand. “Mother, we’re in Cornwall—I can’t just now,” said he. Margaret, used to our merely visiting my parents, was startled. “When shall you return?” Hearing it would be weeks, she bade him come home at once. “We’re not at my parents’—we’re at the seaside!” he laughed. Coldly, she replied, “I see,” and rang off.
On our return, her wrath awaited us. That very day she stormed in: “How could you! Not even a word of your going!” William was taken aback. “Mother, what was there to say? We took a holiday. You never tell us of your jaunts.” Margaret exploded: “Where found you the coin for Cornwall when my flat goes wanting?” William lost patience. “Mother, I don’t question your spa trips. Why may we not have a holiday?” She scoffed. “Ungrateful wretches!” Then out she marched, door slamming behind her.
Since then, she answers no calls, opens no letters, never so much as wished Oliver a happy birthday. William’s brother and sister assail us with rebukes—his sister-in-law most of all, though she neither aids Margaret nor invites her round, yet insists we must fund her whims. “Selfish, heartless—how dare you wound your mother so!” she shrieked down the line. I am furious. Must we sacrifice our own happiness for Margaret’s fancies? My own parents stand by us. “You did right to go,” they say. “Your life is your own.”
William and I feel no guilt. We owe Margaret not our every penny—we have children, and dreams of our own. Yet her bitterness and the family’s censure poison our days. How make her see she has no claim to such sacrifice? Has anyone faced the like? How might peace be made without surrender? I fear this feud may sunder us—yet yield I shall not. Are we not entitled to our own joy?
