For three long years, this nightmare has dragged on. When my son William brought his new wife into our home—a woman with two children from a previous marriage—I never imagined my life would unravel like this. At first, he swore it was temporary, just a few months until they found their own place. Three years later, “temporary” has become permanent. Worse still, his wife Emily is now pregnant with his child. Each day of my old age feels more like torment.
We live in an ordinary two-bedroom flat in a quiet London suburb. The house is packed—me, my son, his expectant wife, and her two children. Soon, there’ll be another crying baby. I won’t say Emily is rude—she’s polite enough, never raises her voice. But she refuses to lift a finger around the house. Though her kids are in nursery, she doesn’t work, just scrolls on her phone or meets friends for coffee. Sometimes she gets her nails done—God knows whose money pays for it.
William has a job, yes. But his salary barely covers groceries and bills, especially with so many mouths to feed. The rest falls on me. My pension, plus the side work I do—every dawn, I scrub floors in two offices before trudging home by eight. You’d think I could rest then, but no—the sink’s piled with breakfast dishes, lunch isn’t started, laundry’s untouched, the floor’s unswept. All of it, my burden.
Before the pregnancy, Emily at least went shopping or cooked occasionally. Now? Nothing. Claims her back hurts. Drops the kids at nursery and vanishes. She reappears with William by lunchtime, and someone has to cook, serve, clean. Does she? Of course not. It’s all on me. And I’m drowning.
Once, I dared to speak up. “Will,” I said, “this flat’s too small for so many. Maybe you and Emily could rent somewhere?” He just shrugged. “Mum, half this place is mine. We can’t afford rent. Tough it out.” Like a knife to the heart. I’ve lived for him, for family. And now—just endure?
Last month, I collapsed in the kitchen—a hypertensive crisis. Nearly knocked a frying pan off the stove. The ambulance took me away. The doctor said I needed rest, no stress. But how? The house is chaos.
The children aren’t to blame. Yet between them, Emily’s pregnancy, and William’s indifference, my old age is exhaustion without end. Afternoons, I try to lie down—my legs ache, my back throbs. But soon I’m up again, cooking dinner, cleaning. Evenings turn the flat into a madhouse—screaming, running, fighting, tears. Peace here is a forgotten luxury.
More and more, I think the only escape is taking out a loan to rent a tiny one-bed flat. Somewhere quiet. Where no one hurls toys, smashes pans, or demands meals. Where I could finally breathe.
But I’m afraid. Afraid to be alone. Afraid of debt in my twilight years. Yet even worse—feeling like a servant in my own home. The home where I’d hoped to grow old with warmth and care. Instead, I’m left with bleeding hands and a pulse racing past two hundred.
