It has been three long years now. When my son William brought his new wife—a woman with two children from a previous marriage—into our home, I never imagined what my life would become. At first, he insisted it was temporary, that they would stay with me just a few months until they found a place of their own. But three years passed, and the temporary became permanent. Worse still—his wife, Eleanor, is now expecting his child. And each day of my old age feels more like torment than peace.
We live in an ordinary two-bedroom flat in a quiet part of town. Now, the house is full—me, my son, his pregnant wife, and her two children. Soon, there will be another little one. I don’t blame Eleanor—she speaks to me with respect, never raises her voice. But she does nothing around the house, nor does she know how. Though the children are in school, she doesn’t work, spending her days scrolling on her phone or meeting friends. Sometimes, she even gets her nails done, though I daren’t ask whose money pays for it.
William does work, yes. But his wages barely cover groceries and the bills, especially with so many mouths to feed. The rest falls on me. My pension isn’t enough, so I take odd jobs—rising at dawn to scrub floors in a couple of offices before returning home by eight. You’d think I might rest then, but no—there’s a mountain of dishes in the sink, lunch to be made, laundry piled high, and the floors unswept. And all of it is left to me.
Before she was pregnant, Eleanor would at least go to the shops, sometimes cook. Now? Nothing at all. She claims the baby weighs her down. She drops the children at school and vanishes, returning only when William comes home for lunch. But someone must put food on the table—prepare it, serve it, clean up after. Does she lift a finger? Of course not. It all falls to me. And I can’t keep up.
Once, I tried to speak to my son. “William,” I said, “there are too many of us in this small flat. Perhaps you and Eleanor could find a place to rent?” He only shrugged. “Mum, half this flat is mine. We haven’t the money to move. You’ll have to bear it.” His words cut deep. I’ve spent my life for him, for family. And now—I must simply endure?
A month ago, my blood pressure spiked dangerously. I collapsed right there in the kitchen, the frying pan nearly tumbling off the stove. An ambulance took me away. The doctor warned I needed quiet, rest, no stress. But how can I rest when every day in this house is a circus?
The children aren’t to blame, of course. They, along with Eleanor’s growing belly and William’s indifference, have turned my old age into endless weariness. After meals, I try to lie down, just for an hour—my legs ache, my back throbs. But then I must rise again, cook supper, tidy up. By evening, the place is bedlam—children shrieking, running, fighting, crying. Peace in this flat has become a distant memory.
More and more, I find myself thinking the only way out is to take a loan and find myself a tiny one-bedroom flat—somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one bangs pots, tosses toys, or waits to be fed. Somewhere I might finally breathe easy.
But I’m afraid. Afraid to be alone. Afraid to take on debt in my twilight years. And yet what frightens me more is feeling like a servant in my own home. The home where I thought I’d spend my last years in warmth and care. Instead, my hands are raw from scrubbing, and my heart races as if it might give out any moment.
