For three years now, I’ve been trapped in what feels like an endless bad dream. It all began the day my son, Daniel—a grown man of thirty-five—brought his new wife, Charlotte, into our cramped two-bedroom flat in London. Charlotte came with two children from her first marriage. At first, Daniel swore it was temporary. *Temporary*. How often we women cling to that word like a life raft.
Three years later, and our home isn’t just crowded—it’s overrun. There’s me, Daniel, Charlotte, her two kids, and—surprise—she’s expecting again. Clearly, the universe decided my golden years should be anything but golden. Some divine punishment, I suppose.
Charlotte isn’t ill or disabled—she’s just into her thirties. But work? Oh no, that’s beneath her. “Too busy with the kids,” she claims. Funny how those kids toddle off to nursery every morning while she… doesn’t. Off she goes—shopping, coffee dates, manicures. Heaven knows how she affords it.
Daniel promised they’d sort paperwork, she’d get a job, they’d rent a place or get a mortgage. Being his mum, I hoped. A year. Two. Now three. Nothing’s changed—except Charlotte’s waistline.
She’s not *rude*, exactly. No shouting, always polite. But does she lift a finger? Not unless it’s to scroll through her phone. The kids? Parked in front of cartoons while she texts away. Evenings? Silence from her, chaos from them.
The housework? All mine. Up at 4 a.m., scrubbing offices, home by eight—no time for tea before the next round of laundry, cooking, scrubbing grease off the kitchen. Daniel and Charlotte waltz in for lunch, expecting a hot meal. Then more chores, dinner, and—if I’m lucky—I collapse by nine. Sometimes, I just lean against the fridge and cry.
My pension vanishes into bills and groceries. Daniel’s salary doesn’t stretch to this circus. And Charlotte? “On maternity leave”—though she’s barely worked a day in her life.
I finally broached it with Daniel. Told him the flat’s too small, I’m exhausted, my health’s failing—ended up in hospital last month when my blood pressure spiked mid-stir-fry. The doctor warned me: no stress, no overwork. Daniel just shrugged.
*“Mum, it’s my flat too. We’re not going anywhere. Money’s tight. Deal with it.”*
And that was that.
I’m done. I’ll borrow, beg, claw my way into any tiny flat—peeling wallpaper and all—just for silence. Just to breathe. Because another baby in this house? I won’t survive it.
I’m not living here. I’m serving. A slave in my own home, in what should be my peaceful retirement. And the worst part? None of them even *notice*. They just eat, demand, expect.
I want to scream. Instead, I bite my lip. I’m breaking—but I keep going. Because without me? It’s filth, hunger, cold. Because I’m the mum. The grandma. The one. The only one.
