Olivia refused to help her daughter, for she had once left her without a home. The whole village gossiped about her, of course. There she was, living comfortably in a large house while her daughter and grandchildren squeezed into a tiny cottage. And Julia only poured fuel on the fire, painting her mother as heartless. “I haul water from the well, while she has plumbing. I buy firewood with my last pennies, while she has gas,” she’d complain to anyone who’d listen. Olivia held her head high, ignoring the whispers. She wouldn’t explain herself to the entire village.
Once, many years ago, she’d had a perfect life—a loving husband, darling Julia, a three-bedroom house, and comfort. Olivia stayed home, raising her daughter—the best schools, after-school clubs, everything smooth and settled.
But when Julia was fifteen, her husband fell ill. Olivia, devoted wife that she was, fought tooth and nail to save him. Money drained fast—everything was sold but the house. Still, nothing worked. Three years later, he was gone.
Olivia and Julia struggled. There was nothing left. Julia, accustomed to luxury, lashed out. Olivia took a job at a shop—cashiering, filling in for cleaners—but it was barely enough. Julia finished school but refused further education. “No money for university, and I won’t go to trade school—don’t even ask,” she snapped when Olivia pleaded.
Yet Julia loved to party—and she was clever. When she needed money, she’d sweet-talk Olivia—*Mummy dearest, my darling*. When refused, she’d hiss, *Why did you even have me if you can’t help?* This went on until Ian appeared.
At first, Olivia was relieved—her daughter had finally come to her senses. Ian seemed respectable—well-dressed, clearly not a bargain-bin buy. He could silence Julia with a look, never skimped on groceries, and treated Olivia kindly, calling her *Mum* from the start. A real sweetheart, he was.
For a while, the three lived in harmony. Olivia would come home to a spotless house, dinner ready—though the youngsters were often out till dawn. *You’re only young once*, Olivia thought, leaving them be.
Then, six months in, trouble started. Julia came home crying more often, Ian grew short-tempered. Olivia kept out of it—a mistake. One evening, they summoned her. “Mum,” Julia began, “Ian and I want our own place. We need the house.” Olivia frowned. “I don’t interfere, and I’ve no money to help—” “Not that,” Julia cut in. “Sell the house. Split the money fairly.”
Olivia hesitated, but Julia pushed—pleading, then threatening to sell her share. Finally, Olivia gave in. The young ones went to meet the buyers—and vanished, money and all. Left with nothing, Olivia, no spring chicken, was homeless.
Renting on a shopgirl’s wage was impossible, so she found live-in work—caretaker for an elderly widow, Eleanor Whitmore. Her son, well-off, would’ve taken her in, but Eleanor refused to leave her home. So he hired Olivia.
Eleanor was strict—frail but demanding. Olivia had to learn fast: baking bread in the hearth, starching linens. She managed. For two years they coexisted—not close, but civil—until Eleanor collapsed one afternoon. Gone.
Her son handled arrangements, then made Olivia an offer. “I know your story—forgive the prying. I’ll sell you this house for a token sum. Pay in installments.” And so Olivia became a homeowner.
She’d just settled in when Julia reappeared—with two toddlers in tow. “Nice house,” she announced, stepping inside. “Which room’s mine?”
Olivia didn’t mince words. “Yours was in the three-bed we had before you and Ian sold it off. Where’s my cut, by the way? And why track me down now? Let me guess—Ian left you, penniless?” Julia sniffed. “No need to be cruel. He was a gambler—played me like he played you. I married twice after, both disasters. When the last one kicked me out, I thought, *Mum won’t abandon me.*”
Olivia’s voice was steel. “Wrong. You’re grown, a mother yourself. Why should I help? You got all I had. Sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, go wherever—first husband, second, I don’t care.”
Julia stayed two weeks, then—thanks to some woman’s help—bought a rundown cottage with a subsidy and moved in. Olivia ached despite herself. She loved her daughter, longed to know her grandchildren. But Julia kept them apart. So they lived—close, yet worlds away.
Reconciliation came only when disaster struck—Julia’s latest man accidentally burned the cottage down. Luckily, Julia and the children were away, staying with friends. They turned up at Olivia’s door, and she took them in. After all, like it or not, they were all she had left. Time to let old wounds heal. What came next? Only God knew.
