When my husband Edward and I married, we dreamed of our own home straight away. We lived in a small town near Bristol and relied solely on ourselves. My parents couldn’t help us, and Edward had grown up with his grandmother, Margaret Whitmore, never wishing to return to her house. His mother, Eleanor, was hardly part of his life—she drifted in occasionally to visit Margaret. Edward had no need for her: she had a new husband and a young daughter, while her son had long since become a stranger.
We took out a mortgage and worked like mad. We wanted to pay off a good chunk quickly so we could plan for children without worry. Edward borrowed a small sum from his mother, but we repaid it soon after. For five years, we scrimped on everything, and by then, the mortgage was nearly settled. We breathed easier—even if I went on maternity leave, we’d manage the payments. And so, when we finally decided to try for a child, we found out we were expecting. That same evening, as we prepared to celebrate, there was a knock at the door—Eleanor. Her arrival was like a bolt from the blue.
“What’s the occasion?” she sneered, eyeing us sharply.
We shared our happy news, but she didn’t so much as blink. Instead of congratulations, she snapped:
“That’s not why I’m here. Edward, your sister, Charlotte, is getting married. She’s got nowhere to live. Your grandmother will move in with you, so make room for her.”
“Why us?” Edward stammered.
“She raised you—the least you can do is show some gratitude,” Eleanor shot back.
“Mum, she has her own flat! Why should Charlotte live there?”
The argument ended in a torrent of accusations. Eleanor slammed the door and left. The next day, Margaret arrived. She stood on the doorstep clutching a handkerchief, tears streaming. “I’m just a burden, no one wants me,” she whispered, and my heart broke. Edward hugged her. “Don’t cry, Gran, it’ll be alright.” But I already knew our lives were about to turn upside down.
With Margaret’s arrival came the nightmare. Eleanor started dropping by at all hours without warning, claiming she had every right to see her mother. After her visits, small things began vanishing—a vase she’d admired, a figurine from the shelf. I bit my tongue, but fury simmered inside. Then Charlotte took Margaret’s telly—the very one Edward and I had bought so she could watch her programmes. Margaret told us Charlotte had packed it up without a word of explanation. Worse, Charlotte was taking her entire pension, leaving the old woman with nothing.
One day, Margaret finally spoke up.
“If you miss me so much, I could always move back. Charlotte’s childless, but Edward’s about to be a father.”
After that, Eleanor visited less often—perhaps fearing her mother might reclaim the flat. A year after our son was born, I returned to work, and Margaret gladly cared for her great-grandchild. We started dreaming of a bigger place—our two-bedroom had grown cramped. One evening, Margaret beamed at us.
“Charlotte’s expecting and wants my help with the baby. But I’ve settled here now—I’m not going anywhere. Let’s find a three-bedroom and wait for our little princess!”
I trust it will happen. Yet whenever I recall Margaret’s tears and Eleanor’s cruelty, anger burns inside me. Our family deserves peace, and I’ll do whatever it takes to shield us from those who see us only as a means to an end.
