“It’s your own fault you’re broke. Nobody forced you to get married and have kids.” My mother spat those words at me when I asked for help.
When I was twenty, I married Liam. We rented a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Both of us worked—he was on construction sites, I was at the chemist. We lived modestly but got by. We dreamed of saving for our own place, and back then, I truly believed anything was possible.
Then came Oliver. Two years later, Noah followed. I went on maternity leave, and Liam started pulling double shifts. Even with overtime, money never stretched far enough. Everything went on nappies, formula, doctor visits, bills, and of course, the rent. Half his wages vanished just to keep a roof over our heads.
I’d look at our boys and wake up every morning with the same dread—what if Liam got sick? What if we were evicted? What then?
Mum lived alone in a two-bed flat. Nan, too. Both in the city centre. Both with spare rooms sitting empty. I wasn’t asking for a palace, just somewhere temporary. Until the kids were older. Until we found our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Nan—two birds, one stone. They’d share one flat, and we’d take the other. Plenty of space for just me, Liam, and two little ones. But Mum wouldn’t hear it.
“Live with *her*?” She scoffed. “Have you lost the plot? I’ve still got a life, you know. And that woman would drive me spare in a week. Sort yourself out, but leave me out of it.”
I swallowed the hurt. Then I rang Dad. He’d remarried years ago, living in a four-bed house. I hoped he’d take Nan in—she *was* his mother, after all. But he refused, too. Said his new family needed the space, and “there’s barely room to breathe as it is.”
Desperate, I called Mum again. I begged, sobbing, for just a temporary place to stay. That’s when she snapped:
“You made your bed—now lie in it. Nobody twisted your arm to marry him. Nobody made you have kids. Wanted the grown-up life? Well, here it is. Sort your own mess out.”
It hit like a bolt of lightning. I sat there, phone in hand, feeling everything collapse. My own mother. The one person meant to be my safety net. I wasn’t asking for the world—just a corner, just a bit of kindness.
The next day, Liam and I weighed our options. The only one who offered help was his mum, Margaret. She lives in a village outside Leeds, in a terraced house with a spare room. Said she’d take us in, even help mind the boys while we worked.
But I’m terrified. It’s not the city. No proper clinics, no decent schools, barely a bus route. What if we move there and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances, no future? What if I give up entirely, cut off from everything?
Still, we’ve no choice. Mum’s washed her hands of us. Nan’s too frail to take us in. Dad doesn’t see us as family anymore. So here I am—standing at a crossroads: step into the unknown, or accept help from someone who actually *wants* us.
You know what stings the most? It’s not the struggle. Not even the poverty. It’s knowing the people closest by blood are the farthest by heart. And I’m not scared for me. I’m scared for my boys—that they’ll ever feel what it’s like to be unwanted by their own nan.
