“Mum’s a freeloader”—when I read those words, my blood ran cold.
For years, my son William and his family lived in my two-bedroom flat. Right after the wedding, they barged in with suitcases, chirping, “Mum, we’ll stay just a little while!” That was over a decade ago. I’ve been there for every baby’s first cry, endured sleepless nights, childhood fevers, and the never-ending noise of a house that felt more like Waterloo Station.
My daughter-in-law, Emily, went on maternity leave once, then twice, then a third time. When the kids were ill, it was either her or me taking sick days to look after them. I never gave a thought to myself—just nappies, heated-up dinners, sticky fingerprints on the walls. No peace, no quiet, no rest. Only the occasional barb: “You’re the grandmother, after all.”
I counted down to retirement like a prisoner marking days till release. Finally, I thought, a chance to breathe—to live for myself, even a little. And yes, those first six months felt like a miracle. But the dream didn’t last.
Every morning, I was up at six, driving William and Emily to work, then back home to feed the grandkids. One to nursery, another to school. Walks in the park with the youngest, cooking, laundry, tidying. Evenings were music lessons, homework, bedtime stories—every minute accounted for.
Occasionally, when the house finally fell quiet, I’d steal a moment for myself—a book, or my embroidery hoop. Needlework had always been my escape. One night, while sorting through old things, I got a text from William. I read it and froze.
*“Mum’s a freeloader,”* he’d written to someone. *“We even have to pay for her tablets.”* I read it again, certain it was a mistake. But no—it wasn’t meant for me. Those words burrowed into my mind like a knife between the ribs.
I didn’t make a scene. Didn’t cry. Just quietly rented a room in the next borough, told them living apart would *“make things easier.”* Rent swallowed most of my pension, leaving me with little more than pasta and tea. But it was *mine.*
Before retiring, I’d bought myself a laptop. Emily had laughed. *“What do you need that for, Mum? You don’t even know the buttons.”* But I learned. A friend’s daughter showed me the basics, and soon I was posting photos of my embroidery online.
At first, it was just sharing my work. Then old colleagues asked for pieces. Then their friends. One day, a neighbour offered a few quid if I’d teach her granddaughter. Soon, I had three little pupils. Modest money, but honest. And more than that—I felt *useful*, not just obligated.
I never asked William for another thing. Never begged. Never called. We still cross paths at family dos, but the chatter never goes deeper than the weather or recipes. I don’t hold a grudge. I just can’t live where I’m seen as dead weight.
Now my flat smells of lavender, not damp school shoes. My own art hangs on the walls, not scribbled drawings. There’s no peace in my heart—but there’s dignity.
I didn’t want a war. Just gratitude. Or honesty. But if my son thinks I was living off him, let him manage without me. And I’ll manage without him.
