“Mum’s living off us” — when I read those words, my blood ran cold.
For years, my two-bedroom flat had been home to my son William and his family. Not long after their wedding, they burst in with suitcases, declaring, “Mum, we’ll just stay with you for a little while!” Ten years passed. I was there for every birth, every childhood illness, the sleepless nights, and the endless noise that made the place feel like Paddington Station.
My daughter-in-law, Eleanor, went on maternity leave once, then twice, then a third time. When the children fell ill, either she or I took sick days to care for them. I never thought of myself—just the endless chores, the shouting, the nappies, the reheated shepherd’s pie, the sticky walls. No quiet, no peace, no rest. Only the occasional reminder: “You’re their grandmother.”
I counted down to my retirement like a prisoner awaiting release. At last, I thought, I’d have a chance to live for myself. And for the first six months, it did feel like a blessing. But the respite didn’t last.
Every morning, I rose at six, drove William and Eleanor to work, then hurried back to feed the grandchildren, drop one at nursery, another at primary school. With the youngest, I’d stroll through Hyde Park, then rush home to cook, scrub, tidy, before the evening rounds—music lessons, homework, bedtime stories. Every minute accounted for.
On rare nights when the children slept, I treated myself to a book or my embroidery hoop, my one quiet joy. One evening, sorting through old things, I found a text William had sent—not to me. “Mum’s living off us,” he’d written, “and we’re even footing her medicine bills.” I read it twice. At first, I thought it a mistake. Then the truth sank in. The words cut deeper than any blade.
I said nothing. No scenes, no tears. I simply rented a small flat in the next borough, told them it was “more convenient.” The rent swallowed most of my pension, leaving me with little more than tea and toast—but it was mine.
Years before retiring, I’d bought a laptop. Eleanor had scoffed: “Honestly, Mum, you can’t even tell one key from another.” But I learned. A friend’s daughter showed me the basics, and I began sharing photos of my embroidery online.
First, it was just for fun. Then old colleagues from the accounting firm asked for pieces of their own. Soon, their friends did too. A neighbour even paid me to teach her granddaughter. Before long, I had three young pupils. Modest earnings, but honest. Best of all, I felt needed—not as an obligation, but as myself.
I never asked William for another thing. No pleas, no calls. We still meet at family gatherings, though we speak only of the weather or recipes. I bear no grudge. I just couldn’t stay where I was seen as a burden.
Now I have my own space. It smells of lavender, not school socks. My own embroidery hangs on the walls, not crayon scribbles. And in my heart—if not peace—then at least self-respect.
I never wanted a war. Just gratitude. Or honesty. But if my son believes I lived at his expense, let him live without me now. And I’ll live without him.
