“I can live in your house for one very basic reason: I gave birth to you!” – Well, I don’t want her staying in my house.
I was only eleven when my mum decided to remarry. Her new husband didn’t fancy the idea of me living with them, so off I went to my nan’s. Mum never lifted a finger to help—her new bloke was her sole focus. Nan and I had to scrape by on her pension alone. Not that Nan ever liked Mum much to begin with—thank heavens she didn’t disown me too. Small mercies, I suppose—I take after my dad, at least.
Money was tight, but we made it work. Nan became my mum and dad rolled into one. I’d ask her advice, spill my secrets—she was the first to hear about my schoolyard crush, my teenage angst, all of it. And through every bit of it, Nan had my back.
Then I started uni, and Nan passed away. No other family left. Just me and the house. Once I’d sorted the paperwork, guess who turned up after years of radio silence? Mum.
She tried to sweet-talk me into swapping—her cramped two-bed flat for my spacious house. Too much space for one person, apparently. When I said no, she hit the roof:
“You ungrateful little madam! I brought you into this world, didn’t I?”
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I wasn’t having it. “Nan raised me. Where were you all those years? You tossed me out like last week’s leftovers—just so you could play happy families with your new husband. So no, I don’t owe you a thing.”
Five years rolled by after that lovely reunion. I got married, had a son, and life in our house was ticking along nicely—until Mum reappeared. No chance was she worming her way back into my life. Who does that? Ditch your kid, then swan back in decades later?
My little boy answered the door. “Mum, who’s this lady?”
Mum pounced. “I’m your gran! Can I come in? Your mum won’t let me.”
“I’ve never seen you before. Mum, is she telling the truth? Why didn’t I know about her?”
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“Love, pop upstairs—we’ll chat later,” I told him, then turned to Mum. “What d’you want? I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
She plonked herself down and turned on the waterworks. Got conned, apparently. Sold her flat to buy some dream home, only for her husband to nick the cash and vanish. Now she’s homeless and—oh, what luck!—suddenly remembers she’s got a daughter.
“I’ve got nowhere else to go. You can’t leave me on the streets. You’re a decent person. Let me move in—I gave birth to you!”
I let her stay the night—couldn’t exactly turf her onto the pavement. Next morning, I rang Great-Aunt Mabel, Mum’s cousin out in Devon. Told her my husband would drop Mum off tomorrow. Country air’ll do her good—plenty of work there, too. She can stay. Not in my house, though. Nan raised me, not her.
As she left, Mum screeched: “Why are you so heartless? I gave birth to you!”
Ah yes. Why *am* I so heartless? Must be genetic.
