Her words struck like a slap. “Right, but what’s the point of those chances if I’m still scrabbling?” She paused, then asked in a softer tone, “What exactly are you after?” I hesitated, unable to shape the thought into words. “I’m not sure… a bit of cash to clear the credit‑card balance, keep the flat paid, maybe sort the car loan. Just enough to catch my breath.” Her sigh stretched long, weary. “I’ll be brutally honest, love. I adore you, but handing you money won’t cure this. You have to understand how you landed here in the first place.”
The sting hit instantly. “So this is on me?” “No,” she replied gently, “it’s your responsibility.” I clutched the handset tighter, the room suddenly felt oppressive. “You’re not a lad any longer,” she continued. “You’ve got a decent job, haven’t you?” “Yes, but it barely stretches over everything.” “What about budgeting? Have you traced where every pound disappears?” Silence fell. The truth was, I hadn’t. I knew I was splashing cash, but I’d been dodging the mirror, scared of what I’d see. My idea of a plan had been… swiping the card and hoping something would miraculously sort itself.
“I didn’t raise you to be a wobbly sap,” Margaret said. “If you need a hand—not just a lifeline—I’m here. But on terms that…”
