“Youre to blame for being brokeno one forced you to marry and have kids,” my mum snapped when I asked for help.
I was twenty when I married James. We rented a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts of Brighton. Both of us workedhim in construction, me at a chemist. We scraped by, but it was enough. We dreamed of saving for our own place, and back then, anything felt possible.
Then came Liam. Two years later, Oliver. I took maternity leave, and James picked up extra shifts. But still, money vanishednappies, formula, doctors, bills, and rent alone ate half his wages.
Id look at our boys and wake up sick with worry: What if James got hurt? What if we were evicted? What then?
My mum lived alone in a two-bed. So did Nan. Both in London. Both with spare rooms. I wasnt asking for muchjust a corner, temporary. While the kids were small. While we got back on our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Nantwo birds, one stone. Wed take the other flat. Just me, James, and the boys. But she wouldnt even hear it.
“Live with *my* mother?” she scoffed. “Are you mad? Ive got my own life. That woman would drive me up the wall. Sort yourself outdont drag me into it.”
I swallowed the sting. Then I rang my dad. Hes been with his new wife yearstheyve got a four-bed in Manchester. I hoped hed take Nan in. Shes *his* mum, after all. But he refused. Said his stepkids took up all the space. “The house is bursting at the seams.”
Desperate, I called Mum again. Begged. Cried. Just a roof, even for a little while. Thats when she spat it out:
“This is on *you*. No one made you marry. No one asked you to have kids. Wanted to play grown-up? Now deal with it. Sort your own mess.”
It hit like a slap. I sat there in the kitchen, phone in hand, feeling the world crumble. This was *my mother*. The one who shouldve had my back. I wasnt asking for luxuryjust a shred of kindness.
The next day, James and I talked options. The only one who answered was his mum, Margaret. She lives in a village near Salisbury, in a house with a garden. Spare room. Said shed take us in gladlyeven offered to mind the boys while we worked.
But Im scared. Its not London. Theres no proper GP, no decent schools, barely any buses. What if we go and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances? What if I just… give up?
Still, weve no choice. Mum shut the door. Nans too frail. Dad acts like were strangers. So here I am: stuck between nothing and a lifeline thats not perfect, but its real.
Know what hurts most? Not the struggle. Not the fear. Its knowing your own blood turns coldest when you need them most. And my biggest fear isnt for meits for my boys. That theyll ever feel this: unwanted by their own grandmother.
