“Youve only got yourself to blame for being brokeno one forced you to get married and have kids,” my mum snapped when I asked for help.
I was twenty when I married Jack. 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 up for our own place, and back then, anything felt possible.
Then came Liam. Two years later, Ethan. I went on maternity leave, and Jack started pulling overtime. But still, the money ran thin. Everything went on nappies, formula, doctor visits, bills, and, of course, the renthalf his wages gone just like that.
Id look at our boys and wake up every morning with the same dread: What if Jack got sick? What if we got 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 a mansionjust a corner, temporary. While the kids were little. While we got back on our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Nantheyd share a flat, and wed take the other. We wouldnt take up much spacejust me, Jack, and the boys. But she wouldnt even hear it.
“Live with *my* mother?” she scoffed. “Are you mad? Ive got my own life. And that old bat would drive me up the wall. Sort yourself out, but dont drag me into it.”
I swallowed the sting. Then I called my dad. Hed been with his new wife for years in a big four-bed house. I hoped hed take Nan inshes *his* mum, after all. But he refused too. Said he had kids from his second marriage and the place was “bursting at the seams.”
Desperate, I rang Mum again. I cried. Begged her to take us in, even just for a bit. Thats when she spat it out:
“This is on *you* for being skint. No one made you marry. No one made you have kids. Wanted to play grown-up? Now deal with it. Sort your own mess.”
It hit me like a punch. I sat in the kitchen, phone in hand, feeling like the world had caved in. This was *my mum*. The one person who shouldve had my back. I wasnt asking for muchjust a bit of kindness.
The next day, Jack and I talked it over. The only one who answered our plea was his mum, Margaret. She lives in a village near Salisbury, in a house with a garden. Shes got a spare room and said shed take us in gladlyeven offered to mind the boys while we worked.
But Im scared. Its not the city. Its the middle of nowhere. No proper clinic, no decent school, not even a bus route. What if we go and never leave? What if the kids grow up with no chances, no future? What if I just give up?
Still, weve got no choice. My mums turned her back. Nans too old to help. Dad doesnt see us as family. Now Im stuck: take a leap into the unknown or accept help thateven if its not from my ownis at least real.
You know what hurts the most? Its not the struggle. Its knowing your own flesh and blood wont lift a finger when you need them. And my biggest fear isnt for me. Its for my boys. That theyll never feel what its like to be unwanted by their own gran.
