Why did I ever agree to let my son and his wife move in with me? Even now, I still wonder.
Im Margaret Whitmore, living in a modest two-bedroom flat in one of the quiet neighbourhoods of Cambridge. At sixty-three, Im a widow, my pension just enough to get by. When my son Edward married two years ago, I was overjoyed, as any mother would be. Hes youngonly thirty-oneand his wife, Beatrice, a touch younger. They tied the knot, but they had nowhere to live, no place of their own. Mum, they said, well stay with you just a little while. Soon well save enough for a mortgage deposit and be on our way.
Like a fool, I was delightedimagining Id soon be doting on grandchildren. So I let them stay. But now? I hardly know how to escape this mess. That little while has dragged into two years, and none of us has a proper life anymore.
At first, I kept my distance. They were newlyweds, adjusting to married life. I didnt interferecooked for them, did the washing, kept everything tidy. Then Beatrice fell pregnant. So soon, I thoughtbut if it was Gods will, there must be a reason. My grandson, Thomas, arriveda lovely little boy. Only, with his birth went all their savings. Everyone knows how costly raising a child isnappies, formula, baby foodall dear, and Beatrice insists on nothing but premium brands, the freshest, imported if possible.
Im happy to help. But Im not a housemaid. Yet somehow, Ive become nanny, cook, and cleaner all at once. The young mother is exhaustedapparently Thomas keeps her up at night. So she lies in bed till noon, glued to her phone while the baby plays in his cot. The tellys on, lunch is ready (made by me), the floors mopped, the child bathed. And still, Beatrice complains shes worn out.
And Edward? Off to work he goes, returning weary, hardly speaking. If I try to talk to him, he brushes me off. Mum, keep out of it, he says. Beatrice acts as though she owns the place. I say one word, she snaps back with threealways raising her voice. Then Edward accuses me of bullying his wife. Bullying! Me, when I do nothing but help!
I dont know what to do. Edward, I say, find a place to rent. Im tired. And he answers, Weve no money, Mum. I suggested downsizingId take a small studio, and theyd save for their own place, live as proper adults, responsible for themselves. Id help with Thomas when I could. But noEdward nods, yet nothing changes.
I know theyre young, and life is hard. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures up, my joints ache, I cant sleep. Yet if they need meoff I dash, to the hospital, for injections, looking after Thomas for days. And when I say Im worn out, they stare at me like Ive betrayed them.
Just last week, we had a dreadful row. I woke early, tidied the kitchen, made porridge for Thomassame as always. Beatrice stormed in: Why did you make this again? I told you I want the ready-made kind! I lost my temper. Told her I was a grandmother, not a kitchen appliance. That they ought to provide for themselves. She burst into tears, Edward took her side, they slammed the door and left. An hour later, they were back as if nothing had happenedno apology, nothing.
Now, every morning, I ask myselfwhy did I let them stay? Why didnt I put my foot down sooner? Perhaps because Im a mother. Because I love my son. But more and more, I thinkI love him, yet Im so tired. And as I sit swallowing my blood pressure pills, I wondermaybe its time to send them packing? Itll break my heart, but at least Ill keep my sanity.
Tell meam I the only one so foolish? Or are there others my age trapped in this same fix?
