**Diary Entry 9th May**
Why did I ever agree to let my son and his wife move in with me? Even now, Im not sure.
Im Margaret Whitmore, living in a two-bedroom flat in one of Londons quieter suburbs. Sixty-three, widowed, my pension is modest, but I get by. When my son William married two years ago, I was overjoyed, as any mother would be. Hes youngonly thirty-oneand his wife, Emily, a bit younger. They tied the knot but had no place of their own. “Mum, well stay with you just for a while,” they said. “Well save up for a mortgage deposit and be out before you know it.”
Like a fool, I was thrilledI imagined babysitting grandchildren. So I let them stay. Now, I dont know how to get out of this mess. That “little while” has dragged into two years, and none of us have any peace.
At first, I kept my distance. They were newlyweds, adjusting. I didnt interferecooked for them, did the laundry, played the perfect host. Then Emily fell pregnant. Early, I thoughtbut if it was Gods will, so be it. My grandson, Oliver, arrived. A sweet boy. But with him came empty savings. Everyone knows how costly babies arenappies, formula, organic everything, always the best brands.
I dont mind helping. But Im not their maid. Yet here I amnanny, cook, and cleaner rolled into one. The young mother is “exhausted.” Apparently, Oliver keeps her up all night. So she lounges in bed till noon, glued to her phone, while the babys parked in his playpen. TV blaring, lunch ready (mine), floors mopped (mine), child bathed (mine). And still, Emily complains shes “burned out.”
And William? Off to work, trudges home silent. If I try to talk, he shuts me down. “Mum, dont interfere.” Emily acts like she owns the place. One word from me, and she snaps back with three. Then William accuses me of “bullying” his wife. Bullying! After all Ive done for them.
I dont know what to do. Ive told William, “Find a place to rent. Im tired.” He just says, “We cant afford it, Mum.” I suggested downsizingId take a studio, they could save properly, live like proper adults. Take responsibility. Id help with Oliver when I could. But no. My son nods, then nothing changes.
I know theyre young, lifes hard. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures shot, my joints ache, I barely sleep. Yet if they need me, Im therehospital runs, babysitting for days. The moment I say Im tired, they look at me like Ive betrayed them.
Last week, it boiled over. I woke early, tidied the kitchen, made Olivers porridgesame as always. Emily stormed in. “Whyd you make this again? I told you I want the packet kind!” I lost it. Told her Im a grandmother, not a flipping microwave. That they ought to stand on their own feet. She cried, William took her side, they slammed the door, left. An hour later, they waltzed back as if nothing happened. Not so much as an apology.
Now I wake every morning wonderingwhy did I let this happen? Why didnt I put my foot down? Maybe because Im a mother. Because I love my son. But more and more, I thinkI love him, but Im worn to the bone. And when I sit there, swallowing my blood pressure pills, I wonderis it time to throw them out? Itll hurt, but at least I wont lose my mind.
Tell me thisam I the only daft old woman whos fallen into this trap? Or are there others like me out there?
