“No, Emma, dont count on me. You got marriedstand by your husband now, not me. I dont need a stranger in my house,” snapped Margaret.
Emma swallowed hard, gripping her phone tighter. A lump rose in her throat. She hadnt expected such a cold refusal.
“Mum Hes not a stranger. Hes my husband, your son-in-law. Were not asking you to buy us a flatjust to let us stay while we save for a deposit.”
A short, bitter laugh crackled down the line.
“I know how this goes. Let you stay, and youll never leave. First its the deposit, then repairs, then something else. And Ill never have peace. No, Emma, dont take it personally, but your father and I did everything ourselves without burdening anyone. Youll have to manage on your own.”
“Mum, how can we? You know were both working, saving every penny. Most of it goes on rent. At this rate, with prices rising, well only afford a shoebox in ten years.”
“Who has it easy these days?” Margarets voice sharpened. “Your father and I never lived with our parents. We went through it all alone and never complained.”
“Alone, alone Mum, dont rewrite history. I remember! I remember Grandma helping you.”
“That was different. Grandma helped because she wanted to. We never asked. I earned this flat the hard way, with your”
“I didnt ask to be born into nothing,” Emma shot back before slamming the phone down.
Her chest burned with frustration. Maybe her mother had the right to refuse, but the way shed done itas if shed built an empire single-handedly, and now Emma, the ungrateful wretch, expected a free ride. But that wasnt how it had been at all.
When Margaret found out she was pregnant, she wasnt even married. Edward, Emmas father, was flightystill sowing wild oats, avoiding responsibility. His mother was the same, long divorced, forever chasing happiness. So Margaret turned to Eleanor, Edwards grandmother.
Eleanor had wept with joy when she heard, hugging Margaret tight and promising help.
“Dont you worry, love. You keep that baby. And Ill have a word with Eddie,” shed said. “Since its come to this, Ill sign the cottage over to you. Ill move in with my daughter. Its too much for me alone, and Sarah could use a hand. Youll have a proper home for the little one.”
“Eleanor, you cantits a whole house!” Margaret had gasped.
“I wont take it with me, will I? Ive had no happinesslet yours start here.”
Eleanor kept her word, and more. The deed went to Margaret, knowing her grandson wasnt husband material. Later, Margaret sold the cottage for a two-bed flat.
After Emma was born, nothing changed. Edward still caroused, cheated, and barely contributed beyond his sporadic wages. Margaret knew but endured it, complaining sometimes, even cryingbut never kicking him out.
“Children need both parents,” shed tell her own mother when divorce was suggested. “When Emmas eighteen, Ill leave.”
Emma, meanwhile, had other ideas. Better a single mum and growing up fast than being a sounding board for tears, enduring constant rows, stepping between her parents.
Margaret limped on until Emma turned eighteen, then filed for divorce. Emma had been relieveduntil her mother said,
“Emma, its just us now. Were both grown women, so well share everything. Rest this monthnext month, youll cover half the bills and groceries.”
Emma, still in university, had panicked. Her student loan barely covered bread, let alone her mothers taste for meat, fish, and fresh veg. Part-time jobs paid nowhere near enough, so she dropped out to work full-time.
That decision haunted her. Without a degree, doors stayed shuteven for shelf-stacking. At first, she blamed herself. Then, talking to friends, she realised: shed never been given a fair start.
Her mothers reaction? A shrug. “Maybe it wasnt for you.”
They coexisted after thatno fights, no warmth.
Ten years passed. Emma married James. They rented a cramped flat on the outskirts. He was an electricianessential work, poor pay. Side gigs helped, but money vanished into boots, dentist bills, or patching budgets. Saving was slow.
“At this rate, well need twelve years,” James sighed, staring at his phone.
So Emma called her mother. The spare room in Margarets flat could buy them time.
But Margaret wasnt having itnot with a “stranger” in tow.
The rejection stung. Emma understood life hadnt been kind to her mothermaybe shed have hardened toobut the coldness hurt. Years of scraping by, asking for nothing, then one small request met with “sort yourselves out.”
Fine. If it was “sort yourselves,” they would. Emma had a backup: the cottage shed nearly forgotten.
“Margaret, youve got yours. Let Emma have hers,” her maternal grandmother had once said.
After Gran died, Margaret took over the cottageplanting potatoes, arguing with neighbours. Emma never mentioned ownership. But if her mother prized independence so much, why not follow suit?
Two days later, Emma called againbusinesslike.
“Mum, Im calling to say: clear your things from the cottage. Were renting it out.”
A pause. A dry chuckle.
“Renting? Whod take it?”
“Not your concern. Its sitting empty, just costing me taxes.”
“Not my concern? Ive kept it from rotting! Fixed the roof, spent my own moneyyouve not lifted a finger!”
“You volunteered. Take your things, or they go with the tenants.”
“Well see about that.”
The line went dead. Emmas heart raced, but for the first time, shed spoken as an equalnot a daughter, but an adult with rights.
Margaret was half-right. Few wanted the cottage.
“Could sell it. Or move there,” James said one day.
So Emma listed it. It hurtnot the bricks, but the memories. Summers, apple scent, Grans jams But life demanded it. And Gran wouldve approved.
Then, a call. A woman haggled, then arranged a viewing.
But at the viewingMargaret. Shed seen the ad and sent a friend to call. Too proud to reach out herself after their row.
“Well? Discount for family?” Margaret smirked.
Emma agreed, just to end it. The sale went through. Six months later, she and James drank tea in their own kitchenno unannounced visits, no inspections.
Then Margaret rang. First time since the sale. Emma worried, so she answered.
“Hi. I was at the cottage,” Margaret began hesitantly. “Lots of apples this year. Made too much jam. Want some?”
Emma sighed. Since the sale, shed felt hollow. No anger, no resentment. But no love either. Their relationship was transactional now. And business partners didnt deliver jam for free.
“No, Mum. Were fine.”
“Alright If you say so.”
Emma knew things would never go back. Margaret had stood her ground; so had she. But the walls theyd built left no room for bridges.
