I remember it as if it were a scene from the old country lanes of Yorkshire, when my son James and his wife Primrose handed me the keys to a modest terraced house the very day I retired. They escorted me to the solicitors office, and I was so thrilled that I could only whisper, Why on earth are you giving me such an extravagant present? I dont need it! James smiled and said, Its a retirement bonus, Mother; youll have a roof over your head and room for guests. At that time I had barely collected my first pension check; I had just been let go after decades of service, and they had already arranged everything without consulting me. I tried to decline, but they urged me not to argue.
My relationship with Primrose had never been a smooth road. At first we got along politely, then, without warning, tempests would flare up, each of us the cause of the others storm. Over the years we learned to keep our peace, to stop fighting, and, thanks to God, we have lived calmly for several years now.
When my sisterinlaw, Aunt Eleanor, learned of the gift, she rang me straight away, lavishing praise on herself: I must have raised a good daughter, seeing you accept such a gift without a word of complaint! She added that she herself would never have taken such a present and would have given it up for the sake of her own grandson.
That night, halfasleep, I wondered whether I could manage on one modest pension. In the morning I called my grandson, Thomas, who was soon to turn sixteen and was preparing for university. I gently probed whether he would mind if I set up a small flat for him, since he could not take his sweetheart to his parents house.
Grandma, dont worry! he replied. Ill earn my own keep!
Everyone declined the offer of the house. I suggested it to Primrose, to Thomas, even to James himself.
The memory of my elder sister Marys misfortune came back to me: her sisterinlaw had lost her home and been forced into a council flat, clinging to that cramped room as a drowning man does to a reed.
Our uncle Arthur has been missing for fifteen years, and his heirs still quarrel, unable to split his estate without a fight.
I once saw a documentary in which my own parents had bequeathed their home to James; he evicted them, sold the property, and left my mother and father out on the street.
Tears fell thenwhether from gratitude or pride, I could not say.
After a visit to the pension office I learned my retirement income was £2,000 a month, while James was renting the flat for £3,000 a month. In that instant I truly appreciated the gift of my children: it was fit for a king.
