My Children Are Well Provided For, I Have Money Set Aside, and I’ll Be Drawing My Pension — The Story of Edward, Our Neighbour and Family Friend, Renowned Mechanic, Who Worked Tirelessly Until His Final Days

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 7 minViews 1

You know, my kids are well looked after, Ive got a bit tucked away, and soon Ill be getting my pension.

A few months back, my neighbour, George, passed away. Id known him for over a dozen years, all those years living side by side. We werent just passing acquaintances we were proper family friends, watched our kids grow up together. George and his wife, Margaret, had five children, and they worked their socks off to buy each of the kids a home. George especially he was a renowned mechanic in town. You had to book him weeks in advance; the modern garages owner would practically pray for someone with his experience. He could pinpoint an engine fault just by listening he really was a master at what he did.

Not long before he died, after the youngest daughter got married, George started taking it easy. Hed ride his moped about, and suddenly that springy stride of his gave way to something slower, more like an old mans walk. He had just turned 59 that spring He took some time off, complaining that his boss begged him to stay just another ten days so they wouldn’t lose customers. But George had made up his mind he didnt want to go back. The day before he was meant to go back for one last shift, he went to speak with his manager, asked to quit quietly, and promised hed pop in to lend a hand if they ever got really stuck.

For some reason, he never said a word to Margaret. So in the morning when he was meant to get ready for work at the garage, he just had a proper stretch, rolled over and drifted off again. Margaret dashed in from the kitchen, already setting up breakfast, clapped her hands and said,

Are you still asleep? Who did I make breakfast for? Its going to go cold!

He just shrugged, Ill eat it cold, Im not going into work

What do you mean youre not going? Theyre waiting for you, you know they count on you!

Im not going. I packed it in yesterday

Oh, dont be daft, you wouldnt quit. Come on, get up!

Margaret playfully pulled the blanket off him, but he couldnt have cared less about getting up, just curled up and covered his eyes again.

Im knackered, Margaret, Ive run out of steam Like an old engine after its third overhaul The kids are sorted, Ive squirrelled away a few pounds, Ill be getting my pension soon

Pension? The kids have so much on their plates, theyre forever doing up their places, swapping furniture, Sam wants to buy a car, whos going to help them?

They can sort themselves out. You and I, thank goodness, did our bit without holding it over them.

Margaret popped over to see me in a bit of a flap that morning, told me all about how the conversation went. She wanted advice, and I shared what Id noticed in George lately.

He really is worn out, Margaret. If hes telling you hes tired, dont force him back to the garage, let him have a proper rest, let him enjoy it. Hes been under cars for years and only just finished up at dusk yesterday. I barely recognised him, shuffling along like a grandad, shoulders slumped. Came up close, and I was stunned it was him. He just said, Im tired

But Margaret wasnt having any of it:

Hes just moping! All this Im tired stuff! Ill call the kids round, theyll remind him how much there is to do!

Dont, Margaret. Really. How olds your eldest now? 45, isnt it? Hell be a grandad soon enough, and youre still trying to help them out let the kids step up, old age is knocking.

She was a bit miffed and left.

A week later, all five kids came round to George and Margarets. They were crowded round the big dining table, lots of noise but a bit of tension in the air. Everyone knew theyd gathered for a reason, though no one said outright.

Margaret kicked things off:

Your dads ready to retire. What do you think, shall we talk it through? We wont be able to help much anymore, youll have to pull yourselves up a bit

George chipped in:

No need to stress, look at you lot five kids, all working, and you cant support the two of us? Both of us managed to support five of you, helped you get where you are, nobody left wanting. Im not having a go, just saying how it was. Thats how it should be parents help the kids. But now, we might need a bit of help ourselves. Its getting tough, I worry I might fall off that lift at the garage

After a brief pause, the eldest, David, spoke first. He didnt ask how his dad was feeling, just rattled off a list of all his issues, finishing up,

Im sorry, but we just dont have the money to help out now. Maybe in the future

The rest were much the same. Some needed new houses, others were planning on cars, and all seemed to think their parents would, once again, pitch in heavily. Nobody bothered to ask how mum and dad had come up with all the help in the first place.

Finally, George stood and said, with heavy resignation,

Well, if youre all carting me off to work, Ill keep at it as long as I can

The next day, Margaret came round again, still thinking about our earlier chat.

So, you were saying The kids came, had their word with Dad and then just went off to work, just as you guessed. And afterwards all this about being tired! Im tired, too what am I supposed to do now?

George went back to the garage for three days. Then the ambulance turned up and took him away. Nothing could be done for his worn-out heart. All the children gathered again, this time for the funeral and wake. Of course, we were there too, listening to the kids reminisce about Dad about what a good man he was, for them and their own kids. Honestly, I just wanted to ask, So why didnt you look after him when he asked you to?

Margarets on her own now, having to scrimp wherever she can, since the kids are all too wrapped up in their own troubles. Its a sad old tale, isnt it?

I was sitting at the table, clutching the photos that had just slipped from my mother-in-law’s gift bag. They weren’t cards. They weren’t well wishes. They were printed photos—like from a phone, deliberately developed, as if someone wanted them to last. My heart skipped a beat. The house was quiet. I could hear only the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint sound the oven makes when it’s keeping temperature. Tonight was meant to be a family dinner. Normal. Simple. Perfectly arranged. I’d set everything up just so. Tablecloth—immaculate. Plates—all matching. Glasses—the good ones. I even put out the ‘guest’ napkins I save for special occasions. And right then, my mother-in-law entered with her carrier bag and that same look of stern inspection she always gives. “I brought a little something,” she said, placing the bag on the table. No smile. No warmth. Just someone leaving behind evidence. I opened the bag out of politeness. And suddenly the photos spilled out, landing on the table like slaps. The first was of my husband. The second—him again. And on the third my head spun—my husband… and a woman beside him. She was in profile, but you could see enough to know she wasn’t random. Everything inside me tightened. My mother-in-law sat down across from me, fussing with her sleeve as if she’d just served tea rather than dropped a bombshell. “What is this?” I asked, and even I heard the odd, low tone in my voice. She took her time, sipped her water, and finally answered, “The truth.” I counted to three in my head, feeling my words tremble on my tongue. “The truth about what?” She leaned back, arms folded, scanning me like I’d somehow let her down. “The truth about the man you’re living with,” she replied. I felt my eyes well up—not from pain, but from humiliation. From her tone. From the satisfaction in her voice. I picked up the photos one by one, my fingers sweating, the paper cold and sharp at the edges. “When were these taken?” I asked. “Recently enough,” she answered. “Don’t act naive. We all see it. Only you pretend not to.” I stood. The chair gave a loud creak that echoed through the flat. “Why bring them to me?” I demanded. “Why not talk to your son?” She tilted her head. “I have,” she said. “But he’s weak. He pities you. I can’t stand women who drag men down.” It hit me, then. This wasn’t a revelation. It was an attack. Not to ‘save’ me, but to humiliate. To make me shrink. To remind me I wasn’t wanted. I turned to the kitchen, and just then the oven pinged—dinner was ready. That sound pulled me back into my body. Back to my reality. To what I’d made real. “Do you know what’s truly disgusting?” I said, still not looking up. “Go on,” she replied, dry as ever. I got out one plate, then another. Distracting my shaking hands by being useful—anything but falling apart. “The worst thing is, you didn’t bring these as a mother,” I said. “You brought them as an enemy.” She let out a quiet laugh. “I’m a realist,” she said. “And you should be too.” I plated the food, brought it to the table, and set a dish in front of her. She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” “Inviting you to dinner,” I replied steadily. “Because what you’ve done is not going to ruin my night.” And in that moment, she was thrown. I saw it. She hadn’t expected this. She was waiting for tears. For drama. For me to ring her son. For me to collapse. I didn’t. I sat across from her, stacked the photos up, and covered them with a napkin. White. Clean. “You want me to break,” I said. “That won’t happen.” Her eyes narrowed. “It will,” she said. “When he comes home and you confront him.” “No,” I replied. “When he comes home, I’ll give him dinner. And give him the chance to speak for himself.” The silence between us was heavy. Only the clink of cutlery as I set the table like it was the most important thing in the world. After twenty minutes, the key turned in the lock. My husband appeared, calling from the hallway, “Smells amazing in here…” Then he saw his mother at the table. His expression changed. I felt it before I even looked up. “Why are you here?” he asked. She smiled. “Came for dinner. Your wife is such a proper hostess.” Her words were sharp as a knife. I looked straight at him. No tears. No theatrics. He came to the table and saw the photos, part of one peeking out from beneath the napkin. He froze. “This…” he whispered. I didn’t let him run. “Explain—to me and to your mother. This is her show.” My mother-in-law leaned forward, ready for the spectacle. He let out a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing to it,” he said. “They’re old photos. From a colleague. She cornered me at a work party—someone snapped a picture.” I was silent. “And who printed them?” I asked. He glanced at his mother. She didn’t blink. Only smiled, triumphantly. Then he did something I never expected. He picked up the photos. Tore them in two. Then again. And threw them into the bin. My mother-in-law shot up. “Are you out of your mind?!” she snapped. He turned to her firmly. “You’re the one who’s lost it,” he said. “This is our home. And she is my wife. If you’re here to poison, you can leave.” I sat still. I didn’t smile. But something unknotted inside me. She snatched up her bag, left, and her footsteps on the stairs rang like an insult. My husband turned to me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. I looked at him. “I don’t want apologies,” I said. “I want boundaries. I want to know the next time, I won’t be left to deal with her alone.” He nodded. “There won’t be a next time,” he promised. I got up, fished the shredded photos from the bin, sealed them in a plastic bag. Not because I feared the pictures— But because I’d decided no one would ever leave their ‘evidence’ in my home again. That was my silent victory. What would you do in my shoes? I need your advice…