Our Foolish Children Chose to Play at Being Independent and Ended Up in Debt and Losing Their Home When our children got married, both sets of parents decided to help them with housing. My husband and I had some savings, as did my in-laws. We pooled our money together and it turned out to be enough for a small flat. We wanted to buy it for our children right away, but they said they were independent and would buy it themselves. Some time later, we found out that yes, they had bought a flat—a three-bedroom one. And where did the money come from? They’d taken out a bank loan to buy the flat. Who would pay off the monthly payments? They assured us they could afford it. Then we found out they wanted a car too. Their flat was far from work and public transport was inconvenient. They bought a brand new car on finance, straight from a showroom, though we’d suggested they get a used one. Again, they insisted they were independent and knew best. Next, they wanted a child—preferably born abroad so they could secure citizenship there. Once again, they borrowed money so their daughter could give birth in good conditions, with a doctor always available. She gave birth. Then they wanted to renovate the baby’s room, so took out another loan. When we asked, “Who will pay?”—”Ourselves, we are independent.” And then misfortune struck—my son-in-law was laid off from work, and my daughter was on maternity leave. No more money. How would they pay off all those loans? They asked us to sell our countryside cottage. We didn’t want to, but had to do it so they wouldn’t default. Sadly, it wasn’t enough. Then they had to sell the flat, and eventually the car too. They moved in with their in-laws. Now they complain they have nothing of their own. Of course—because they didn’t listen to us. The loans are still not paid off—it will take several more years. Nothing but sadness and tears.

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

Foolish children, thinking they could dance alone along the foggy banks of independence, wandered off and soon found themselves drowned in debts, the keys to their own flat slipping like pebbles through their fingers.

When our children wed, weboth sets of parents, torchbearers of old hopespledged to help them find a place to live. My husband and I had squirrelled away some savings, as had the in-laws. We merged our pots together and found there was enough for a modest London flat. We wanted to buy it outright for them straightaway, to cradle them with bricks and mortar, but the children, all buttoned up with pride, insisted they were independent, that they would sort it themselves.

Later, we learned they had indeed bought a flatspacious, with three rooms overlooking the citys bleak skyline. But how had they financed it? Theyd borrowed pounds from the bank, of course, chasing the London dream. When we asked who would shoulder the weight of repayments, they breezily declared they could manage quite well.

Not long after, word drifted inthey wanted a car. For them, the flat was far from their jobs and, oh, the Tube was too grim each morning. So they bought a gleaming car, brand new, thousands of pounds on credit. We suggested a trusty second-hand, but they assured us their independence shined brighter than our caution.

And then came whispers of childrenone, and best if she could be born abroad, to collect a second passport like a rare stamp. Another loan, this time so that our daughter could be cared for in some pricey foreign clinic, a doctor hovering day and night, the bills stacking up like clouds over the Thames.

The baby arrived. Soon after, their dreams turned to redecorating the nursery, borrowing more pounds, swearing yet again they could pay themselves, that they were stillmiraculouslyindependent.

But then the sky twisted. My son-in-law lost his job, his suit gathering dust, and my daughter was at home on maternity leave. No pounds trickled in. The loans stayed, swelling, hard and cold. They begged us to sell our cottage in Kenta gentle retreat by the hedgerowsto salvage them from ruin. We resisted, but in the end, the cottage was gone, hops and lavender traded for a few months relief. Still, it wasnt enough.

Soon the flat vanished, sold off in haste. The shiny car followed, slipping into someone elses driveway. The children drifted, restless, to lodgings with our in-laws, shrunken and hollow-eyed. Now, they sigh and grumble that nothing belongs to them, nothing is truly theirs. Of course not. They never listened. The loans linger, nipping at their heels, the years ahead heavy with repayments. Only gloom and the taste of loss remain, echoing through their days like a strange, half-remembered dream.

Everyone for Themselves “Mum, you have no idea what’s happening in the housing market right now,” Mark nervously shuffled through a stack of printouts, arranging them neatly only to spread them like a deck of cards across the kitchen table. “Prices are going up every week. If we don’t put down the deposit now, we’ll lose this flat to someone else.” Lydia slid a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat opposite. Photoshop floor plans, figures, mortgage repayment graphs all flashed up on the paper. A three-bedroom new build, room for Timothy and Sophie to each finally have their own space. “How much are you short?” “Eighty-two thousand.” Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s a lot. Ann’s coming apart at the seams, the kids are growing, and we’re still stuck in rentals…” Lydia watched her son and saw the same boy who used to pick dandelion bouquets for her. Thirty-two, two children of his own, but that little frown between his eyebrows was just the same as when he’d worried about unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as everything settles down, I’ll start returning it.” She covered his hand with her own, worn tough by a lifetime of cooking and cleaning. “Mark, it’s for the grandkids. What’s money compared to family?” At the bank, Lydia filled out the forms in the neat script honed by thirty years as an accountant. Eighty-two thousand. Almost everything she’d set aside through the years. For emergencies. Just in case. For “you never know.” Mark gave her a tight hug right at the cashier’s window, ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best. Honestly. I won’t forget.” Lydia patted his back. “Off you go now. Ann’s probably waiting.” …The first months in the new flat blurred together in a carousel of crosstown trips. Lydia arrived with Sainsbury’s bags—chicken, oats, butter, kids’ yoghurts. She helped Ann hang curtains, build IKEA furniture, scrub builder’s dust off the window ledges. “Timothy! Careful with those tools!” she shouted, balancing curtain hooks and explaining to her daughter-in-law the finer points of cottage pie. Ann nodded, phone in hand. Mark appeared in the evenings, worn out, ate his mum’s dinners in minutes, vanished to his room. “Thanks, Mum,” he called on his way out. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, her phone lit up with his number. “Hi, Mum… there’s a thing. The mortgage is due and the car needs repairs—missing by about three and a half grand.” Lydia transferred the money without hesitating. It’s hard for young families, after all—new expenses, little children, stressful jobs. They’ll get on their feet—return it. Or not. What does it matter when it’s family? The years slipped faster than water through fingers. Timothy turned seven—Lydia bought him that Lego set he’d begged his parents for. Sophie twirled in a pink sparkling dress, just like the one she’d seen on a Disney princess. “Nana, you’re the best!” Sophie hugged her, smelling of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend Lydia took the grandkids, or took them to the theatre, theme park, skating rink. Ice cream, toys, books. Her old coat pockets were stuffed with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this cheerful, willing servitude. Money for the mortgage—“Mum, it’s a tight month.” Sick days—“Mum, we can’t take off work.” Food—“Mum, you’re going to the shops anyway…” Thank-yous became less frequent. …That morning she stared at the stained ceiling. Rusty streaks creeping across the plaster—her flat had flooded, and it was uninhabitable. She called her son. “Mark, I need help with repairs. I don’t know when I’ll get the insurance—” “Mum,” he interrupted, “I just can’t right now. The kids have clubs and classes. Ann’s just started a course…” “I’m not asking for much, just to help find someone to do the work. Or maybe—” “I really haven’t got time, Mum, especially not for something like that,” Mark repeated like he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” The dial tone. Lydia put down the phone. The screensaver flickered—a photo from last Christmas. Herself, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. That money he’d borrowed without a thought. Those weekends she’d given to his children. The time, energy, love—all that was “before.” Now there were “other priorities.” A drop from the ceiling landed cold on her hand. The next day Ann rang herself—a rare occurrence that put Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law even spoke. “Mrs Parker, Mark told me about your call,” Ann sounded irritated. “You do understand, everyone needs to look after their own problems, right? We’ve got to handle our own mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been topping up every third month. The deposit made almost entirely from her own pocket. “Of course, Ann,” she replied calmly, “Everyone for themselves.” “Glad we agree. Mark’s just worried you’re upset. You’re not upset, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone. Lydia set the phone on the table and stared at it as if it were a strange insect. Then she went to the window, but found nothing outside to comfort her. Nights became endless hours with the ceiling pressing down, memories spinning through her mind. She revisited the last five years like counting prayer beads. She had created this herself. Raised her son to believe his mother was a never-ending resource. That morning Lydia called the estate agent. “I’d like to put my cottage on the market. Six plots, just outside London, all mains services connected.” The cottage she and her husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted when pregnant with Mark. The veranda where countless summer evenings were spent. A buyer came in a month. Lydia signed the paperwork with no time for nostalgia. The money hit her account, and she coolly split it up: home repairs, a new savings account, a rainy-day fund. The builders moved in the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, wallpaper, taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—without saving for “bad days” or worrying who’d need help next. Mark didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia didn’t call either. The first phone call came after the renovations were complete. The new kitchen gleamed, windows no longer rattled, the pipes no longer leaked. “Mum, why haven’t you come over? Sophie’s been asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Mark. My own life.” She visited the next week. Brought books for the grandchildren—nice gifts, but not extravagant. Spent a couple of hours over tea, chatting about weather and school. Declined dinner. “Mum, can you babysit the kids Saturday?” Mark waylaid her in the hall. “We’re—” “Can’t. I have plans.” She saw his face fall. He didn’t understand. Not yet. In time, he might. Months went by, and the truth dawned: without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage ate a third of their income. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to watch the kids. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a proper winter coat—new, warm, not from a charity shop. Spent two weeks at a spa hotel. Took up Nordic walking. She remembered how Ann’s parents always kept their distance. Polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. No complaints from their daughter either. Maybe they’d been right all along? Rare visits with the grandchildren became formal. Lydia came, gave modest presents, chatted about school and mates. Left after a couple of hours, never stayed over, never took the kids away for the weekend. Timothy asked her once: “Nana, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Nana’s busy now, Timmy.” He didn’t understand. But Mark, standing in the doorway, maybe started to get it. Lydia went back to her freshly renovated flat that smelled of new paint and new furniture. She brewed herself a good cup of tea and settled into a comfy chair, bought with the cottage money. Guilt crept up at night, sometimes. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned: love isn’t martyrdom. Especially when no one notices—or cares—about your sacrifice. This time, she chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.