Margaret is sixty, not that shed ever admit it unless cornered by the GP. She has two grown-up children and shares a cramped two-bedroom flat with her husband. Or, technically, she shares a postcode with himliving together is a bit strong, given shes tolerated him for decades out of sheer tenacity and an almost heroic affinity for Earl Grey.
Her husband, Brian, is an absolute devil for getting his own way. With the air of a retired headmaster and the emotional warmth of a wet Tuesday in Croydon, everything at home simply *must* be done to his liking or war breaks out. For years, Margarets just gritted her teeth and put the kettle on.
Their kids? Their daughter, Emily, has been married to Tom for twelve years. Together they bravely shouldered a mortgage, and every Christmas bonus and pay rise promptly disappears into the hungry maw of the building society. Somehow, they still manage to keep their two kids fed, decently turned out, and only mildly feral.
Emilys brother, Peter, meanwhile, is doing the sort of well that makes Christmas dinners awkward. Posh London flat? Tick. Weekends in his Sussex cottage? Tick. No visible signs of financial despair? Double tick.
One evening, Peter called up Emily, sounding suspiciously cheerful. Mums finally had enough, and shes divorcing Dad. Her idea, by the way. Theyve flogged the flat and split the dosh. I said Ill sort out Dad, and youd have Mum. Fairs fair, right?
Wait, what? spluttered Emily, nearly dropping her phone into her shepherds pie. Weve got a two-bed. Two kids. Where exactly is Mum meant to sleepthe airing cupboard?
Oh, so youre just going to abandon your own mother? Peter replied, pouring guilt as only brothers can.
Toms going to love this, muttered Emily darkly.
Peter just grunted, Your circus, your monkeys, and hung up before she could protest further. Hed already generously offered his smallest one-bed in Islington to Dad; problem solved on his end.
So, after a lot of tea and just a few mild breakdowns, Emily took out another mortgage (sure, why not?), using what was left from her mothers half of the flat sale as the deposit. The flat went in Emilys name, and now Margaret lives round the corner, where the grandchildren visit, mainly for biscuits.
Tom still hasnt come round to the idea. Sometimes he shuffles gloomily about, muttering that people Margarets age should know better than to rock the boat. Hes convinced it all lands squarely on the childrens shoulders, and hell tell you so after his third pint.
So, what do you reckon? Is Tom right, or is it time for everyone to just have another cuppa and get on with it?
