I always was one of those women who live for their children. From the sleepless nights when my son was small to the endless worries for his future when he grew older. My hair greyed early, I gave much away, made countless sacrifices—but all with love, for Edward was my one and only. When he turned thirty-one, I thought perhaps the time had come to consider my own needs at last.
Edward married eight years ago. We and his wife’s family paid for the wedding, and as a gift, I gave them an envelope of money—let them decide how best to spend it. The newlyweds rented a decent two-bedroom flat in a good part of London afterward. I admired their independence—not every young couple can afford to live alone.
But a few years later, money troubles began. My son came to me for help. I had a small income from a flat I rented out—left to me by my late husband’s father. The tenant was a quiet man, paid on time, never caused trouble. Still, when I learned my daughter-in-law was expecting, I knew I had to act.
I asked the tenant to leave and gave the flat to Edward and his wife. I told myself—so what if I went without a few luxuries for a while? It would be worth it to help them. And to my surprise, my daughter-in-law suddenly became warm—inviting me round, asking my opinion.
Three years passed. Three years they lived there, not paying a single pound. And still, I couldn’t bring myself to ask them to leave. You see, when relations are good, it becomes a sort of trap—hard to be the “bad one” who reminds them of what’s owed. But I began to feel the strain: tiredness creeping in, weight gained, meals scrimped on. All for their sake.
Then one day, I gathered my courage. Calmly, without accusation, I asked Edward, “Don’t you think it might be time to look for your own place? The commute is long, and there are plenty of good flats nearer the nursery.” He only laughed it off. My daughter-in-law added, “The child’s still small—let us stay a while longer.”
I tried to explain—being a mother didn’t mean sacrificing oneself forever. There were flats closer to good schools. But the talk turned sour. They took offence. I ended up feeling guilty—guilty for wanting a normal life of my own.
A week later, my in-laws invited me to a distant cousin’s birthday—someone I’d met at the wedding. I didn’t wish to go, but they insisted: “No gift needed, just come.” So I went.
What awaited me was an ambush. All eyes turned my way. The talk of the evening was my “heartlessness”—how could I take a home from a young family? What mattered more, money or my son and grandson’s well-being? Ten voices, all against me. No one cared to listen to how I’d struggled all this time.
In the end, they settled it: Edward’s family would stay, but now they’d pay—a token sum, half the market rate. Less, in truth. And I’d be the landlord, entitled to demand repairs, timely payments, and so on. Fair, perhaps, but forced upon me. I was too weary to argue.
Something tells me this “agreement” will bring no good. Soon enough, there’ll be quarrels, complaints. But I’ve no choice. I’ve made my decision—if they break something, they’ll pay to mend it. I’d like to believe we can keep peace between us. But if not—well, that’s the price they’ve chosen. I wanted things to be different… but no one heard me.
