This has been going on for three years now. When my son William brought his new wife into our home—a woman with two children from a previous marriage—I never imagined how my life would change. Initially, he assured me it was temporary, that they’d stay just a few months while they looked for their own place. But three years later, the temporary has become permanent. What’s worse, his wife Emily is now expecting his child. And every day of my later years feels more like torment.
We live in an ordinary two-bedroom flat in a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Right now, the flat houses me, my son, his pregnant wife, and her two children. Soon, there’ll be another baby. I don’t blame Emily—she’s respectful, never raises her voice. But she doesn’t lift a finger around the house, nor does she know how. Though her children are in nursery, she doesn’t work, spending her days scrolling online or out with her friends. Occasionally, she gets her nails done, and I dread to ask whose money pays for it.
William has a job, yes. But his wages barely cover groceries and bills, especially with so many mouths to feed. The rest falls on me. My pension, plus the extra work I take—every morning at five, I scrub floors in two offices, returning home by eight. You’d think I could rest then, but no such luck. The sink is piled with dishes from breakfast, lunch isn’t made, laundry’s piling up, and the floors need sweeping. And all of it—falls to me.
Before she was pregnant, Emily at least went to the shops and sometimes cooked. Now? Nothing. She claims her back aches. She drops the children off at nursery and vanishes, only returning with William by lunchtime. But someone has to cook, serve, and clean—does she do it? No, of course not. It’s all on me. And I can’t keep up.
Once, I gathered the courage to speak to my son. “Will,” I said, “there are too many of us in this small flat. Maybe you and Emily could look into renting?” He just shrugged. “Mum, half this flat is mine. We can’t afford rent. Just bear with it.” His words cut like a knife. I spent my whole life putting him first, keeping our family together. And now—just bear with it?
Last month, I had a hypertensive crisis. Collapsed right in the kitchen, nearly knocked a frying pan off the stove. The paramedics took me away. The doctor said I needed rest, peace, no stress. But how can I rest when every day at home feels like a circus?
The children aren’t to blame, of course. But between them, pregnant Emily, and my son’s indifference, my later years have become endless exhaustion. After lunch, I try to lie down for an hour—my legs throb, my back aches. But then I drag myself up to cook dinner, clean again. By evening,the flat descends into chaos: the children shriek, run, fight, scream, cry. Peace in this house is a distant memory.
More and more, I catch myself thinking the only way out is to take out a loan and rent a tiny one-bed flat of my own. Somewhere quiet. Where no one slams saucepans, scatters toys, or expects meals served to them. Where I could finally just breathe.
But I’m afraid. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of taking on debt in my later years. And yet, even more terrifying is feeling like a servant in my own home—the home where I once imagined spending my later years wrapped in warmth and care. Instead, I’m left with hands raw from scrubbing and a pulse racing beyond measure.
Sometimes, the greatest act of love is knowing when to put yourself first—because no one else will.
