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 could have imagined what my life would become. At first, he assured me it was only temporary, that they’d stay with me for a couple of months while they found a place of their own. But three years have passed, and what was meant to be fleeting has become permanent. Worse still, his wife, Margaret, is now expecting his child. And every day of my old age feels more like torment.
We live in an ordinary two-bedroom flat in a quiet London suburb. Now, the house is packed—me, my son, his pregnant wife, and her two children. Soon, there’ll be another baby. I don’t blame Margaret—she’s polite enough, never raises her voice. But she won’t lift a finger around the house, nor does she know how. Though her children are in school, she doesn’t work, spending her days scrolling through her phone or strolling with friends. Sometimes, she gets her nails done, though I dare not ask who’s paying for it.
William does work, yes. But his wages barely cover groceries and the bills, especially with so many mouths to feed. The rest falls on me. My pension, along with the odd jobs I take—every morning at dawn, I scrub floors in a couple of offices before hurrying home by eight. You’d think I might rest then, but no chance—the sink overflows with breakfast dishes, lunch isn’t made, the laundry’s untouched, and the floors are unswept. And it’s all left to me.
Margaret, before the pregnancy, at least managed the shopping and occasionally cooked. Now? Nothing. She claims her back aches. She drops the children at school and vanishes, only returning with William by lunchtime. But someone has to cook, serve, and clean up after. Does she do it? Of course not. It’s all on me. And I can’t keep up.
Once, I dared to speak to my son. “Will,” I said, “there’s too many of us in this small flat. Maybe you and Margaret could think about renting a place?” He just shrugged. “Mum, half this house is mine. We can’t afford rent. You’ll have to manage.” Like a knife to the heart. I’ve lived my whole life for him, for family. And now I’m told to simply manage?
Last month, I had a terrible spell with my blood pressure. Collapsed right there in the kitchen, nearly knocked a frying pan off the stove. The ambulance took me away. The doctor said I needed rest, peace, no stress. But how can there be peace when every day here is a circus?
The children aren’t to blame, of course. But between them, Margaret’s pregnancy, and William’s indifference, my golden years have become nothing but exhaustion. Afternoons, I try to lie down for an hour—my legs ache, my back burns. But then I’m up again, cooking supper, tidying. Evenings, the house descends into bedlam: children shrieking, running, brawling, crying. Quiet in this flat is a luxury long forgotten.
More and more, I catch myself thinking the only way out is to take out a loan and rent myself a tiny studio. Somewhere silent. Where no one bangs pots, hurls toys, or waits to be served. Where I might, at last, simply breathe.
But I’m frightened. Frightened to be alone. Frightened to take on debt in my twilight years. And yet, more frightening still—is feeling like a servant in my own home. The home where I’d hoped to spend my old age with warmth and care. Instead, I’ve found myself with hands raw from scrubbing and a heart that pounds like a drum.
