“Mum, not this again!” Emily groaned, slapping her palm on the kitchen table. “We agreed you’d help with the loan payments!”
“We agreed no such thing,” replied Margaret calmly, stirring her tea. “You decided I’d help. Entirely on your own.”
“What do you mean? You said you’d think about it!”
“And I did. The answer’s no.”
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Emily stared at her mother, stunned, while her husband, James, shuffled awkwardly by the fridge like a man who’d accidentally walked into the wrong wedding.
“Mum, we’re in a tight spot,” Emily said, forcing her voice softer. “James lost his job, I’m on maternity leave with little Sophie. The bank won’t wait—they’re hounding us.”
“And whose fault is that?” Margaret set her cup down. “I warned you about taking out that loan for your flashy car.”
“Flashy? That old banger barely starts! We needed something reliable!”
“Reliable? The bus is reliable. I used it for forty years, and I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Emily shot up from the table, pacing like a caged tiger. “Oh, brilliant! So we’re meant to haul a baby around on public transport now?”
“Why not? I raised you alone, working myself to the bone. Never begged for help.”
James cleared his throat. “Margaret, we’re not asking for a handout. Just a temporary loan—we’ll pay you back the minute I find work.”
“And when will that be? A month? Six? The bank won’t pause payments while you ‘find yourself’.”
“I’ll get something soon—I’ve got qualifications, experience!”
“Of course you will,” Margaret nodded. “And until then? Should I live on fresh air?”
Emily spun around. “You get a decent pension—£1,400 a month! We’re only asking for £500. You’d still have £900 left!”
“For what, exactly?” Margaret pulled out a notepad. “Bills: £400. Prescriptions: £200. Food: £300 at least. That’s £900. Then what if the boiler breaks? Or I need new shoes? Or—heaven forbid—a private doctor?”
“You don’t buy shoes every month!”
“No, but the washing machine might konk out tomorrow. Then what?”
“We’d help then,” James offered.
Margaret gave him a wry look. “You’re kind, James, but you’ve nothing to help with. You’re asking *me* for money.”
Sophie started wailing. Emily shot her mother a glare and stormed off. James lingered, awkward as a startled deer.
“Margaret, I get it’s awkward, but we’re desperate. The bank’s threatening to repossess the car.”
“Good,” she said flatly. “Shouldn’t have bought it if you couldn’t afford it.”
“But we’re family. Shouldn’t family help each other?”
“I *have* helped. Thirty-five years raising your wife, putting her through uni, gifting you that flat. Thought it was *my* turn to relax.”
James hung his head. Emily returned, jiggling Sophie on her hip.
“Mum, don’t you care about your grandchild? What if we lose everything?”
“Drama queen,” Margaret sighed. “They’ll take the car, not your home—the one *I* gave you.”
“And how do we get to work then?”
“Like millions do: Tube. Bus. Feet.”
Emily slumped into a chair, clutching Sophie. “When did you get so heartless? You always helped before.”
“Before, I worked. Now I’m on a pension I scraped together. My savings aren’t your safety net.”
“Speaking of,” Emily mumbled, “you’ve got plenty saved…”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know that?”
“I—saw your bank statement once.”
“‘Once’? It was in my locked drawer.”
“Fine, I looked! Point is, you *can* help!”
“But *won’t*. That money’s for *my* emergencies—not yours.”
“*We’re* your emergency!”
“No, *yours* is bad choices. My rainy day’s ahead. Who’ll care for me when I’m frail? Buy my medicine?”
“We will!”
“With *what*? My own pension?”
James jumped in. “We’d sign a proper agreement—”
“Spare me the paperwork,” Margaret waved him off. “Promises won’t pay the plumber.”
Sophie fussed again. Emily stood, bouncing her.
“Fine. But don’t come crying when *you* need us.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Margaret said lightly. “I’ll check into a lovely care home. Paid for by *my* savings.”
Emily froze. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly. Better strangers who *choose* to care than family forced to resent me.”
As they left, Margaret settled by the window with her knitting, heart heavy but certain.
The phone rang late that night.
“Mum… you were right,” Emily admitted quietly. “James has an interview tomorrow—not his field, but it’s work. We’ll sell the car, buy a cheaper one outright.”
“Good girl.”
“…You’d *really* go to a home if things got bad?”
Margaret smiled. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Life’s about choices—for *both* of us.”
