“Don’t Count on My Pension”
“Mum, not this again!” Emma slammed her palm on the table in frustration. “We agreed you’d help with the loan!”
“We agreed on no such thing,” replied Margaret calmly, stirring her tea. “You decided that for me.”
“How can you say that?” Emma protested. “You said you’d think about it!”
“I did. And I’ve decided against it.”
An uneasy silence settled over the kitchen. Emma stared at her mother, wide-eyed, as if unable to believe what she’d heard. Her husband, James, shifted awkwardly by the fridge, clearly uncomfortable.
“Mum, we’re in a tight spot,” Emma began again, softening her tone. “James lost his job, and I’m on maternity leave with little Sophie. We’ve no money coming in, and the bank won’t wait.”
“Why didn’t you think of that before?” Margaret set her cup down. “When you took out that loan for the car, I warned you.”
“What car?” Emma snapped. “It’s barely more than a tin can! We had nothing to get around in!”
“You could’ve taken the bus. I did for forty years, and I managed just fine.”
“Mum!” Emma stood up, pacing the kitchen. “Do you honestly expect us to drag a baby around on buses?”
“Why not? I raised you alone, working dawn till dusk, and I never asked for help.”
James finally spoke up.
“Margaret, we’re not asking for a handout. We’ll pay you back once I find work.”
“When will that be?” she asked firmly, without malice. “A month? Two? Six? The loan payments won’t wait.”
“I’ll find something. I’ve got qualifications, experience.”
“I’m sure you will,” Margaret nodded. “But not likely soon. And what’ll I do without money? Live on fresh air?”
Emma spun around.
“You’ve a decent pension—£1,500 a month! We’re only asking for £550 to cover the payment. You’d still have £950 left!”
“For what?” Margaret pulled a notebook from the drawer and her reading glasses. “Let’s see. Utilities—£400. Medication—£200 or more. Food—at least £350. That’s £950 already. What about clothes? What if something breaks? Or I need a private doctor?”
“It’s not like you buy clothes every month,” Emma argued.
“And shoes? Underthings? What if the washing machine gives out or the fridge dies?”
“We’d help then,” James promised.
Margaret gave him a faint smile.
“You’re a good man, James, but you’ve nothing to spare. That’s why you’re asking.”
A cry came from the nursery. Emma shot her mother a glare and hurried out. James stayed behind.
“Margaret, I know it’s awkward,” he said quietly. “But we’re truly stuck. The bank calls daily, threatening repossession.”
“Good,” she said evenly. “You shouldn’t have borrowed beyond your means.”
“But family helps each other, doesn’t it?”
“They do. And I’ve helped—thirty-five years raising Emma, putting her through school, giving her the flat when she married. I thought it was my turn to rest.”
James bowed his head. Emma returned with the baby.
“Mum, don’t you care about Sophie?” she asked, rocking the child. “What if they throw us out?”
“No one’s throwing you out,” Margaret sighed. “Stop being dramatic.”
“How not? If we default—”
“They’ll take the car, that’s all. You’ll still have the flat I gave you.”
“And how will we get to work without a car?”
“Like millions do—by tube or bus.”
Emma sat heavily, clutching her daughter.
“When did you become so hard-hearted? You used to help us.”
“When I was working and could afford to. Now I live on the pension I earned.”
“But you’re not penniless! You’ve savings!”
Margaret studied her.
“How d’you know about my savings?”
Emma flushed and looked away.
“I—I saw your passbook once.”
“By accident?” Margaret’s voice cooled. “Or were you snooping?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It was on the table when I visited.”
“It was in a locked drawer. So you *were* snooping.”
“Does it matter?” Emma waved a hand. “The point is, you *have* money, and we’re drowning!”
“And what if I do? It’s my safety net—for illness, for old age, for emergencies.”
“What bloody emergency?” Emma snapped. “*We’re* the emergency!”
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “Your crisis came from living beyond your means. Mine’s still ahead. What happens when I’m too frail to care for myself? Who’ll pay for my care? My meds?”
“We will,” Emma vowed.
“With what? The pension you’d drain from me?”
“We’re just asking for *temporary* help!”
“Temporary.” Margaret scoffed. “Then you’ll grow accustomed to it—coming to me whenever you’re short.”
James tried again.
“We could sign an agreement, Margaret. Make it official, with a solicitor.”
“I don’t want your scraps of paper,” she said. “Promises won’t feed me.”
The baby fretted. Emma stood, bouncing her.
“Fine. Suppose we *did* misjudge the loan,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’re young, we make mistakes. But you’re wise, experienced. *Please*, Mum.”
Margaret sighed.
“I *will* help you.”
Emma and James brightened.
“Thank you!”
“Not with money.”
Emma froze. “Then how?”
“With advice. Ask James’s parents. Or sell the car and buy a cheaper one outright.”
“That’s not help—that’s mocking us!”
“It’s sense. But no, you’d rather have cash.”
“*Why won’t you?*” Emma’s voice cracked.
Margaret gazed out the window at the falling snow before answering.
“Because I’ve given enough—raised you, educated you, gave you a home. Now it’s *my* turn.”
“That was your *job*! You’re my *mother*!”
“A mother’s duty ends when her child is grown. I won’t spend my last years supporting yours.”
Emma scoffed. “What d’you even need the money for?”
“To live with dignity—to call a cab when my knees ache, to buy Sophie birthday gifts—”
“We’re not opposed to gifts! We just need *help*!”
“‘Temporarily.’ And then what? Another loan? A bigger flat? A nicer car? Back to Mum?”
“No!”
“Yes. Because it’s easier than fixing your own mess.”
James interjected, “Margaret, we’re family—”
“Which is why I won’t turn us into creditors and debtors. Money kills love.”
Emma huffed. “You sound like a bank manager now.”
“No. Just someone who’s learned: the more you bail out grown children, the less they try.”
“That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it? If you *hadn’t* counted on me, what would you’ve done?”
Emma hesitated.
“I—I’d have borrowed from friends—”
“Or found work you *can* do with a baby. Or James could’ve taken *any* job. But why bother, if Mum opens her purse?”
“We *are* trying! James sends CVs daily!”
“For *good* jobs in his field. Has he tried labouring? Delivery driving?”
James reddened. “I’ve a degree—”
“So? Work’s work. My dad swept streets after the war—no shame in it.”
“It’s not about shame! The pay’s peanuts—”
“Peanuts beat nothing. What’s his pay now?”
James looked down. “None.”
“There you are.”
Emma lifted the baby.
“Fine. I see we’re on our own.”
“Rely on yourselves,” Margaret said. “It’s safer.”
“Then don’t rely on *us* either. When you’re old and ill, sort yourself.”
Margaret nodded. “I will. I’ve my savings.”
“And if they run out?”
“Then I’ll go to a care home. On my own penny.”
Emma gaped. “You’re serious?”
“Quite. And you know what? I’d rather strangers tend me for pay than burden my family.”
“You’d never be a burden!”
“I would—if you resent me for costing you. Better set boundaries now.”
Emma turned to leave. James followed.
“Emma, wait,” Margaret called.
“What *now*?”
“Visit me“Bring Sophie by often—but leave the talk of money at the door.”
