Every Man for Himself — Mum, you can’t imagine what’s happening on the market right now, — Max was nervously rifling through a stack of printouts, first arranging them in a perfect pile, then fanning them out across the kitchen table. — Prices are changing every week. If we don’t put down the deposit now, this flat will disappear from under our noses. Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea towards her son and sat down opposite. The printouts flashed with floor plans, numbers, amortisation charts. A three-bed in a new build, a proper bedroom for Timothy and Sophie, at last, their own rooms. — How much are you short? — Eight hundred and twenty thousand, — Max rubbed his brow. — I know it’s a lot. But Anya is already at her wits’ end, the kids are growing up, and we’re still living hand-to-mouth in rented places… Lydia looked at her son and saw the little boy who once brought her dandelion bouquets. Thirty-two years old, father of two, but the same little furrow between his eyebrows as when, as a child, he fretted over unfinished homework. — I’ve got savings. There’s money in my account. — Mum, I’ll pay you back, I promise. As soon as we’ve settled in, I’ll start putting it aside. She covered his hand with her own, roughened from decades of cooking and cleaning. — Max, it’s for the grandchildren. Don’t talk about paying me back. Family’s worth more than any money. At the bank branch, Lydia filled out the forms in neat handwriting, honed by thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand — nearly everything she’d put away in recent years. For a rainy day, just in case, ‘you never know’. Max hugged her tightly at the counter, ignoring the queue. — You’re the best, Mum. Really. I won’t forget this. Lydia patted him on the back. — Off you go, now. Anya’s probably waiting. …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city trips. Lydia would turn up with carrier bags from Tesco — chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yoghurts. Helped Anna hang curtains, assemble furniture, scrub builder’s dust from the windowsills. — Timothy, careful with that screwdriver! — she’d call, hanging curtains and teaching her daughter-in-law how to cook cabbage rolls at the same time. Anna would nod, scrolling through something on her phone. Max appeared in the evenings, tired after work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking and vanished into the bedroom. — Thanks, Mum, — he’d toss as he passed. — Don’t know what we’d do without you. …Six months in, a familiar number flashed up. — Mum, listen… Our mortgage payment’s landed on the same day as the car repair. We’re thirty-five grand short. Lydia transferred the money, no questions asked. Young people have it tough, she understood. Adapting to new bills, little ones, stressful jobs. It’s fine — they’ll get back on their feet and pay her back. Or not. Did it matter, when it was family? Years flowed by, faster than water through your fingers. Timothy turned seven, and Lydia bought him a Lego set, the one he’d begged for six months. Sophie twirled in a new dress — soft pink, sparkly, just like her favourite princess in the cartoons. — Granny, you’re the best! — Sophie wrapped herself round Lydia’s neck, smelling of baby shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took her grandchildren to hers, or to the theatre, the funfair, the skating rink. She bought them ice creams, toys, books. The pockets of her old coat always bulged with sweets and wet wipes. Five years churned past in this endless, voluntary slog. Money for the mortgage — ‘Mum, we’re really short this month.’ Sick days with the kids — ‘Mum, we just can’t get time off work.’ Groceries — ‘Mum, if you’re going to the shop anyway…’ The thank-yous grew less frequent… …That morning, she was staring at the water marks spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty stains bleeding through the plaster. She’d been flooded; now living there was impossible. She dialled her son. — Max, I need help with the repairs. I’ve been flooded, no idea when I’ll get reimbursed… — Mum, — Max cut her off. — You’ve got to understand, I’ve got completely different priorities now. Kids’ clubs, activities, Anya’s signed up for some course… — I’m not asking for much. Just a hand finding a builder. Or at least… — I haven’t got the time right now, Mum, not for things like that, — Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. — Let’s talk about this later, yeah? I’ll call you. Dial tone… Lydia lowered the phone. Her screensaver flickered — a photo from last New Year’s Eve. Her, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. The money he’d taken without a thought. The weekends she’d given to his kids. That time, that energy, that love — all of it was ‘before’. Now — ‘other priorities’. A cold drop from the ceiling hit her hand… The next day Anna called herself, a rare enough event to make Lydia wary before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. — Mrs Parker, Max told me about your chat. — Anna sounded put out. — You must realise, we all have to sort our own problems. We’re managing our mortgage by ourselves… Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been paying off every third month. The deposit, made up almost entirely out of her own pocket. — Of course, Anna, — she replied evenly. — Each to their own. — Glad we agree. Max was worried you’d be upset. You’re not, are you? — Not at all. Dial tone… Lydia set down her phone and gazed at it for a long time, as if it were some strange insect. Then she went to the window, but turned away at once — behind the dusty glass there was nothing to comfort her. Nights dragged into endless hours in which the ceiling weighed her down, and her thoughts would not let her rest. Lydia lay in darkness, leafing through the last five years, bead by bead, like a rosary. She’d created this herself. With her own hands, she’d nurtured in her son the certainty that a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning Lydia called the estate agent. — I want to put my country cottage up for sale. Quarter of an acre, Hampshire, mains electricity connected. The cottage she and her husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where so many summer evenings had been spent. A buyer was found within the month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to let herself dwell on what she was selling. The money arrived; she divided it up: repairs, new savings account, a little set aside for the unexpected. The builders moved into her flat the following week. Lydia picked her own tiles, wallpaper, taps. For the first time in years, she was spending on herself, not on ‘rainy days’ or relatives who might need help. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia kept silent, too. The first call came when the repairs were finished. The new kitchen gleamed, the windows didn’t whistle with draughts, the pipes had stopped leaking rust. — Mum, why haven’t you visited? Sophie’s been asking. — Been busy. — With what? — Life, Max. My own life. She visited the next week. She brought the grandchildren books — good presents, but nothing extravagant. She stayed for two hours over tea, chatted about the weather and Timothy’s schoolwork. Refused to stay for dinner. — Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday? — Max called out as she was getting her coat. — Me and Anna… — I can’t. I’ve got plans. Lydia saw the confusion on his face. He didn’t understand. Not yet. Weeks passed, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage swallowed a third of their budget. Without a free babysitter, the kids were left without anywhere to go. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a savings account at a good interest rate. She bought herself a new coat — proper and warm, not from a clearance rack. Spent two weeks at a spa. Signed up for Nordic walking classes. She remembered how Anna’s parents had always kept a distance. Polite greetings at Christmas, dutiful visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifice. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d always had it right. Rare visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia would come, give modest gifts, chat about school and friends. Leave after a couple of hours, without staying over, not taking the children for the weekend. One day, Timothy asked: — Granny, why don’t you take us to the park anymore? — Gran’s got things to do now, Timmy. The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, finally seemed to be starting to. Lydia returned to her newly renovated flat, smelling of fresh paint and new furniture. She brewed herself a good cup of tea, sat in a comfortable armchair bought with the proceeds from the cottage sale. Guilt? Yes, it sometimes hit her at night. But less and less. Because Lydia had learned something simple at last: love doesn’t have to mean self-sacrifice. Especially when that sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood…

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 2

Every Man for Himself

Mum, you just cannot imagine what the markets like at the moment. Matthew paced around the kitchen, shuffling a stack of printouts, first arranging them neatly, then spreading them in a fan across the table. Prices are all over the place. If we dont put down the deposit now, someone else will snatch the flat from right under our noses.

Lydia slid a cup of lukewarm tea towards her son and sat down opposite him. Floor plans, numbers, and repayment graphs flashed before her eyes. A three-bedroom in a new development finally, Timmy and Sophie would have their own rooms.

How much are you short?
Eighty-two thousand pounds. Matthew rubbed his temples. I know its a lot. But Anns at her wits end, the kids are growing, and were still bouncing round rented places…

Lydia watched her son and saw the same little boy who once brought her bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, two children, but that worried crease between his brows was still there, just like when hed not finished his homework as a child.

I have savings. In my account.
Mum, Ill pay you back, I promise. As soon as weve settled, Ill start putting money aside.

She covered his hand with her own, roughened from years of cooking and housework.

Matthew, its for the grandchildren. Theres no need for talk of paying it back. Family matters more than money.

At the bank branch, Lydia filled in the forms in the neat handwriting shaped by thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eighty-two grand almost everything shed put aside over the years, for a rainy day, just in case, for you never know.

Matthew hugged her tightly right at the counter, unfazed by the queue behind them.

Youre the best, really. Ill never forget.

Lydia gave his back a little pat.

Off you go. Ann must be waiting.

The first few months after the move blurred into a carousel of journeys across the city. Lydia would arrive with bags from Tesco chicken, rice, oil, yoghurts for the kids. Shed help Ann hang curtains, assemble flatpack furniture, scrub the builders dust from the window ledges.

Timmy, careful with those tools! shed call, juggling the curtains and explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cottage pie.

Ann would nod, half-listening, scrolling through her phone. Matthew popped in after work, looking shattered, wolfed down his mums dinner, then disappeared into the bedroom.

Thanks, Mum! What would we do without you?

A familiar number popped up on her phone half a year later.

Mum, bit of a situation… The mortgage payments landed in the same week as a car bill. Were thirty-five hundred short.

Lydia transferred the money without asking questions. Times were hard for youngsters, she reasoned. Adjusting to bills, the children still small, stressful jobs. One day, theyd be on their feet theyd return it. Or maybe they wouldnt. But what did it matter, when it was family?

The years slipped by faster than water through her fingers. Timmy turned seven, and Lydia gave him the Lego set hed begged for all year. Sophie twirled in her new dress pale pink and sparkly, just like a princess from a cartoon.

Grandma, youre simply the best! Sophie clung to her neck, smelling sweet like shampoo and toffee.

Every weekend Lydia took her grandchildren to stay, or to the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought them ice creams, toys, books. The pockets of her trusty old coat were always bulging with sweets and wet wipes.

Five years passed like this a generous, self-imposed servitude. Money for the mortgage Mum, were really stuck this month. Sick days with the grandchildren Mum, we just cant take time off. Groceries Mum, youre going to the supermarket anyway…

Gratitude became more and more scarce.

One morning, she gazed at rust stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Shed been flooded, and her flat was now unlivable.

She called her son.

Matthew, I need help with repairs. Ive been flooded, no idea when the insurance will pay…

Mum, Matthew cut her off, you know Ive got different priorities right now. The kids have clubs, Anns signed up for courses…

Im not asking for much. Just help me find tradesmen. Or at least…

No time at all, Mum, especially for things like that, he repeated, as if deaf to her plea. Lets talk about it later, all right?

The dialling tone rang in her ears.

She put down her phone. The background photo flashed up last New Years. She was there, with Timmy and Sophie. All smiles.

All that money he borrowed without a thought. Those weekends she gave to his children. The time, the energy, the love all belonged to before. Now, he had other priorities.

A drip from the ceiling landed on her hand. Cold.

Ann called the next day. Unusual enough to make Lydia uneasy before her daughter-in-law even spoke.

Mrs. Carter, Matthew told me about your conversation. Ann sounded irritated. You understand, dont you, everyone needs to sort out their own problems? Were paying for our flat, our mortgage…

Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she herself had cleared every third month. The deposit that was nearly all her savings.

Of course, Ann. Each to their own.
Glad were agreed. Matthews worried youre upset. Youre not, are you?
No. Not at all.

Another dial tone.

Lydia placed her phone on the table and stared at it for a long time, as though it were some curious insect. She glanced at the window, then turned away nothing outside to comfort her.

Nights became endless, the ceiling pressing down, her thoughts racing. She lay in the dark, threading through the last five years like a string of beads.

She had created this herself. Had raised her sons certainty that his mother was an inexhaustible resource.

In the morning, Lydia rang up the estate agent.

Id like to put my cottage on the market. Quarter-acre, just outside London, electricity connected.

The little house she and her late husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees shed planted while pregnant with Matthew. The verandah that had seen so many summer nights.

She found a buyer within a month. Lydia signed the documents, refusing to dwell on what she was giving up. The money hit her account and she distributed it deliberately: repairs for the flat, a new savings account, a modest buffer for emergencies.

Workmen arrived the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, the wallpaper, the taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself, not putting money aside just in case, not wondering which relative would need help next.

Matthew didnt ring. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too.

The first call came when the renovation was finished. The new kitchen glistened, the windows no longer rattled, and the pipes finally gave up their rusty stains.

Mum, why havent you been round? Sophies been asking after you.
Ive been busy.
With what?
Life, Matthew. With my own life.

She visited a week later. Brought the children a book each nice, but hardly extravagant presents. Sat for two hours over tea, discussed the weather and Timmys progress at school. Declined to stay for dinner.

Mum, could you watch the kids on Saturday? Matthew caught her in the hall. Ann and I…

I cant. Ive got plans.

Lydia saw the look on his face. Utter confusion. He didnt understand not yet.

Months passed, and slowly, painfully, the penny began to drop. Without his mothers financial bailouts, the mortgage chewed up a third of the familys income. With no free babysitter, there was no one to leave the children with.

Meanwhile, Lydia opened a savings account with a good interest rate. Bought herself a lovely, warm new coat, not from the bargain rail. Spent two weeks at a spa. Signed up for Nordic walking classes.

She remembered how Anns parents always kept their distance. Polite greetings at Christmas, an obligatory visit every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And not a single complaint from their daughter.

Maybe they had the right idea all along.

Her rare visits to her grandchildren became little more than a formality. Lydia stopped over only briefly, brought modest gifts, chatted about school and friends. She left after a couple of hours, not staying overnight or taking the children for weekends.

One day Timmy asked:

Grandma, why dont you take us to the park anymore?
Grandmas busy now, Timmy.

The boy didnt understand. But Matthew, listening from the doorway, was beginning to.

Lydia would return to her refurbished flat the smell of fresh paint and new furniture everywhere make herself a nice cup of tea, and sit in a comfy new armchair shed bought with money from selling the cottage.

Guilt? It still crept in, sometimes in the small hours. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love doesnt mean you have to be a martyr. Not when no one notices or appreciates your sacrifice.

She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

My son spent years searching for the right woman to marry, but I never questioned his choices—until, at 30, he found Emily, who seemed perfect for him. Every day, I heard about how kind and beautiful she was—my son was truly smitten, and I found myself growing fond of Emily as well. He spoke of her virtues with such passion to me and his friends that, when they quickly decided to marry, I wholeheartedly supported his decision as a loving mother. Planning a wedding can be daunting, but my friends pulled it off brilliantly. The bride’s parents were wonderful, and we got along famously from the start. It was blissful at first, but gradually, things changed. Their marriage began to fall apart and conflicts became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year together and believed things would settle down, but I worried—they deserved to be happy. One evening shook me deeply. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his belongings. He told me he had nowhere to go; his wife had kicked him out. He stayed with me for a few days, and Emily never came by, not even to talk things over. This pattern kept repeating itself. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided to sit down with them and offer some advice on avoiding future misunderstandings. Unfortunately, my attempt only made things worse. Their disagreements became more frequent, and my son stayed at my place even more often. He was a changed man, no longer the happy person he once was—I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Watching my son suffer in such a toxic relationship was unbearable, so I advised him to consider whether it was worth staying married. He could be a wonderful father even if he and Emily lived apart. Shortly after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Emily came to me asking for help. She pleaded with me to convince my son to withdraw the divorce petition, as she didn’t want to tear their family apart. I had often encouraged her to nurture her family, but now she was blaming me publicly for interfering and causing the split. Now, I don’t know if urging my son to divorce was the right thing to do. His wife dislikes me, and my son seems to be drifting away from me too. Maybe they still love each other? Living apart is hard, but staying together wasn’t working either.

Every Man for Himself “Mum, you can’t imagine what the property market’s like right now,” Max fretted, sifting nervously through a stack of printouts, sorting them into neat piles before fanning them out across the kitchen table. “Prices go up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit right now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea over to her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, figures, and repayment charts flickered across the pages. A three-bedroom in a new build—Tim and Sophie would finally get their own rooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s a lot. But Anya’s at her wits’ end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hopping between rentals…” Staring at her son, Lydia saw the same boy who used to bring her limp bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two, two children, and the frown line between his brows was just as it had been in childhood, whenever he worried over unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. It’s in the account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as things settle, I’ll start putting money aside straight away.” She covered his hand with her own, roughened by years of constant cooking and cleaning. “Max, it’s for your kids. There’s no need to talk about repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled in forms letter-perfect, thanks to thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly all she’d set aside over recent years. For a rainy day, for the unknown, the ‘just in case.’ Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter—ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best, you know that? I’ll never forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go on. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city journeys. Lydia turned up with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yogurts. Helped Anya put up curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from the windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she’d call, hanging curtains and simultaneously explaining to her daughter-in-law the proper way to cook cabbage rolls. Anya nodded absently, scrolling through her phone. Max appeared each evening, exhausted from work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking, then disappeared into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d say fleetingly. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, a familiar number appeared on her screen. “Mum, listen… My mortgage payment and car repairs both landed this month. We’re short thirty-five thousand.” Lydia sent the money without extra questions. Young families struggle—everyone knows that. Adapting to new expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. It’s all right, they’ll get on their feet—repay her. Or maybe not. Did it really matter, when it came to your own children? The years slipped faster than water through her fingers. Tim turned seven and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a new pink dress—sequined just like a princess from the cartoons. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie clung around her neck—sweet with the smell of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took the grandkids—to her house, the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her shabby old coat was always bulging with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this generous, self-inflicted servitude. Money for the mortgage—”Mum, things are tight this month.” Days off for sick grandkids— “Mum, we just can’t get away from work.” Groceries— “Mum, you’re going to the shop anyway, aren’t you?” Gratitude came less and less often… …That morning, she examined the water stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty marks crawling through the plaster. She’d been flooded—and living there was now impossible. She rang her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve been flooded, don’t know when or if I’ll get money back…” “Mum,” her son cut her off, “You have to understand, I just have other priorities now. Kids’ clubs, their activities, Anya’s signed up for courses…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a tradesman, or even…” “I really don’t have time for trivial stuff right now, Mum,” Max insisted, not listening. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ll call, yeah?” An engaged tone… Lydia put down her phone. A screensaver flickered—last year’s New Year photo: herself, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a second thought. The weekends she’d given up for his children. The time, energy, love—all that was ‘in the past.’ Now—”other priorities.” A drop of water from the ceiling splashed on her hand. Cold… Next day, Anya called herself. Unusual, enough to set Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. “Lydia, Max told me about your call,” Anya said, briskly. “You do realise everyone’s responsible for their own problems? We’ve got the flat to run, the mortgage to pay…” Lydia nearly laughed. The mortgage—she’d covered every third payment. The deposit—almost entirely her savings. “Of course, Anya,” she replied evenly. “Each to their own.” “Glad to hear it. Max was just worried you’d taken offence. You haven’t, have you?” “No. Not at all.” Engaged tone… Lydia stared at her phone for a long time as if it were some strange insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—nothing outside could comfort her. Her nights became endless hours where the ceiling pressed down, thoughts hovering endlessly. Lydia lay in the dark, sorting out the last five years like beads. She’d created this herself—raising her son to believe a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia rang the estate agent. “I’d like to list my cottage for sale. Six acres, just outside London, electricity sorted.” The holiday home she and her husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where they’d spent so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up within a month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account, and she split it up methodically: repairs, a new savings account, a small reserve for emergencies. The builders arrived the following week. Lydia chose her own tiles, wallpaper, fixtures. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting money aside for a rainy day, not worrying who’d need help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too. He finally called when the renovations were finished. The new kitchen gleamed white, the windows no longer whistled, the pipes had stopped bleeding rust across the ceiling. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Max. My own life.” She visited a week later. Brought books for the grandkids—good presents, but nothing extravagant. Sat two hours for tea, chatting about the weather and Tim’s schoolwork. Declined dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday?” Max caught her in the hallway. “Anya and I…” “I can’t. I have plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He didn’t understand—yet. Months slipped by, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without his mother’s transfers, the mortgage chewed up a third of the family budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Spent two weeks at a spa in Devon. Signed up for a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d been right all along? Sporadic visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia brought modest gifts, chatted about school and friends, left after a couple of hours, never stayed for dinner, never took the kids for the weekend. Once Tim asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s busy these days, love.” The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to finally be catching on. Lydia went back to her renovated flat, the air scented with fresh paint and new furniture. Brewed good tea, sat back in her comfy new chair, courtesy of the cottage sale. Guilt? It still crept in at night. Less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned the simplest truth: love does not mean self-sacrifice—especially when sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself—for the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

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