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.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 9 minViews 3

Every Man for Himself

Mum, you have no idea what the property markets like right now, Mark fiddled anxiously with a stack of printouts, alternately arranging them in a neat pile and fanning them out across the kitchen table. Prices shoot up every week. If we dont put down the deposit now, well lose the flat to someone else.

Linda pushed a mug of lukewarm tea towards her son and sat down across from him. Floorplans, figures, repayment chartsthree bedrooms in a new build, rooms for Thomas and Grace at last, no more siblings squabbling over the top bunk.

How much are you short?
Eighty-two thousand pounds, Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. I know its a lot. But Annas climbing the walls, the kids are growing, and were still stuck renting

Linda looked at her son and saw the little boy who once brought her dandelion bouquets. Thirty-two, two children, and he still had the same little worry line between his eyebrows as when he fretted about unfinished homework as a child.

I do have some savings. In the account. For a rainy day.
Mum, Ill pay you back, promise. As soon as things settle, Ill start saving.

She covered his hand with hers, roughened through years of endless cooking and cleaning.

Mark, its for the grandchildren. Theres nothing to repay. Family matters more than money.

At the bank, Linda filled in the forms with the careful handwriting honed over thirty years as an accountant. Eighty-two thousand poundsmore or less everything shed put away in recent years. For emergencies, just in case, you never know.

Mark gave her a big hug right there at the counter, oblivious to the tutting from the queue behind.

Youre the best, you know that? Really, Mum. I wont forget this.

Linda patted him on the back. Go on, then. Annas probably waiting.

The first months after moving in blurred into a whirlwind of cross-town journeys. Linda arrived armed with Sainsburys bags: chicken, rice, butter, childrens yoghurt. She helped Anna put up curtains, assemble flat-pack furniture, scrub builders dust from the windowsills.

Thomas, mind the screwdriver! she called, simultaneously wrestling with the curtain pole and explaining to her daughter-in-law the correct way to make shepherds pie.

Anna nodded, scrolling through her phone. Mark only made appearances in the evenings, exhausted, wolfed down his mums food, and vanished into the bedroom.

Thanks, Mum, hed toss over his shoulder. Dont know what wed do without you.

Six months later, his number flashed up.

Mum, look, thing isthe mortgage payment landed on the same week as the car broke down. Im thirty-five hundred short.

No questions askedLinda transferred the money. Young couples have it hard these days. New expenses, little kids, stressful work. Theyll get on their feet, pay it back. Or maybe they wont. Does it really matter when its your own?

The years ran by quicker than water through fingers. Thomas turned sevenLinda bought him the Lego set hes been pestering his parents for for half a year. Grace spun in a brand-new, sparkly pink dress, just like a cartoon princesss.

Gran, youre the best! Grace squealed, wrapping herself around Linda, smelling of kids shampoo and boiled sweets.

Every weekend, Linda took the grandkids off their parents hands: to her place, or to the panto, the funfair, the ice rink. Ice creams, toys, books. Her old coat was always bulging with bags of sweets and wet wipes.

Five years passed in this generous, self-imposed slog. Mortgage paymentsMum, bit tight this month. Sick days with snotty grandkidsMum, neither of us can get time off. GroceriesMum, youre going to Tesco anyway, right?

Appreciation rang ever more faintly

One morning, Linda stared at the stains on her kitchen ceiling. Rusty marks spreading across plaster. Shed been flooded from upstairs, and now the flat was uninhabitable.

She dialled her son.

Mark, I could use some help with repairs. The waters wrecked the place. No idea when Ill even see the insurance money
Mum Mark cut her off. Surely you get that Ive got completely different priorities right now? The kids clubs, their sports, Annas just started a course
Im not asking much. Just to help find tradesmen, or maybe
I honestly havent got the time, Mum, especially for that sort of thing, Mark replied, as if he hadnt really heard her. Lets talk about it later, yeah? Ill ring you.

Beeps

Linda set down the phone. The screensaver blinkeda photo from last Christmas: her, Thomas, Grace, all grinning. The money hed borrowed without a thought. The weekends she gave up for his children. All that time, energy, lovebefore. And now? Other priorities.

A drop from the ceiling landed on her hand. Cold

Next day Anna herself calleda rare enough occurrence that Linda went on guard before her daughter-in-law even spoke.

Linda, Mark told me about your chat. You do know everyones supposed to manage their own problems, right? Were paying our own mortgage, doing it all ourselves

Linda could barely suppress a laugh. The mortgage shed covered every third month. That deposit, nearly all from her.

Of course, Anna, she responded lightly. Each to their own.
Glad we agreed. Mark was worried youd taken offence. Youre not upset, are you?
No, not at all.

Beeps

Linda gazed at the phone for ages, as if it were a peculiar insect. Then she wandered to the window, but looked away againnothing outside but street and drizzle.

Nights stretched into sleepless hours, the ceiling looming, mind racing. Linda lay in the dark, turning over the past five years bead by bead.

Shed done this to herself. Raised in her son the unshakeable belief that his mother was a resource without limits.

The next morning, Linda rang an estate agent.

Id like to put my cottage up for sale. Garden, mains electric, just outside London.

The holiday place she and her late husband built twenty years ago. Apple trees shed planted while pregnant with Mark. The verandaoh, the summers there.

A buyer was found within the month. Linda signed the papers, not allowing herself to dwell on what she was giving up. The proceeds landed in her account, and she methodically split them: repairs on her flat, a new savings bond, a small nest egg for the unexpected.

The builders arrived the following week. Linda chose the tiles, the wallpaper, new taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself instead of hoarding for a rainy day or wondering which family member shed need to rescue next.

Mark didnt call. Not in two weeks, three, a month. Linda stayed silent too.

Her phone finally rang when the work was finished. Her brand-new kitchen gleamed, the windows didnt rattle, and no more rust stains on the pipes.

Mum, youve not come round lately? Grace keeps asking.
Ive been busy.
Doing what?
Living, Mark. Living my own life.

She went over the next week. Brought the grandkids a book eachnice gifts, but nothing extravagant. Sat for tea, chat about the weather, and Thomass latest school exploits. She declined dinner.

Mum, could you watch the kids on Saturday? Mark stopped her in the hallway. Me and Anna
Sorry, Ive got plans.

Linda saw his face fall. He didnt understand. Not yet.
The months ticked by and the penny slowly dropped. Without Mums help on the mortgage, it suddenly gobbled up a third of their budget. Without a built-in, free babysitter, there was nobody to palm the kids off to at the weekend.

Meanwhile, Linda opened a savings account with a decent rate. Bought herself a proper winter coatnot one from the bargain rails. Spent two weeks at a spa retreat. Took up Nordic walking.

She remembered how Annas parents always kept their distance. Polite cards at Christmas, obligatory visits every other month. No handouts, no babysitting, no heroic sacrifices. And their daughter never seemed to mind.

Maybe the other in-laws had got it right all along?

Her rare visits to the grandchildren became routine. Linda would appear, hand out modest presents, chat about school and friends. She left after a couple of hours, didnt stay over, never took the children off for a weekend again.

One day, Thomas looked up and asked, Gran, why dont you take us to the park anymore?
Grans got her own things on, Thomas.

He didnt get it. But Mark, standing in the doorway, perhaps was beginning to.

Linda came home to her freshly decorated flat, smelling of paint and new furniture. She brewed herself real tea, sat in a comfy chair bought with the proceeds from the cottage sale.

Regret? Occasionally, yes, in the lonely nights. But less and less. Because Linda had finally come to understand: love is not a matter of endless sacrifice. Especially when no one notices, or cares.

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

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.

My Son Spent Years Searching for the Right Woman to Marry—At 30, He Finally Found His Perfect Match in Alice. I Supported His Choice, but Now Their Marriage Is Falling Apart, and I’m Not Sure If I Made Things Worse by Urging Him to Leave Almost every day, I heard about how lovely and beautiful Alice was. My son was truly smitten with her, and I liked her too. He passionately told me and his friends about her wonderful qualities—she seemed to be the perfect woman for him, so he married her without hesitation. As a loving mum, I fully supported his choice. Planning a wedding can be a real challenge, but my friends were absolute stars. The bride’s parents were delightful, and we got on famously from the start. At first, everything was perfect, but over time, things began to change. Their marriage started falling apart, and arguments became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year of marriage and hoped things would improve, but I worried about them—I just wanted them to be happy together. One evening really shook me. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his things, saying he had nowhere else to go because Alice had kicked him out. He spent a few days with me, and Alice never came round to try to work things out. This happened again and again. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided it was time for a chat with them. I just wanted to offer some advice to help them avoid misunderstandings in the future. It only made things worse. Their arguments became even more frequent, and my son stayed over at my place more often. I could see he was struggling—he wasn’t the happy man he used to be; there was disappointment in his eyes. I couldn’t stand seeing my son so unhappy in his marriage. I suggested he think carefully about whether it was worth staying together. He could still be a wonderful father even if he lived apart. Soon after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Alice came to me for help, asking me to persuade my son to withdraw the divorce papers—she didn’t want the family to fall apart. I’d already advised her more than once to focus on her marriage. Now I’m accused of interfering in their relationship. I don’t know if I did the right thing by urging my son to divorce. His wife doesn’t like me, and he’s grown more distant from me as well. But maybe they still love each other? Living apart feels wrong, but living together isn’t working out either.