Every Man for Himself “Mum, you have no idea what the property market’s like right now,” Max fidgeted nervously with a pile of printouts, stacking them into a neat pile and then fanning them out again across the kitchen table, “Prices are going up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a mug of cold tea towards her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, numbers, repayment graphs flashed across the papers. A three-bedroom in a new build: a children’s room for Timothy and Sophie—finally, the children would have separate bedrooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max rubbed his brow. “I know it’s a lot. But Anya’s fretting, the kids are growing up, and we’re still living out of suitcases in rented places…” Lydia looked at her son and saw the same boy who used to bring her bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, father of two, and the same little frown line he’d get as a child whenever he worried over undone homework. “I do have some savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, I promise. As soon as things settle down, I’ll start saving up.” She laid her hand—hardened from years of cooking and cleaning—over his. “Max, it’s for your children—my grandchildren. Don’t be silly about paying me back. Family is more important than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled out the forms in her tidy hand, polished by three decades as an accountant. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly everything she’d saved in recent years. For a rainy day, just in case, ‘you never know’. Max hugged her tightly at the counter, not caring about the queue. “You’re the best, you really are. I won’t forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go now. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a dizzying carousel of trips across town. Lydia would arrive with shopping bags from Sainsbury’s—chicken, buckwheat, oil, children’s yoghurts. She helped Anya hang curtains, unpack furniture, scrub construction dust from windowsills. “Timothy, careful with that screwdriver!” she’d call, hanging curtains and explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cabbage rolls. Anya nodded, scrolling on her phone. Max would appear at night, exhausted from work, wolf down his mum’s food and disappear into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d call over his shoulder. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.” …Six months later, her son’s name flashed up on her mobile. “Mum, look, bit of an issue…the mortgage payment’s clashed with car repairs this month. We’re thirty-five thousand short.” Lydia transferred the money, asking no questions. It’s difficult for young families, she told herself. They’ll get back on their feet—maybe they’ll repay her, maybe not. Did it matter, for family? Years swept by, faster than water slipping through her fingers. Timothy turned seven, and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a shimmery pink princess dress. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie hugged her, smelling of children’s shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia would take the grandchildren—or whisk them off to the theatre, funfair, ice rink. She bought ice cream, toys, books. The pockets of her old coat always bulged with sweets and wipes. Five years passed like this—her generous, voluntary servitude. Mortgage help—“Mum, we’re broke this month.” Sick days with the kids—“Mum, we can’t get time off work.” Groceries—“Mum, you’re going shopping anyway.” Gratitude became rare… …That morning, she stared at the damp stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. She’d been flooded; her flat was now unlivable. She called her son. “Max, I need help with some repairs. I’ve been flooded and don’t know when I’ll get paid back…” “Mum,” he cut her off, “you know my priorities are different right now. The kids’ clubs, activities, Anya’s on a course…” “I’m not asking much. Just to help find some tradesmen, or at least…” “I really don’t have time for this, Mum, especially not for things like that,” Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s talk about it later. Speak soon, yeah?” The dial tone… Lydia set her phone down. The display flashed with last year’s Christmas photo—her, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. The money he’d taken without a second thought. The weekends she’d given to his children. All the time, energy, love—that was “then.” Now, it was “other priorities.” A cold drop from the ceiling landed on her hand. Next day, Anya called—rare enough to make Lydia wary. “Mrs Parker, Max told me about your conversation,” Anya sounded annoyed. “You do understand, everyone must sort out their own problems these days. We manage our mortgage on our own…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d covered every third month. The deposit, nearly all from her savings. “Of course, Ann,” Lydia replied evenly. “Everyone for themselves.” “Glad we agree. Max was worried you were upset—you aren’t, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone… Lydia stared at her phone as if it were some strange insect. She walked to the window, but looked away immediately—nothing outside could comfort her. Nights became endless hours when the ceiling pressed down and thoughts wouldn’t let her rest. Lydia lay awake, counting the last five years like rosary beads. She’d taught her son herself: Mum was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia called the estate agent. “I’d like to list my country cottage for sale. Hampshire, six acres, with electricity.” The house she and her late husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she planted whilst pregnant with Max. The veranda, where so many summer evenings were spent. A buyer was found within a month. Lydia signed the papers, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed, and she methodically allocated it: repairs to her flat, a new savings account, a small emergency fund. The builders moved in the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, wallpaper, fixtures herself. For the first time in decades, she spent on herself, not saving “for a rainy day,” not worrying who in the family would need help. Max didn’t call—two weeks, three, a month. Lydia kept her silence too. The first call came when the renovations were finished. A new kitchen gleamed, the windows sealed out the draught, pipes no longer reminded her of themselves with rust stains. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie’s been asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Life, Max. My own life.” She visited the next week. Brought the grandchildren books—good gifts, but not extravagant. Stayed two hours for tea, chatted about the weather and Timothy’s homework. Declined to stay for dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday? Anya and I – ” “I can’t. I’ve plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He did not understand. Not yet. Months passed, and understanding came—slow, painful. Without Mum’s help, the mortgage ate up a third of their budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to take the children. Meanwhile, Lydia opened a high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new winter coat—good, warm, not just a sale bargain. Spent two weeks at a spa. Joined a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite cards at Christmas and dutiful visits, no money, no help, no sacrifice. And no complaints from Anya. Maybe they’d been right all along? Rare meetings with her grandchildren turned into formalities. Lydia arrived bearing modest gifts, talked about school and friends, left after a couple of hours—no overnights, no weekend stays. Once Timothy asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran has things to do now, Tim.” The boy didn’t get it. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to start to. Lydia returned home to her newly renovated flat, smelling of fresh paint and new furniture. She brewed good tea, sat in a comfortable armchair—one she bought with her own money. Guilt? Yes, it washed over her some nights. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love isn’t sacrifice—certainly not when the sacrifice goes unnoticed and unappreciated. She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 1

Every Man for Himself

Mum, youve no idea what the property markets like at the moment, David muttered, nervously shuffling a stack of printouts, sometimes making a neat pile, sometimes spreading them like playing cards across the kitchen table. Prices are going up every week. If we dont put down the deposit now, well lose this flat to someone else.

Margaret pushed a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat down opposite. The printouts flashed with floor plans, numbers, repayment charts. A three-bedroom in a new build, a proper room at last for both Thomas and Grace.

How much are you short?

Twenty-two thousand pounds. David pinched the bridge of his nose. I know its a lot. But Emilys at her wits end, the kids are growing so fast, and we cant keep hopping from one rented place to another…

Margaret saw her son as the boy who used to bring her bouquets of buttercups from the park. Thirty-two years old, two children, yet still that same furrow between his brows as when hed worried over unfinished homework.

Ive got some savings. Theyre in my account.

Mum, Ill pay you back, honestly. As soon as things settle down, Ill start putting money aside.

She covered his hand with her own, callused from years of cooking and cleaning.

David, its for your children, my grandchildren. This isnt about payback. Family comes before money.

At the bank branch, Margaret carefully filled in the forms with her precise accountants handwriting, perfected over thirty years at the firm. Twenty-two thousand poundsalmost everything shed put aside. For a rainy day, for emergencies, just in case.

David hugged her right at the counter, heedless of the queue.

Youre the best, Mum. Honestly. Ill never forget it.

Margaret patted his back.

Go on, love. Emilys probably waiting for you.

The first months after theyd moved in became a blur of journeys across town. Margaret would arrive laden with shopping bags from Sainsburyschicken, rice, butter, yoghurts for the kids. She helped Emily hang curtains, put flat-pack furniture together, scrub builders dust from the sills.

Thomas, mind your fingers with those tools! shed shout, wrestling with drapes while explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make proper cottage pie.

Emily would nod, half-listening, scrolling on her phone. David got home late from work, knackered, wolfed down his mums dinner, and disappeared into the bedroom.

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

Six months later, a familiar number flashed onto her screen.

Mum, er Its a bit awkward, but the mortgage payments fallen in the same month as the car repairs. Were thirty-five hundred short.

Margaret transferred the money, not asking questions. Its tough for the young oneseveryone knows it. New bills, small children, stressful jobs. Theyll stand on their own two feet eventually. Or not. But what does that matter, when its family?

The years slipped by faster than running water. When Thomas turned seven, Margaret gave him the Lego set hed been begging for. Grace spun around in a shimmery pink dressjust like a proper princess shed seen in a film.

Gran, youre the best! Grace squealed, arms around Margarets neck, smelling of shampoo and toffees.

Margaret had the grandchildren every weekend, took them to the theatre, funfair, ice rink. Bought them ice cream, toys, books. The pockets of her old overcoat always bulged with sweets and wet wipes.

Five years passed in this generous, self-imposed servitude. Money for the mortgageMum, its really tight this month. Taking care of poorly kidsMum, we absolutely cant get time off. GroceriesMum, since youre going to the shops anyway

Words of thanks came less and less often…

That morning, Margaret stared at the stains on her kitchen ceiling. Rusty patches had crept over the plaster. Shed been flooded from aboveliving in the flat had become impossible.

She dialled her son.

David, I need your help with repairs. The flats been flooded, and Ive no idea if or when Ill get any insurance money…

Mum, he cut her off, you do understand, Ive got different priorities now. The kids have their activities, Emilys enrolled on courses

Im not asking for the world. Just some help finding builders. Or at least

I really dont have the time for this at the moment, Mum, not for something so trivial, David repeated, as if he hadnt heard. Lets talk about it another time. Ill ring you, alright?

Dial tone…

Margaret set down her phone. Its home screen flasheda photo from last New Year. Margaret herself, Thomas, Grace. All grinning.

The money given so freely. The weekends spent with his children. The years, the energy, the loveall of it was back then. And nowother priorities.

A drip from the ceiling landed on her hand. Icy cold…

Next day, Emily rang. A rare occurrence that set Margaret on alert even before her daughter-in-law spoke.

Margaret, David told me about your conversation. Emilys tone was clipped. You do understand everyones got to sort out their own problems? Were handling our mortgage ourselves, just about keeping afloat

Margaret nearly laughed. The mortgageshed helped with that every third month. The deposit, almost all of it from her.

Of course, Emily, she replied evenly. Every man for himself.

Glad thats clear. Davids just worried youre upset. Youre not upset, are you?

No. Not at all.

Dial tone…

Margaret stared at her phone for a long time, as if it were something alien. Then she moved to the window, but quickly looked awaynothing outside to comfort her there.

Nights became endless, the ceiling pressing down, thoughts running wild. Margaret lay in the darkness, sifting through the past five years bead by bead.

Shed created this herself. Raised in her son the certainty that a mother is a never-ending resource.

The next morning, Margaret rang the estate agent.

Id like to put my cottage up for sale. North Downs, six acres, mains electric connected.

The place she and her late husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees shed planted while expecting David. The veranda where theyd watched countless summer sunsets.

A buyer came through in a month. Margaret signed the papers without letting herself dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account, and she allocated it methodically: flat repairs, a new ISA, a small fund for surprises.

The workmen arrived the following week. Margaret picked out her own tiles, wallpaper, taps. For the first time in years, she spent money on herself, not stashing it away for emergencies, not weighing up which relative would need help next.

David didnt ring. Two weeks, three, a month. Margaret kept silent too.

The first call came after the work was finished. The new kitchen gleamed, draughts no longer whistled through the windows, and the pipes had finally stopped dripping rust.

Mum, why havent you visited? Grace was asking.

Ive been busy.

With what?

Life, David. My own life.

She visited the next week. Brought the grandchildren each a booka good present, but not over the top. Sat for two hours, chatted about the weather and Thomass schoolwork. Turned down an invitation to stay for tea.

Mum, could you watch the kids on Saturday? Emily and I

I cant. Ive got other plans.

Margaret saw his face drop. He didnt understand. Not yet, anyway.

Months passed, and the realisation dawnedslowly, painfully. Without his mothers help, the mortgage devoured a third of the familys income. Without free childcare, there was no one to look after the kids.

Meanwhile, Margaret opened a savings account with a good interest rate. Bought herself a new coatproperly warm, not from a clearance rack. Spent two weeks at a spa. Signed up for Nordic walking lessons.

She remembered how Emilys parents had always kept their distance. Polite at Christmas, the routine visit every other month. No money, no favours, no self-sacrifice. And no complaints from their daughter.

Perhaps theyd always been right?

Visits with the grandchildren became rare and formal. Margaret arrived, brought modest gifts, asked about school and friends. Left after a couple of hours, didnt stay the night, no longer took them out for weekends.

One day, Thomas asked, Gran, why dont you take us to the park anymore?

Grans busy these days, Tommy.

He didnt understand. But David, standing in the doorway, seemed to begin to.

Margaret returned to her freshly done-up flat, with its scent of new paint and new furniture. Made herself a decent cup of tea, settled into her comfortable armchairbought with the money from the cottage sale.

Guilt? Yes, it crept up on her sometimes, in the small hours. But less and less so. Because Margaret had finally learnt a simple truth: Love does not mean self-sacrifice. Especially when no one noticesor valuesthe sacrifice.

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

Shameless Beyond Belief “Come on, Kate, just tell me honestly,” Nick whined, “What’s the big cosmic difference if we rent the house to friends or strangers? The money’s the same.” Kate finished hanging the laundry, wishing Nick would quit complaining and help instead. “My darling Nick,” she replied, “The difference is you can never actually get the money out of family.” “You mean Dave?” Nick bristled at the implication, “Dave’s my brother! He’ll pay, I swear. He’s not even asking for a discount! He’ll rent the place at full price. For the whole summer. And we won’t have to go looking for tenants.” “Nick, it’s a seaside house. I could find tenants in five minutes.” “Explain why you’re so dead set on renting to strangers?” “It’s simple: with strangers, there’s a contract, upfront payment, and if they don’t pay—they’re out, end of. With family, it never ends—‘Oh, Katie, you know how it is, we’ve got kids… We’ll pay you later… Oh, we broke the telly, but you’re not actually going to charge us, are you?’ I’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime. You don’t know how those stories end.” Kate’s parents had owned the seaside cottage before her. They lived right there in Brighton, and the house was the perfect little side hustle. Kate stuck to their formula—rent the place out, but, under no circumstances, to friends or family. She’d seen her parents get burned too often. “And how do those stories end?” her husband pressed. “With relatives not paying, and not even apologising! As if it’s no big deal to let them stay for free. Nope. Business is business, Nick. Not a free B&B for your lot.” Dave, Nick’s brother, had decided a three-month seaside holiday was just what the doctor ordered for his wife and their three children. Summer was slow for work, so a little family getaway sounded perfect. Kate had her suspicions that Dave wasn’t planning to pay at all. “But Dave isn’t asking to stay for free!” Nick insisted, “He said he’ll pay.” “They always promise.” “So why bother? We always have a queue of people ready to pay market rate. Folks who turn up, sign the contract, pay up front—I get to sleep easy. No friends. No family. Business is business.” Kate’s logic was hard to argue with, but Nick wasn’t finished. “Fine. Don’t believe Dave. But do you trust me?” Kate waited. “I do. And?” “If Dave tries anything dodgy, I’ll pay you myself.” Nick blurted it out, all puffed up like a hero. Kate rolled her eyes. “Brilliant. You’ll pay me using our joint account.” “I… I mean… I’ll pick up some extra work. Evenings, weekends, whatever I can get. Whatever I make, I’ll give it straight to you. Not our money, just yours. Deal?” Kate didn’t realise it mattered so much to Nick. Maybe, if he trusts his brother that much, she should too… “You could talk the hind leg off a donkey,” she said, “You’re responsible for this. Fine.” Summer was months away. Kate had time to breathe and maybe even try to believe in Nick just a little. June rolled round. Trouble arrived on day one. Nick called Dave every three days, gently reminding him to pay up at least for the first month. Dave always had a reassuring answer: “Yeah, Nick, all in hand! The money? Ah, just waiting on a big invoice from a client. Should be here end of the month. As soon as it lands, you’ll have it. Sorry, just one of those things. Don’t worry!” June ended. Still no money. Kate bit her tongue for a month, said nothing, didn’t nag, didn’t scold. Nick had begged her to let him handle it—so she did. She was trying not to dent his confidence, but after another upbeat post-call with Dave, she couldn’t resist: “Any luck? Has he paid?” “Dave’s still waiting on that payment from the client. Should be any day now!” And still, the excuse hadn’t evolved. “Told you so. Relatives always have excellent reasons to pay late.” “Kate, it’s just a one-off!” Nick protested, “He’s not doing it on purpose, honest! It just happened this way. Give it a bit longer.” “Sure. Let’s wait ‘til September, when they pack up their three suitcases and cheerfully leave, saying, ‘thanks for the lovely holiday, we’ll settle up soon!’?” “Kate, you’re not losing anything. I’ll just take an extra job.” “You? Right now?” Nick wilted. “Give him a couple more weeks. If nothing changes… I’ll pay up myself. If it’s that important to you.” “I didn’t force you to promise anything. You insisted—to prove your brother’s a man of his word. So prove it!” The atmosphere at home soured; Nick spoke to Kate with a joyless gloom. July. The heat was suffocating. Evenings found Kate watching as Nick scrolled through job listings online, but phoned no one. “Nick, it’s the 30th today. Two-thirds of summer gone, still not a penny rent,” she reminded him. “Still waiting on Dave’s payment… But—” “‘As soon as.’ Right?” “He’ll pay! He promised the minute the money comes in, we’re first on his list! He’ll throw in a little extra for making us wait.” “I’m done believing. You vouched for him. You said: ‘I’ll pay.’ So pay up. Where’s that job?” Nick’s enthusiasm for side hustling seemed to be wearing thin. It was easier to promise than to work double. Doing double shifts wasn’t quite so heroic. “I’ll find something. But there’s not much about… Not going to start lugging boxes with my back, am I?” “Maybe you should tell your brother to start carrying boxes to pay his debts. You promised me. Either you find work right now, or I ring Dave and tell him if I don’t see half the rent by Friday, his family’s out—by the book—and I’ll chase the rest through Small Claims Court.” Nick broke out in a cold sweat. “Don’t call Dave! Court? What will the family think of me? How’ll I tell Mum—took my own brother to court, Kate? Nobody’ll understand.” Dave didn’t want to pay, Nick didn’t want to keep his word, but suing his brother was unthinkable—so he decided Kate was the villain in all this. “Some wife you are! Don’t care that I’ll be working myself into the ground, just to pay you back.” “I didn’t twist your arm, Nick! This was your idea!” “But how was I to know Dave would do this?” “I did,” Kate replied, “Because I’ve seen it happen. Over and over. You didn’t listen.” “I get it!” Nick snapped, “But you’re just ruthless, Kate! You’d have me run myself ragged for the sake of, what, some money? My health means nothing as long as you get paid?” “I’m not making you—I just want the deal you insisted on to be kept.” “Fine!” Nick shouted, “I’ll get another job just to pay you for Dave’s holiday, fine? If that’s what you want—enjoy your blood money!” The deal fell apart on Nick’s terms, yet Kate got what she wanted—Nick started moonlighting. Yet her heart felt heavy, and Nick glared at her with a wolfish resentment every evening when he’d finished a courier shift. “This is all your fault,” he spat one night. “My fault?” “Yes!” “Well, maybe you’ll realise—you can’t buy being the nice guy if paying the bill falls to me. Put your own money on the line for your brother, and see if you learn something.” Kate honestly hoped Dave’s conscience would kick in and he’d pay. Just as she thought it, the phone rang—Dave calling her, not Nick. Surely, this was it—a payment at last? “Kate, got a bit of a situation…” “Dave, I don’t have time. You owed August’s rent already, we’re still waiting for July. Not my problem anymore—it’s Nick’s, since he vouched for you.” “Yeah, Nick told me! Poor guy—listen, bit of a snag—the car broke down while we were here, spent the lot getting it fixed. Need cash to get the family home, so I’ll just have to pay you later…. hope that’s all right?” Predictable. Kate hung up. Nick saw it all written on her face. “Fine,” he admitted, “I was wrong to trust him like that. But you—you never let me make a single mistake. Instead of supporting me, you just pile in…” “Should I have smiled and said, ‘No worries, let them have a free holiday, I’ll just grin and bear it’? You made the deal that you’d cover his debt!” “Yes, I did!” Nick sulked, “But you agreed way too quickly to me working myself into the ground! Don’t you give a toss about me?” “Does your brother give a toss about you?” “He’s not a bad guy, he just got unlucky…” “Great. He’s not a bad guy, as he rips me off and leaves you holding the bag. But me—I’m the villain, because I want what’s owed?” Nick fell silent. Looks like rough weather ahead for their marriage.