Every Man for Himself “Mum, you wouldn’t believe what’s happening on the housing market right now,” Max fidgeted with the stack of printouts, alternating between piling them neatly and fanning them across the kitchen table. “Prices are jumping every week. If we don’t put down a deposit now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of lukewarm tea towards her son and took a seat opposite him. Floor plans, numbers, repayment charts flashed across the pages. Three bedrooms in a new development: a room for Tim and Sophie, finally their own space. “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 wit’s end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hiding in rented corners…” Lydia looked at her son and saw the little boy who used to bring her bunches of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, two children… and the wrinkle between his brows was the same as when he worried over his homework. “I’ve got savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay it back, honestly. As soon as things settle down, I’ll start saving again.” She covered his hand with hers, roughened from decades of cooking and cleaning. “Max, this is for my grandchildren. There’s no question of repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank branch, Lydia filled in the forms with the precise handwriting that came from thirty years as an accountant. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly everything she’d saved over recent years. For a rainy day. Just in case. “What if.” Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter, not caring about the queue. “You’re the best, Mum. Really. I’ll never forget it.” She patted his back. “Go on now. Anya must be waiting.” …The first months after the housewarming blurred into endless journeys across the city. Lydia would arrive laden with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, cheese, yogurts for the kids. She helped Anna hang curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she shouted as she juggled curtains with explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cabbage rolls. Anna nodded, scrolling through her phone. Max would appear in the evening—tired from work—snap up Mum’s cooking and vanish into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d call over his shoulder. “Don’t know what we’d do without you!” …Six months later her familiar number flashed on the screen. “Mum, I need a favour… This month’s mortgage payment coincided with car repairs. We’re thirty-five grand short.” Lydia transferred the money, no questions asked. Life’s tough for the young ones—everyone knows that. New expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. Never mind, they’ll get back on their feet—and the money, well, they’ll return it. Or not. What does it matter, really, when it’s family? The years slipped by quicker than water through fingers. Tim turned seven, and Lydia gifted him that Lego set he’d begged his parents for all year. Sophie twirled in a pink dress sparkling just like a princess’s. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie swung from her neck, smelling of children’s shampoo and toffees. Every weekend Lydia whisked the grandkids off—to the theatre, the park, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her old coat bulged with sweets and wet wipes. Five years melted into this generous, voluntary servitude. Mortgage money—“Mum, we’re strapped this month.” Sick days with the kids—“Mum, we just can’t get off work.” Groceries—“Mum, you’re at the shops anyway.” Gratitude faded with time… …That morning she studied the water stains on her kitchen ceiling. Rusty streaks spread across the plaster. Her flat was flooded—impossible to live in now. She dialled her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve no idea when I’ll get compensation…” “Mum,” Max cut her off, “You know my priorities are totally different now. Clubs for the kids, Sophie’s ballet, Anya’s signed up for an evening course…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a builder, or—” “I’ve literally no time for this, Mum, not for something so trivial,” Max repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. “Let’s come back to it later. We’ll chat, ok?” The dial tone… Lydia lowered the phone. Her screensaver flashed—a photo from last New Year’s Eve. Her, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a thought. The weekends she’d given to his children. The time, the energy, the love—all that was “back then.” Now—it was “different priorities.” A drip from the ceiling splashed onto her hand. Cold… The next day Anna called—a rare event that set Lydia on edge even before her daughter-in-law spoke. “Lydia, Max told me about your chat,” Anna sounded irritated, “But everyone has to deal with their own problems, don’t they? We’re paying off the flat ourselves now, the mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been covering every third month. The deposit—almost entirely from her. “Of course, Anya,” she answered evenly. “Each to their own.” “Exactly. We’re on the same page. Max was worried you’re upset though—you’re not upset, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone… Lydia placed the phone on the table and gazed at it for a long time, as if it were some alien insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—there was nothing out there for comfort. Nights turned into endless hours—the ceiling pressing down, her thoughts restless. Lydia lay in the dark, counting off the last five years like rosary beads. She had done this herself. Raised in her son the certainty that a mother is an endless resource. The next morning, Lydia phoned the estate agent. “I’d like to put my country cottage up for sale. Six plots, Surrey. Electricity connected.” The cottage she and her late husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted, pregnant with Max. The veranda—so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up in a month. Lydia signed the papers without allowing herself to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account and she methodically planned it out: repairs, a new savings account, a small rainy day fund. The workmen started on her flat the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, the wallpaper, the fittings herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting things away “just in case” or thinking which family member might need her help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three. A month. Lydia remained silent too. The phone rang after the renovations were done. The new kitchen gleamed, windows sealed tight, pipes no longer groaned with rust. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “Been busy.” “With what?” “My life, Max. My own life.” She visited the following week. Brought books for the grandchildren—good gifts, but nothing extravagant. Sat for two hours over tea, discussing the weather, Tim’s schoolwork. Declined to stay for dinner. “Mum, could you mind the kids on Saturday? Anya and I—” “Can’t. I’ve got plans.” She saw his face fall. He didn’t understand. Not yet. The months rolled by and understanding came—slowly, painfully. Without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage devoured a third of their income. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Meanwhile, Lydia opened a high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Took herself to a spa for two weeks. Enrolled in a Nordic walking group. She remembered how Anna’s parents had always kept their distance. Polite birthday cards, dutiful visits every couple of months. No money, no help—in fact, no sacrifices at all. And not a single complaint from their daughter. Perhaps they were right all along? Rare visits with the grandchildren turned into a formality. Lydia would come, bring simple gifts, chat about school, friends… Leave after a few hours, not staying overnight or whisking the children off for the weekend. Tim once asked: “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s got things to do these days, Timmy.” The boy didn’t get it. But Max, standing in the hallway, perhaps at last began to. Lydia would return to her newly renovated flat, filled with the smell of fresh paint and new furniture. Brew fine tea, settle into the comfy chair she’d bought with the cottage money. Guilt? Yes, it crept in now and then. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love doesn’t mean self-sacrifice. Not when no one notices or values your sacrifice. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood, she chose herself.

Every Man for Himself

Mum, you cant imagine whats happening on the housing market at the moment, James muttered anxiously, sifting through a pile of printoutssometimes tidily stacking them, sometimes splaying them across the kitchen table. Prices are jumping every week. If we dont put the deposit down now, someone else will snatch this flat before we blink.

Margaret nudged a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat across from him. Floor plans, numbers, repayment schedules drifted across the papersthree bedrooms in a new build: a room for Oliver, one for Grace, at last, separate spaces for the children.

How much are you short? she asked.
Twenty-two thousand pounds, James sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. I know its a lot. But Emmas climbing the walls, the kids are growing up, and were still stuck in rented places

Margaret studied her son, seeing the same boy who once brought her posies of daffodils from the park. Thirty-two years old, two childrenand that worried crease between his brows was unchanged since his schooldays, when unfinished homework weighed on his mind.

Ive savings, she said softly. Still sitting in the bank.
Mum, Ill pay you back, honestly. As soon as things settle down, Ill start putting it back straight away.

She covered his hand with her owncallused from decades of cooking and cleaning.

Dont be silly, James. Its for the childrenmy grandchildren. Family matters more than money ever could.

At the bank, Margaret filled out forms in a careful handhoned over thirty years as a bookkeeper. Twenty-two thousand pounds, nearly all shed carefully put aside, just in case, for rainy days, for whatever may come.

James hugged her tightly right there by the counter, indifferent to the tutting queue.

Youre the best, Mum. Truly. I wont forget this.

She patted his back.

Go on, now. Emma will be waiting for you.

The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of journeys across town. Margaret turned up with bags from Sainsburyschicken, rice, butter, yoghurts for the little ones. She helped Emma hang curtains, assemble flat-pack furniture, scrub builders dust from the window ledges.

Oliver, mind that screwdriver! shed call, hanging curtains and teaching Emma her cabbage roll recipe at the same time.

Emma nodded, scrolling on her mobile. James would appear, exhausted from work, gulp down whatever his mother had cooked, then vanish into the bedroom.

Thank you, Mum, hed yell as he dashed past. What would we do without you?

Six months later, a familiar number flashed on her phone.

Mum, bit of a situation Mortgage payment clashed with the car repairs this month. Im short by about a grand.

Margaret transferred the money without question. Of course it was hard for the young coupleadjusting to new expenses, juggling work and little ones. No matter, theyd get their feet under them. Maybe theyd pay her back, maybe not. What did it matter, when it concerned those you love?

The years tumbled by faster than stream water through ones hands. Oliver turned seven, Margaret gifted him the Lego set hed badgered his parents about all year. Grace spun about in her new dressrose-pink with glitter, just like the one shed seen on a princess in a cartoon.

Nana, youre the best! Grace squealed, flinging her sweet-smelling arms round her neck.

Every weekend Margaret fetched the children over, whisked them to the theatre, funfair, or skating rink. She bought ices, toys, booksthe pockets of her old coat bulged with sweets and wet wipes.

Five years flew past in this voluntary, generous toil. Mortgage moneyMum, were really struggling this month! Sick days with the childrenMum, we cant get off work. GroceriesMum, youre going shopping anyway

Gratitude faded. Duty remained.

That morning, Margaret surveyed the stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty streaks trailed the plaster. Shed been flooded from the flat aboveher home unliveable for now.

She called her son.

James, I need some help with repairs. The neighbours flooded meno idea when Ill see the insurance money
Mum, he cut in, surely you realise Ive got completely different priorities now. The kids have their clubs, Emma has her evening classes
Im not asking much. Just help to find someone to fix it, or maybe
I honestly havent the time for these sorts of things, Mum, especially not for something so trivial, James repeated, as if deaf. Lets chat about it later, shall we?

Silence. Then the call disconnected.

Margaret lowered the phone. The screen showed a picture from last Christmasherself, Oliver, and Grace, all beaming.
Those funds hed borrowed without a thought. Those weekends she gave to his children. That time, that energy, that loveall had belonged to before. Now, there were different priorities.

A drop fell from the ceiling onto her hand. Cold.

The next afternoon, Emma herself called. A rare eventenough to put Margarets guard up before her daughter-in-law even spoke.

Mrs. Fletcher, James said you rang about some repairs. You do understand everyone has to sort out their own problems, dont you? Were managing our own flat, paying the mortgage

Margaret nearly laughed. The mortgage shed paid every third month. The deposit that was mostly her own money.

Of course, Emma, she replied steadily. Everyone for themselves.
Good, thats sorted then. James was worried youd taken offence. You havent, have you?
No. Not at all.

Click.

Margaret set down her phone and stared at it for a long time, as if it were some strange insect. She went to the window, but turned away at oncenothing outside soothed her.

Nights stretched on as endless hours where the ceiling pressed in and memories kept her awake. She lay awake in the dark, going over the last five years like beads in a rosary.

Shed made this herself. Raised her sons certainty that mum was an unfailing resource.

In the morning, Margaret phoned the estate agent.

Id like to put my country cottage up for sale. Bit of a garden, electricity, everything in order.

The cottageshe and her late husband had built it brick by brick over twenty years: apple trees shed planted carrying Oliver, the veranda where so many summer evenings had passed.

A buyer was found the next month. Margaret signed the papers, refusing to dwell on what she was giving up. The money arrived in her account; she divided it sensibly: repairs to her flat, a new term deposit, a little savings buffer just in case.

Builders started the following week. Margaret chose tiles, wallpaper, taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herselfnot for a rainy day, nor thinking who in the family might soon be in need.

James didnt call. Two weeks, three, a month. Margaret kept silent too.

When the first call came, her renovations were complete. The new kitchen gleamed, draughts no longer whistled through the windows, water pipes stayed silent.

Mum, why havent you visited? Grace keeps asking.
Ive been busy.
With what?
With life, James. My own life.

She visited a week later. Brought each grandchild a bookwell-chosen presents, but not as extravagant as before. Stayed for a couple of hours, chatted about the weather and Olivers latest marks at school. Declined the invitation to dinner.

Mum, could you take the children on Saturday? Emma and I
I cant. Ive made plans.

She saw his face fall. He didnt understand. Not yet.
As the months slipped by, realisation dawnedslowly, bitterly. Without his mothers transfers, the mortgage ate up a third of their monthly budget. With no free nanny, the children were hard to palm off.

Meanwhile, Margaret opened a new savings accountgood interest. Bought herself a proper coatwarm, of good quality, not from the sales. Treated herself to two weeks at a seaside retreat. Took up Nordic walking.

She remembered how Emmas parents had always kept their distance: polite cards at Christmas and birthdays, ritual visits every few months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. No complaints from their daughter.

Perhaps, Margaret thought, theyd been right all along.

Rare visits with her grandchildren became formalities. Margaret would come, bring modest gifts, chat about schoolwork and friends. Shed leave after an hour or two, not staying overnight, not whisking the children away for weekends.

One day, Oliver asked her:
Nana, why dont you take us to the park anymore?
Nanas busy now, Ollie.

The boy didnt understand. But James, watching from the doorway, seemed to be beginning to.

Margaret returned to her newly refurbished flatfresh paint, new furnishings. She brewed herself a good cup of tea, sitting in the comfortable armchair shed bought with money from selling the cottage.

Guilt? It would creep up on her at night, now and then. But less often, now shed learnt something simple: love isnt meant to be sacrificeleast of all when nobody notices or values the offering.

She chose herself, for the first time in thirty-two years of being a mother.