Everyone for Themselves “Mum, you have no idea what’s happening in the housing market right now,” Mark nervously shuffled through a stack of printouts, arranging them neatly only to spread them like a deck of cards across the kitchen table. “Prices are going up every week. If we don’t put down the deposit now, we’ll lose this flat to someone else.” Lydia slid a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat opposite. Photoshop floor plans, figures, mortgage repayment graphs all flashed up on the paper. A three-bedroom new build, room for Timothy and Sophie to each finally have their own space. “How much are you short?” “Eighty-two thousand.” Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know it’s a lot. Ann’s coming apart at the seams, the kids are growing, and we’re still stuck in rentals…” Lydia watched her son and saw the same boy who used to pick dandelion bouquets for her. Thirty-two, two children of his own, but that little frown between his eyebrows was just the same as when he’d worried about unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. They’re in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as everything settles down, I’ll start returning it.” She covered his hand with her own, worn tough by a lifetime of cooking and cleaning. “Mark, it’s for the grandkids. What’s money compared to family?” At the bank, Lydia filled out the forms in the neat script honed by thirty years as an accountant. Eighty-two thousand. Almost everything she’d set aside through the years. For emergencies. Just in case. For “you never know.” Mark gave her a tight hug right at the cashier’s window, ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best. Honestly. I won’t forget.” Lydia patted his back. “Off you go now. Ann’s probably waiting.” …The first months in the new flat blurred together in a carousel of crosstown trips. Lydia arrived with Sainsbury’s bags—chicken, oats, butter, kids’ yoghurts. She helped Ann hang curtains, build IKEA furniture, scrub builder’s dust off the window ledges. “Timothy! Careful with those tools!” she shouted, balancing curtain hooks and explaining to her daughter-in-law the finer points of cottage pie. Ann nodded, phone in hand. Mark appeared in the evenings, worn out, ate his mum’s dinners in minutes, vanished to his room. “Thanks, Mum,” he called on his way out. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, her phone lit up with his number. “Hi, Mum… there’s a thing. The mortgage is due and the car needs repairs—missing by about three and a half grand.” Lydia transferred the money without hesitating. It’s hard for young families, after all—new expenses, little children, stressful jobs. They’ll get on their feet—return it. Or not. What does it matter when it’s family? The years slipped faster than water through fingers. Timothy turned seven—Lydia bought him that Lego set he’d begged his parents for. Sophie twirled in a pink sparkling dress, just like the one she’d seen on a Disney princess. “Nana, you’re the best!” Sophie hugged her, smelling of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend Lydia took the grandkids, or took them to the theatre, theme park, skating rink. Ice cream, toys, books. Her old coat pockets were stuffed with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this cheerful, willing servitude. Money for the mortgage—“Mum, it’s a tight month.” Sick days—“Mum, we can’t take off work.” Food—“Mum, you’re going to the shops anyway…” Thank-yous became less frequent. …That morning she stared at the stained ceiling. Rusty streaks creeping across the plaster—her flat had flooded, and it was uninhabitable. She called her son. “Mark, I need help with repairs. I don’t know when I’ll get the insurance—” “Mum,” he interrupted, “I just can’t right now. The kids have clubs and classes. Ann’s just started a course…” “I’m not asking for much, just to help find someone to do the work. Or maybe—” “I really haven’t got time, Mum, especially not for something like that,” Mark repeated like he hadn’t heard her. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” The dial tone. Lydia put down the phone. The screensaver flickered—a photo from last Christmas. Herself, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling. That money he’d borrowed without a thought. Those weekends she’d given to his children. The time, energy, love—all that was “before.” Now there were “other priorities.” A drop from the ceiling landed cold on her hand. The next day Ann rang herself—a rare occurrence that put Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law even spoke. “Mrs Parker, Mark told me about your call,” Ann sounded irritated. “You do understand, everyone needs to look after their own problems, right? We’ve got to handle our own mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been topping up every third month. The deposit made almost entirely from her own pocket. “Of course, Ann,” she replied calmly, “Everyone for themselves.” “Glad we agree. Mark’s just worried you’re upset. You’re not upset, are you?” “No. Not at all.” The dial tone. Lydia set the phone on the table and stared at it as if it were a strange insect. Then she went to the window, but found nothing outside to comfort her. Nights became endless hours with the ceiling pressing down, memories spinning through her mind. She revisited the last five years like counting prayer beads. She had created this herself. Raised her son to believe his mother was a never-ending resource. That morning Lydia called the estate agent. “I’d like to put my cottage on the market. Six plots, just outside London, all mains services connected.” The cottage she and her husband had built over twenty years. The apple trees she’d planted when pregnant with Mark. The veranda where countless summer evenings were spent. A buyer came in a month. Lydia signed the paperwork with no time for nostalgia. The money hit her account, and she coolly split it up: home repairs, a new savings account, a rainy-day fund. The builders moved in the next week. Lydia chose the tiles, wallpaper, taps herself. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—without saving for “bad days” or worrying who’d need help next. Mark didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia didn’t call either. The first phone call came after the renovations were complete. The new kitchen gleamed, windows no longer rattled, the pipes no longer leaked. “Mum, why haven’t you come over? Sophie’s been asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Mark. My own life.” She visited the next week. Brought books for the grandchildren—nice gifts, but not extravagant. Spent a couple of hours over tea, chatting about weather and school. Declined dinner. “Mum, can you babysit the kids Saturday?” Mark waylaid her in the hall. “We’re—” “Can’t. I have plans.” She saw his face fall. He didn’t understand. Not yet. In time, he might. Months went by, and the truth dawned: without Mum’s transfers, the mortgage ate a third of their income. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to watch the kids. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a proper winter coat—new, warm, not from a charity shop. Spent two weeks at a spa hotel. Took up Nordic walking. She remembered how Ann’s parents always kept their distance. Polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. No complaints from their daughter either. Maybe they’d been right all along? Rare visits with the grandchildren became formal. Lydia came, gave modest presents, chatted about school and mates. Left after a couple of hours, never stayed over, never took the kids away for the weekend. Timothy asked her once: “Nana, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Nana’s busy now, Timmy.” He didn’t understand. But Mark, standing in the doorway, maybe started to get it. Lydia went back to her freshly renovated flat that smelled of new paint and new furniture. She brewed herself a good cup of tea and settled into a comfy chair, bought with the cottage money. Guilt crept up at night, sometimes. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned: love isn’t martyrdom. Especially when no one notices—or cares—about your sacrifice. This time, she chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

Every Man for Himself

Mum, you honestly wouldnt believe what the housing markets like right now, Matthew muttered as he anxiously shuffled through a stack of printouts, first stacking them neatly and then spreading them like a deck of cards across the kitchen table. Prices are going up every week. If we dont put down the deposit right now, someone else will snap up this flat.

Linda slid a cup of lukewarm tea towards her son and sat down opposite. She glimpsed floorplans, numbers, repayment charts flashing past. It was a three-bedroom in a new developmentfinally, Timmy and Sophie could each have their own room.

How much are you short? she asked.
Twenty-eight thousand pounds, Matthew said, pinching the bridge of his nose. I know its a lot. But Annies at her wits end, the kids are growing, and were still living out of suitcases in rented places

Linda looked at her son and saw the little boy who once brought her bouquets of buttercups. Thirty-two years old, two kids, and that wrinkle between his eyebrows was still therejust as it was when hed worry about forgotten homework.

Ive got some savings in my account, she said.
Mum, Ill pay you back, I swear. As soon as weve settled down, Ill start putting it back bit by bit.

She rested her worn, kitchen-hardened hand on his.

Matthew, love, its for my grandchildren. Why are we even talking about paying me back? Family matters more than money.

At the bank, Linda filled out forms in the neat, practiced handwriting shed honed in thirty years as a bookkeeper. Twenty-eight grandnearly everything shed managed to set aside over the past few years. For a rainy day, just in case, for you never know.

Matthew hugged her tightly right there at the counter, not caring that there was a queue.

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

Linda patted his back. Off you go. Annies probably waiting for you.

…The first few months after the move were a whirlwind of trips from one end of town to the other. Linda would show up clutching bags from Sainsburyschicken, rice, butter, yoghurt for the kids. Shed help Annie hang curtains, piece together flat-pack furniture, scrub builders dust off the sills.

Timmy, be careful with the tools! shed call, all while hanging the curtains and explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make cottage pie from scratch.

Annie would nod, idly scrolling on her phone. Matthew came home late, tired, barely said a word, wolfed down his mums casserole, and vanished into the bedroom.

Thanks, Mum, hed mutter in passing. Honestly, dont know what wed do without you.

Six months went by, and then one evening the phone lit up with his name.

Mum, Ive hit a bit of a wall This months mortgage payments due and the cars broken down. Im short by about a grand.

Linda sent the money, not even asking questions. Its always harder for the younger ones, she understoodadjusting to all the new expenses, with two little ones and stressful jobs. Theyd sort themselves out and pay her back. Or not. What did it really matter, when it was family?

Years trickled by like water slipping through her fingers. Timmy turned seven, and Linda bought him that Lego set hed been begging for, the very one his parents refused all year. Sophie spun across the living room in a brand new dresspale pink, sparkly, just like her favourite fairy-tale princess.

Gran, youre the best! Sophie squealed, throwing her arms around Lindas neck, the scent of sweets and kids shampoo clinging to her.

Every weekend, Linda would either have the grandchildren over or whisk them off to the theatre, the funfair, or the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her old coat pockets bulged with sweets and wet wipes.

Five years passed in this generous, self-imposed servitude. Mortgage top-upsMum, were skint this month. Sick days with the kidsMum, we just cant get time off work. Weekly groceriesMum, youre off to the shop anyway

Gratitude came less and less often

That morning, she gazed up at brown streaks running across her own kitchen ceiling. The neighbours upstairs had flooded her flat, and now it was barely liveable.

She dialled her son.

“Matthew, I need help with the repairs. Theres been a leak and I dont know when Ill get any compensation

Mum, her son cut in, Ive got completely different priorities right now. The kids have after-school clubs, Sophies started dance, Annies doing evening classes…

Im not asking for much. Just some help finding a builder. Or at least

Honestly, Mum, Ive got no time for that right now, especially for something so trivial, Matthew repeated like he hadnt heard her at all. Lets talk about this later. Give me a ring, yeah?

Beep beep beep

Linda put down her phone. The home screen flashed upa New Years photo from last year. Her, Timmy, Sophie. All smiles.
All those times hed taken money barely thinking. All those weekends shed given to the children. All that time, energy, carethat was all in the past, when things were different. Now, there were other priorities.

A cold drip splashed onto her hand.

The very next day, Annie rangan event so rare, Linda tensed up even before her daughter-in-law spoke.

Linda, Matthew told me about your little chat, Annie began, her tone clipped. You do realise everyones meant to handle their own problems, right? Were juggling our own mortgage, all our bills

Linda almost laughed. That mortgage, which shed practically covered every third month. The deposit, which had been mostly her money.

Of course, Annie, she replied, flat and even. Were all responsible for ourselves.
“Glad weve cleared that up. Matthew got worried youd taken offence. You havent, have you?
No. Not at all.

Beep beep beep

Linda placed her phone on the table and stared at it as if it were some strange little bug. She went to the window, but the view behind the grubby glass offered no comfort.

Nights dragged on, her mind whirring as she lay watching the dark, replaying the last five years.

Shed created this herself. Raised her son into thinking a mother was an endless resource.

The next morning, Linda picked up the phone and rang the estate agent.

Id like to put my cottage on the market. House with a garden, just outside London, all mains connected.

That little house she and her late husband had built together for twenty years. The apple trees she planted while carrying Matthew. The veranda where so many summer evenings had been spent.

A buyer arrived within a month. Linda signed the papers, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money hit her account, and she calmly split it up: flat repairs, a new savings account, and a small buffer for rainy days.

The builders started work the next week. Linda chose the tiles, the wallpaper, the tapseverything. For the first time in years, she spent money on herself, not saving just in case or for someone elses emergency.

Matthew didnt call. Not for two weeks, then three, then a month. Linda stayed silent too.

The first call came right after work finished. Her new kitchen gleamed, the windows were draught-proof, and not a single rusty drip remained.

Mum, why arent you coming round? Sophie keeps asking about you.
Ive been busy.
With what?
Life, Matthew. My own life.

She visited the next week. Brought the kids a book eachlovely gifts, but nothing extravagant. She sat for tea, chatted about the weather and Timmys progress at school. Politely declined their offer to stay for dinner.

Mum, could you watch the kids on Saturday? Annie and I
Sorry, cant. Ive got plans.

Linda saw the confusion on her sons face. He didnt understand. Not yet.

Months passed, and understanding came, slowly, painfully. Without mums loans, the mortgage swallowed a third of their income. Without free childcare, there was no one to leave the kids with.

Meanwhile, Linda opened a new ISA at a decent rate. Bought herself a proper winter coatwarm, smart, not from the sale rail. Took herself off for a fortnight at a spa hotel. Joined a Nordic walking club.

She remembered how Annies parents always kept their distancea polite card at Christmas, a short visit every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And not a single complaint from their daughter.

Maybe theyd had it right all along?

Her meetings with the grandchildren became brief and routine. Linda would deliver a small present, chat about school or friends, and take her leavenever staying over, never taking the kids home for the weekend.

One day, Timmy asked, Gran, why dont you take us to the park anymore?
Grans got her own things to do now, Timmy, love.

He didnt understand. But Matthew, lurking in the doorway, finally seemed to get it.

Linda would head back to her newly decorated flat, scented with fresh paint and new furniture. Make herself a proper brew, settle with a book in her comfy chairbought with money from the cottage sale.

Guilt? Yes, sometimes it came at night. But less and less. Because Linda, at last, understood this: loving someone didnt mean sacrificing yourselfespecially when no one notices, or thanks you, for it.

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