I became pregnant at sixteen, still in school. In our small English village, it was a huge scandal. People would whisper and point at me, and my parents were mortified with shame. My father wouldnt even look at me. It would have been better if youd died than brought this disgrace upon us! Off to your grandmothers I cant stand this any longer.
So I went to my grandmothers in the next village over, where she lived on the edge of town, in an old, draughty house. It was bitterly cold and rather bleak, but I endured it. The last months of my pregnancy were especially hard no one helped me, no one cared. When the time came, the ambulance barely managed to reach us in time. Still, I got through it and brought up my son in that same ramshackle cottage.
Everyone said I needed to find a husband, but I wanted no part of it. My life revolved around giving my son everything I could. I worked odd jobs, doing whatever was necessary. When Michael was old enough and left for university, I too left for work in Italy.
Before then, I couldnt bear the thought of leaving my child behind. The job abroad seemed like paradise compared to life in our dreary village. I cared for an elderly Englishwoman who treated me with more warmth than Id known for years. My wages were enough, and sometimes shed slip me an extra £100 or £200 as a thank-you. Over several years, those savings allowed me to buy Michael a small flat and fully support him.
But the money seemed to change him. He stopped visiting his grandmother and seldom called me. That hurt, but I continued sending him £500 a month and set aside the rest for a home of my own. Id never go back to that crumbling old place.
A few years passed, and Michael decided to marry. Naturally I covered the cost of the wedding and helped with everything else they needed. I thought that finally, I could save for myself. But within five years, they had two children, and when the war broke out, my daughter-in-law was expecting a third. I kept supporting them financially.
And still, I saved up £20,000 for my own flat. A friend of mine was selling a lovely one-bedroom with all the refurbishments, and we agreed on the sale.
That summer, I returned to England to sort out the paperwork, only for Michael to drop a bombshell on me. Mum, we sold the flat and bought a house. That was just the first payment now you need to provide the second.
What are you talking about? I asked, stunned.
Eighteen thousand pounds, he said.
You must be joking. Im buying a flat for myself.
Mum, you cant do that. Weve already moved in. You know we cant live in a tiny flat with three children. I was counting on you.
Why didnt you save anything yourself? Why didnt you say a word before now? No, youll have to find the rest yourself. Ive already agreed to the purchase. Ill help a little later if I can, but I wont cover the whole sum.
Mum, dont you care how your grandchildren live?
Of course I care! I sent you £500 every month you could have put that aside. By now, you would have had what you needed.
You can always earn more for yourself in a couple of years, cant you? Why do you need it now? Youll go back to Italy anyway!
And if something happens and I need to come home in a hurry? Or if I fall ill? Where will I stay?
With Grandma in the village!
Well, why dont you move your family out there with her then?
This time, I refused to give in. I wouldnt let myself lose the flat. Michael took it badly and stopped speaking to me. I heard from others that he borrowed from nearly everyone he knew. But was I supposed to keep bailing him out? How much more could I be expected to give?
Some days, I doubt myself. But deep down, I know I did the right thing.
