“I can live in your house for one simple reason: I gave birth to you!”: I don’t want her staying in my home.
I was only eleven when my mother decided to remarry. Her new husband didn’t want me living with them, so Mum dropped me off at my grandmother’s. She never lifted a finger to help us—all she cared about was her new bloke. Nan and I had to scrape by on her pension alone. Nan never liked my mother much, but thank God she didn’t turn me away. At least I took after my dad.
Money was tight, but we managed. Nan became my mother and father rolled into one. I’d ask her advice, confide my secrets—she was the first to know about my crushes, my teenage meltdowns. All those years, Nan had my back.
When I started university, Nan passed away. I had no other family. The house became mine. Just as I’d sorted the paperwork, my mother showed up. I hadn’t seen her in years.
She tried to talk me into swapping homes—they had a cramped two-bed flat, while I had a proper house. She reckoned it was too much for me alone. When I refused, she snapped:
“You ungrateful girl! I’m the one who brought you into this world!”
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I couldn’t stomach it. “Nan raised me. Where were you all those years? You tossed me aside like a stray the second you got married. I owe you nothing.”
Five more years passed. I married, had a son. We lived in my house—our family was happy. My boy was healthy, my husband and I worked steady jobs, just like anyone else. Then my mother turned up again. No way was I letting her waltz back into my life. Who does that? Abandons a child, then reappears like nothing happened? My son answered the door:
“Mum, who’s this?”
My mother seized her chance. “I’m your grandma! Can I come in? Your mum won’t let me.”
“I’ve never seen you before. Mum, is she telling the truth? Why don’t I know her?”
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“Love, go to your room—we’ll talk later,” I told him, then turned to her. “Why are you here? I don’t want to see you. I don’t trust you.”
She slumped into a chair, crying. Said she’d been swindled—sold her flat to buy a new place, but her husband took the money and vanished. Now she was homeless, and suddenly remembered me.
“Let me stay. You’re my only child. You can’t leave me on the streets. You’ve a good heart—I’ll live with you. I gave birth to you!”
I let her stay the night. Couldn’t have her sleeping rough. Rang my aunt—Mum’s cousin—who lived in the countryside. Told her my husband would drop Mum off tomorrow. There’s always work on a farm. She can live there. I won’t have her in my home. Nan was the one who raised me.
As she left, Mum flew into a rage. “Why are you so cruel? I’m your mother!”
Aye, exactly—why *am* I so cruel?
