Emily sighed as she dropped her bag by the desk, her face drawn with exhaustion. “At the last meeting, the director didn’t even pretend to sugarcoat it—’You’ve got two options: find another job or pray for a miracle,'” she said bitterly. “I get it… but where am I supposed to find work now?”
She walked into the office with a stony expression, her chest tight with dread. The company was sinking—that much was clear—but she’d hoped, somehow, they’d pull through. Now, the verdict was final. Emily needed this job like she needed air: two children to care for, no child support, elderly parents who needed her help more than they could give.
Her CV flew out like factory-line products—calls to contacts, relentless online searches. Sometimes, she joked with colleagues, “Our only thoughts at work are about where to work next.” Some had already landed new roles; others had vanished into the unknown.
“If things get desperate, come to the supermarket with me,” a colleague from another department offered. “Decent pay, flexible hours. I’ll put in a word.”
A year ago, such a suggestion would have filled Emily with dread. Now? At least it was something.
A stifled sob broke her thoughts. She turned to see Margaret, the seasoned accountant—reserved, dignified, never one to complain—standing by the window, tears in her eyes.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?” Emily rushed over. “Is it the layoffs? You’re retired—you shouldn’t be stressing. I’ll make tea; I’ve got some scones left. Let’s talk.”
“Seems I’ll be resting under a bridge,” Margaret muttered, her voice raw.
“Under a bridge? You’ve got a flat, your son’s grown—you don’t even live with him.”
“Oh, the flat’s still there. Just not for me.” Margaret’s hands shook. “I’m renting now. £800 a month—and that’s lucky.”
The story spilled out: a two-bedroom flat, co-owned with her son for twenty years. When he married, she took in the young couple—then the chaos began. Her daughter-in-law was pregnant, then registered there, then the baby. Arguments, slammed doors, her son fleeing to friends’ couches. Margaret endured it, blaming hormones, “growing pains.”
Then—another pregnancy.
“I couldn’t take it. I left,” Margaret whispered. “Rented a studio. Thought it’d be temporary.”
But “temporary” stretched into years. At Christmas, she arrived with gifts—only to find a list of debtors in the lobby. *Her* flat. Over £7,000 owed.
“Why should *we* pay?” her daughter-in-law had scoffed. “*Your* flat—*your* bills!”
Her son just shrugged. “No money,” he said. Margaret drained her savings, signed an agreement—four years of repayments.
“I never complained,” she said, staring blankly out the window. “Just called sometimes. Asked about the children. He’d say, ‘All fine.’ Then I ran into a neighbour. She told me—he’s divorced. Over a year now. New man living there. Another baby on the way.”
“And your son?”
“He said, ‘I’ve got a new family now. They’re *my* children. I can’t throw them out.'” Her voice cracked. “But throwing *me* out? That was easy.”
Now, Margaret pays the bills for a flat she can’t enter. Her ex-daughter-in-law and a stranger live there, comfortable, while she scrapes by between work and a dingy rental. Her pension? Barely covers medicine and rent. Savings? Gone. Help? None.
“I get she’s got nowhere to go… but why am *I* on the street while she’s playing house with some man in *my* flat?” Her hands trembled. “Why didn’t my son stand up for me?”
Emily listened, hollow. What could she say? What answer exists when a child discards their own mother?
“Have you… spoken to a solicitor?” she asked carefully.
“What’s the point? She’s on the lease. And the children? Would a court evict a mother with kids? The debt’s mine. It’s all legal.”
And there lay the tragedy. Perfectly legal—and utterly heartless.
That night, Emily lay awake, Margaret’s words echoing: “*Just once, I’d like to live like a person.*”
Where’s the line between family and betrayal? The moment a child decides their mother is just an old woman who’ll “put up with anything”?
Maybe it starts when we stop calling. Stop asking. When it’s easier to assume parents are “fine” while we carry on.
Now, Margaret pays more than bills. She pays for trust, for kindness, for love given and thrown away.
And the question lingers:
*What do you do when a mother gives everything—and ends up with nothing?*
