“I raised five of you, yet you wont feed one father”
A dramatic tale from the heart of rural Yorkshire
“George, wake up! Its long past morningtime for work!” shouted Margaret, shaking her husband with one hand while clutching a burnt frying pan in the other, clinging to the faint hope he was only joking.
“Im not going. Leave me be, Meg. Enough. I wont step foot in that factory again,” muttered George, keeping his eyes shut and turning toward the wall.
At first, his wife laughedjust post-holiday grogginess, she thought.
“Oh, come off it! Stop being daft! Weve celebrated Lizzies wedding, had our restnow its back to routine. Theres work to be done!”
“I mean it. Its over. I resigned. Handed in my notice before the holiday. Yesterday was my last shift.”
“George, have you lost your mind?! Where else will you find work like that? Youve only two years left till pension! Just hold on!” Margaret paled, nearly dropping the pan.
“I cant. Im done. Five children we raisedthree sons, two daughters. Educated them, set them up, got them on their feet. And what about me? I just want to rest now. My dutys done.”
“Youve gone soft if you think you can freeload off the kids,” Margaret sighed bitterly. “Wholl feed you? My pensions a pittance. So you reckon theyll keep you?”
“Course they will. Theyre my own. Five of them! Surely one father wont starve?”
“Youve lost the plot, you old fool!” Margaret snapped, grabbing his sleeve. “Theyve got their own troublesmortgages, grandkids in school. And youa sponger!”
He shoved her away sharply, sending her stumbling into the wardrobe.
“Keep off. Ive made up my mind.”
Tears welled in Margarets eyes. She knew once George dug in, there was no changing it. She threw on her shawl and rushed to Auntie Mabel, the wise old woman even the constables sought for advice.
“Auntie Mabel, its a right mess! George has gone barmy! Quit his jobsays he cant work anymore. What do I do?”
“Stop fussing, love. The mans worn out. Five kidsthats no walk in the park. Let him rest. Show him some kindness.”
“Oh, Ill show him kindness, all right! Wait till the kids visitwell give him a proper holiday!” Margaret spat, eyes gleaming.
A week later, the family gathered. Margaret had called them all, laid out a feast. They laughed, hugged, grandkids tearing about the garden. But once the plates were cleared, silence fell like a weight.
“Dad,” the eldest, Thomas, finally spoke. “Is it true? Youve left work?”
“Aye, son. Had enough. No strength left.”
“Come off it, Dad,” piped up middle son James. “Two years to go. Tough it out. It doesnt make sense!”
“Im decided. Forty years servicemy pensionll cover me. And five of you? Youll keep your old man fed.”
Behind him, Margaret smirked. The children shifted uneasily. Thomas coughed.
“Well weve got the car loan now. Its tight.”
“And Lizzies in music school, tutors and all. Money just vanishes,” added Jamess wife. He stayed quiet.
“Ive started renovations. Need it done before winter, then were selling up. Cant stretch further,” sighed youngest son William.
The daughters chimed inone with furniture on finance, the other with a husband off on contract work, months without pay. Margaret rose, chin high.
“Well, George? See? Everyones stretched. And youjust another burden. Arent you ashamed? You want to take, not give. Tomorrowfind work. Dont come home without a hiring slip. Understood?”
George stood. Silent. Stared at his children. At his wife.
“I raised five of you and you wont feed one father” he rasped, then walked out.
Next morning, he went job hunting. Hiredhalf the pay, but work it was. Margaret crowedshed “fixed” him. Two days later, he didnt return.
Late that night, a knock came. The hospital rangGeorge had passed. Massive heart attack. Collapsed at work, never made the ambulance.
Now Margaret lives alone. Her pension barely covers tea. The children visit seldommostly the girls. The sons just call on holidays.
And echoing in her mind, over and over, are Georges last words:
“I raised five of you and you wont feed one father”
