I always fancied myself as one of those women who lived for her children. From the sleepless nights when my son was small to the endless fretting over his future as he grew into a young man, I gave my all. My hair turned grey before its time, and I sacrificed much—but I did it with love, for Robert was my only child. When he turned thirty-one, I thought perhaps the time had come to spare a thought for myself.
Robert married eight years ago. His in-laws and I split the cost of the wedding, and my gift to the newlyweds was an envelope of pounds—let them decide how to spend it. The couple rented a tidy little flat in a decent part of London afterward. I admired their independence—not every young pair can manage their own place so soon.
But after a few years, money grew tight. Robert came to me then, asking for help. I had a tidy sum coming in from a flat left to me by my late father-in-law. The tenant was a dream—a quiet, solitary fellow who paid on time without complaint. Still, when I learned my daughter-in-law was expecting, I made my choice: family came first.
I gave the tenant notice and handed the flat over to Robert and his wife. I told myself I could do without little luxuries like fresh seafood for a while. What mattered was helping them. To my surprise, my daughter-in-law became sweet as honey—inviting me round, even asking my opinion now and then.
Three years passed. Three years they lived there, not paying a penny. And I couldn’t bring myself to ask them to leave. You see, when relations are warm, it’s like a trap—hard to be the villain who brings up obligations. But I began noticing the toll it took on me: the weariness, the sluggishness, the weight I’d gained from eating cheaply. All for their sake.
Then, one day, I gathered my courage. Calmly, without accusation, I asked Robert, “Don’t you think it’s time to find your own place? The commute is long, and there are plenty of flats to let.” He brushed it off with a joke. His wife added that the little one was still too young—they needed to stay a while longer.
I tried explaining that being a mother didn’t mean sacrificing oneself forever, that they could find a place nearer the nursery. But the conversation soured. They took offence. And I—I felt guilty for wanting nothing more than to live decently again.
A week later, the in-laws invited me to some distant cousin’s birthday—someone I’d supposedly met at the wedding. I didn’t want to go, but they insisted: no gift necessary, just come along. So I went.
What awaited me was a spectacle. All eyes turned my way. The talk of the evening was my “heartlessness”—how could I take a roof from a young family? What mattered more: money or my son and grandson’s well-being? Ten voices, all reproaching me. No one cared to hear how things had been for me.
In the end, they decided Robert’s family would stay in the flat—but now, they’d pay a token sum, half the going rate. Less, in truth. And I was to be the landlady, with the right to demand repairs and prompt payment. Fair, perhaps—but forced upon me. I was simply too tired to argue.
I knew then this “agreement” would bring no good. Soon enough, there’d be quarrels and grudges. But what choice did I have? From now on, if they broke something, they’d fix it. I hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that we might keep things civil. If not, well, that was the price of their choice. I’d wanted it to be different… but no one listened.
