“I’ll be living in your flat because I’m your mother!”
I was only fifteen when Mum announced she was marrying another man. As for me—her only daughter—she packed me off to Grandma’s without a second thought. I was in the way of her “new life.” No letters, no calls, not a penny for help. She had it all—a man, a new family—while I had Grandma’s cramped little flat and her pension, which barely covered the essentials. But Grandma loved me fiercely, despite our modest life. She never made me feel like I was someone else’s burden. She shared everything with me—warmth, joy, even her sorrow. I grew up under her care, grateful for every hug, every handkerchief that dried my tears.
When Grandma passed, I was in my second year at university. The funeral, the shock, the emptiness. But one thing kept me grounded—I stayed in her flat. An inheritance left not by law, but by love. I was the only family left, the rightful owner of the place where I’d first known real love.
A couple of years slipped by. I’d almost forgotten about Mum—like she was just a dark chapter in my life. Then came a knock at the door. There she stood. No “hello,” no “how are you.” Just demands.
“Me and my husband are cramped in our two-bed. You’ve got a three-bed. We’re swapping. You’re my daughter, after all!”
I stared at her, my chest burning with anger and hurt.
“You didn’t want me then,” I said. “Why should I give you anything now?”
“Because I’m your mother!” she shrieked. “I’ve every right to live here! How can you be so ungrateful?”
I shut the door. Thought that was the end of it. But no.
Seven more years passed. I was married now, raising a son. My husband and I worked hard—paying the mortgage, saving for a new car, doing up the place at weekends, cherishing every quiet evening together. Then—another knock.
I opened it, and there she was. Older. Lost. Again, no “hello.” Just a plea:
“Let me stay a while?”
My son darted into the hallway. “Mum, who’s that?”
“I’m your grandmother,” she blurted out.
“Is that true?” he asked, wary.
I let out a slow breath. “Go to your room, love. I’ll explain later.”
Once we were alone, I learned her husband had swindled her. Talked her into selling their flat for a “bigger place,” then vanished with the money. She had nothing left. So she came to me—the daughter she’d once cast aside without a second thought.
“You won’t leave me on the streets. I’m your mother! I raised you!”
“You?” I almost laughed, the sting sharp in my chest. “Grandma raised me. You threw me away for a man. And now you want my home?”
I let her stay a few days. Fed her, gave her a bed. Then I rang her cousin, who lived out in the countryside. They needed kitchen help at a little B&B there. Auntie didn’t mind taking her in. Mum left—but not quietly. She shrieked down the stairwell like I was some stranger:
“You’re a rotten daughter! You’ll pay for this!”
I stood in the doorway and said nothing. Because I’d run out of shouting years ago. Because I’d forgiven her long back. But letting her back in? That was different.
How could she turn up after all this time and demand love, like nothing had happened? Like pain was just dust you could wipe off a windowsill? But I wasn’t that girl anymore—the one she could betray and forget.
I’m a mother now. I know what real care costs. And I won’t let my son ever feel what I did. So no. I’m not a rotten daughter. I just won’t be her life raft anymore. Let her swim on her own.
