“It’s your own fault you’ve no money. No one forced you to marry and have children,” my mother spat those words at me when I begged for help.
When I was twenty, I wed Jack. We rented a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Both of us worked—he on construction sites, I in a chemist’s shop. We scraped by, just enough. Back then, we dreamt of saving for our own home, and I truly believed anything was possible.
Then came Oliver. Two years later, little Henry. I went on maternity leave, and Jack took every extra shift he could. Still, even with his overtime, the money never stretched far enough. Nappies, formula, doctor’s visits, utilities—and of course, the rent. Half his wages vanished into that alone.
Each morning, I’d wake with dread coiled tight in my chest. What if Jack fell ill? What if we were turned out? What then?
Mum lived alone in a two-bed flat in the city centre. So did Gran. Both had empty spare rooms. I wasn’t asking for a mansion—just a temporary refuge. Until the children were older. Until we found our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Gran—freeing up one flat for us. Four of us in two rooms: Jack, me, and the boys. But she wouldn’t hear of it.
“Live with my mother?” She scoffed. “Have you lost your mind? My life’s not over yet. And that old woman would drive me mad. Sort yourself out—just don’t drag me into it.”
I swallowed my hurt. Then I rang Dad. He’d remarried, living in a spacious four-bed house. I hoped he’d take Gran in—she was his mother, after all. But he refused. Said his new wife’s children filled every corner as it was.
Desperate, I called Mum again. I wept. Pleaded for even a temporary roof. And that’s when she snapped:
“You made your bed—now lie in it. No one told you to marry. No one asked you to have children. Wanted to play grown-up? Well, here’s your prize. Sort your own mess out.”
The words struck like a slap. I sat there, phone clutched in my hand, feeling everything inside me collapse. This was my own mother. The woman who should’ve been my shelter. I hadn’t asked for much—just a room, just a shred of kindness.
The next day, Jack and I weighed our options. The only soul who offered help was his mum, Margaret. She lived in a village outside Norwich—a cramped cottage, but with space enough. She promised to mind the boys while we worked.
Yet I’m terrified. It’s not the city. No proper clinic, no decent school, not even a reliable bus. What if we move there and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances, no future? What if I wither away in that emptiness?
But we’ve no choice. Mum’s washed her hands of us. Gran’s too frail to take us in. Dad acts as though we’re strangers. So here I stand—at a crossroads between stumbling into nothing or grasping a hand that’s rough but willing.
The cruelest part? It’s not the poverty. Not the struggle. It’s knowing that those bound to us by blood stand furthest when we need them most. And my fear isn’t for myself—it’s for my sons. That they’ll never feel the sharp sting of being unwanted by their own grandmother.
