14 March
Ive finally had enough of the endless backandforth with Martha, Emmas mother. Shes always quick to say, No, Emma, youre the one who gave birth, look after Arthur yourself, as if I, a man in my early thirties with a modest pension, could simply step in without a second thought. My health isnt what it used to be; I cant be bothered with children, she adds, her voice flat. Emmas cheeks flushed with frustration and she simply hung up, refusing to argue further.
If it had been anyone else, I would have accepted the refusal. With Martha its different her ailments pop up selectively, making her an unreliable ally.
All summer she spent at her little Kent cottage, a place that seemed to work miracles. The fresh air eased her back pain and lowered her blood pressure. She even turned the garden into a tiny family business.
Emma, youre still buying potatoes for the winter, right? Why not let me sell you mine at a discount? Itll cover my costs and help us both, Martha suggested one breezy afternoon, eyes bright with the prospect of a small profit. She didnt stop at potatoes. Apples, cherries, even aubergines the last of which nobody in our household liked made their way to our table, mostly because Emma and I wanted to support the ageing woman we called motherinlaw.
A year ago Martha insisted on a birthday trip to Brighton. I know its pricey, especially with a child, but I havent been away in over twenty years, she said, trying to sound generous. We tightened our belts, sending her a modest Christmas gift, a patchedup cardigan, and postponing a visit to my own parents in Manchester. All at Jamess insistence.
The Brighton break turned out to be exactly what she needed. A whole week of sun and sea kept her blood pressure at bay, and she returned feeling revitalised. Meanwhile, James continued to transfer a third of his salary each month to her, occasionally bringing over groceries and a little extra cash when she needed it.
One morning Emma called, her voice trembling. James, Ive got a problem there are bedbugs. Ill need a pest control service, maybe a new sofa. Could you help? Im on my own now; my fathers gone, and I cant afford to replace everything. She sounded desperate, pleading for support.
I did what I could, but Martha never offered anything in return. Her help always came with a price tag. Shed watch Arthur at the park, then charge us for the bun he ate and the toy she bought him a toy that would have been absurdly expensive for any ordinary family. I only have my pension, shed say, so this is cheaper than a nanny.
It felt as if Emma were a client rather than a family member. Yet circumstances forced us to lean on her. Two years ago we bought a flat in a newly marketed suburb of Birmingham, promised to be the next thriving hub. Its the outskirts now, but soon therell be nurseries, schools, everything, James boasted. In reality, the nearest school was a halfhour bus ride with two changes, a trek too daunting for a fiveyearold. The closest school was a fiveminute walk from Marthas cottage, but that meant a daily commute for Arthur.
We turned to Martha for a solution, assuming it would be logical and convenient. Her refusal hit us like a punch to the gut. No nearby school, no move, no extra income we were stuck. The only thing that came to mind was her earlier remark: Its still cheaper than a nanny. So we devised a plan.
James, my mother wont help, but we can cut her allowance and use that money to pay a nanny, I told Emma that evening. She raised an eyebrow, then frowned. You cant just stop helping her! She raised me, she lives on a single pension. She cant manage everything alone!
I reminded her, Shes not starving. She sells vegetables from her garden, yet we sometimes take more than we need. She barely makes a few pennies. Emma sighed heavily. Maybe youre right, but it doesnt solve our problem.
The nanny wont be cheap, and I cant quit my job, I replied. Were not asking her for money, just a bit of help. Your mother said we should look after Arthur ourselves. Lets follow that.
The argument dragged on, her love for her son clashing with the harsh reality of our budget. In the end, practicality won. I summoned the courage to tell Martha about the upcoming changes to our household finances. She reacted angrily, accusing me of stealing the last crumbs from her sons plate. Yet I stood firm.
Meanwhile, in the parentteacher chat, I met Anne, the mother of Arthurs classmate, who lived just a stones throw from the school. She was on maternity leave with her second child and gladly offered to look after both boys after school for a modest fee.
A month later, Anne was punctual and reliable. Every afternoon I collected a happy, wellfed Arthur. He bonded quickly with his friend, and the little extra income helped balance our books. In fact, Marthas help had turned out to be more costly than hiring Anne.
Eventually, Marthas attempts to guilttrip us faded, as did her interest in Arthur. Time settled everything into its proper place. We learned to say no when needed, directing our limited resources toward what truly mattered the safety and happiness of our own son. After all, we had our child for ourselves, and there was no one else to look after Arthur.
Lesson: Love can make us overextend, but wisdom lies in protecting what is truly ours.
