I can live in your house for one simple reason: I gave birth to you! But I didn’t want her in my home.
I was barely eleven years old when my mother decided to remarry. Her new husband refused to let me live with them, so she took me to my grandmother’s. My mother never lifted a finger to help us—her new husband was all she cared about. Grandmother and I scraped by on her pension alone. She’d never liked my mother, but thank heavens she didn’t turn me away. At least I took after my father.
Money was tight, but we managed. Grandmother became my mother and father in one. I sought her advice, confided my secrets—she was the first to know when I fancied someone, the first to hear about my struggles growing up. All those years, she stood by me.
When I left for university, Grandmother passed. I had no other family. The house became mine. Once the legal matters were settled, my mother reappeared. I hadn’t seen her in years.
She tried to talk me into swapping homes—they had a cramped two-bedroom flat, while I had a proper house. Too much space for one person, she said. When I refused, she flew into a rage:
*Ungrateful girl! I brought you into this world!*
I wouldn’t hear it. “Grandmother raised me. Where were you all that time? You tossed me aside the moment you remarried—like I was some stray dog. I owe you nothing.”
Five more years passed. I married, had a child. We lived in my home, our little family thriving—my son healthy, my husband and I working steady jobs. Then my mother returned. I wasn’t about to let her back into my life. Who does that? Abandons a child, then shows up years later?
My son peeked out and asked, *Mum, who’s here?*
Seizing the moment, my mother crooned, *I’m your grandmother! May I come in? Your mother won’t allow it.*
His brow furrowed. *I’ve never seen you before. Mum, is she telling the truth? Why didn’t I know about her?*
“Love, go to your room—we’ll talk later.” Once he’d gone, I turned to her. “Why are you here? I don’t want to see you. I don’t trust you.”
She sank onto the step, weeping. She’d been swindled, she said. Sold their flat to buy a new one, but her husband took the money and vanished. Now she had nowhere to go—and suddenly remembered me.
*Let me stay. You’re my only child. You can’t leave me on the streets. You’re a good person. I’ll live with you—after all, I gave you life!*
I let her sleep on the sofa that night. Decency demanded that much. The next morning, I rang my aunt—her own sister, who lived in the countryside. Told her my husband would drive my mother there by evening. Plenty of work in the villages—let her stay there. I wouldn’t have her in my home. Grandmother was the one who raised me.
Before she left, my mother spat her fury: *How can you be so cruel? I gave birth to you!*
Ah, yes. Why *was* I so cruel to her?
