Living with My 86-Year-Old Mum: My Unmarried Life at 57, Sharing Quiet Days and Simple Joys Together

Author Walton MerrittReading 2 minViews 1

I live with my mum shes 86 now.

Funny how life turns out, isnt it? I never ended up getting married, and I dont have any children. Thats just how my path went. I turned 57 not long ago had my birthday just recently. It was just the two of us celebrating, me and Mum. There honestly wasnt anyone else I could invite. I havent really got friends these days, and there arent any other relatives left on either side.

Weve always looked after each other, Mum and I. Shes 86 now I cant even imagine what Ill do when shes not around anymore. Thankfully, shes still in pretty good spirits! Even though, with age, her healths not as robust as it used to be, she keeps going, doesnt give in. She even heads out for a stroll on her own most days.

Im retired now, but I still do a bit of work here and there, just because our pensions dont quite stretch far enough for a comfortable life in England these days. Still, I dont let that get me down. I feel grateful to have my lovely mum with me. Some people have it so much harder no flat to call home, no family left, not even a bit of money stashed away.

Mum and I, we keep things calm and steady. Evenings are usually spent with a nice cup of tea, some knitting, and watching our favourite films and telly together. On weekends, I like to bake a cake and invite the neighbours round. They share stories about their families, and its lovely to hear about peoples joy. I find real happiness in the fact that others are doing well, and honestly, I just hope that Mum and I manage to steer clear of any real troubles.

Thats our life, really. I just want these days to go on for as long as possible, for both of us.

Back to Her Again — Are you going back to her, again? Helen asked the question, already knowing the answer. David nodded, avoiding her gaze. He tugged on his coat and checked his pockets — keys, phone, wallet. Everything was there. He could leave. Helen waited. For a word. Even just “sorry” or “I’ll be back soon.” But David simply opened the door and walked out. The lock clicked quietly, almost apologetically, as if excusing its owner. Helen moved to the window. The street below was lit by dull street lamps, and she easily spotted the familiar figure. David walked quickly, determinedly, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. To her. To Anna. To their seven-year-old Sophie. Helen pressed her forehead to the cold glass. …She knew. She’d known from the start what she was signing up for. When she met David, he was still married. Technically. A stamp in the passport, a shared flat, a child. But he no longer lived with Anna — he rented a room, only visiting for his daughter. “She cheated on me,” David had said back then. “I couldn’t forgive. I filed for divorce.” And Helen believed him. Oh, how easily she believed him. Because she wanted to. Because she had fallen — foolishly, desperately, as if she were seventeen. Café dates, long phone calls, the first kiss in the rain by her flat. David looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. The divorce. Their wedding. A new flat, joint plans, talks about the future. Then it began. First — the calls. “David, bring medicine for Sophie, it’s urgent, she’s ill.” “David, our tap’s leaking, I don’t know what to do.” “David, Sophie’s crying, she wants to see you, come right now.” David would rush over every time. Helen tried to understand. A child — that’s sacred. The daughter wasn’t at fault for the split. Of course, he should help, be present. Sometimes David listened, tried to set boundaries with his ex-wife. But Anna simply changed tactics. “Don’t come at the weekend. Sophie doesn’t want to see you.” “Don’t call, it upsets her.” “She asked why daddy left us. I didn’t know what to say.” And David broke down. Every time. When he tried to refuse yet another “urgent” request — Anna hit where it hurt. Within a week, Sophie would repeat her mum’s words: “You don’t love us. You chose another lady. I don’t want to see you.” A seven-year-old couldn’t invent that herself. David returned from these talks broken, guilty, eyes dull. And again dashed to his ex’s at the first call — just so his daughter wouldn’t turn away, just so she wouldn’t look at him with cold, distant eyes. Helen understood. She truly did. But she was tired. David’s figure disappeared round the corner. Helen peeled herself from the window, absently rubbing her forehead — a red mark remained from the glass. The empty flat pressed in. The clock read nearly midnight when the key turned in the lock. Helen sat in the kitchen, an untouched cup of cold tea before her. She hadn’t taken a sip — just watched a dark film spread over the surface. Three hours. Three hours she waited, listening for every sound on the landing. David entered quietly, peeled off his coat, hung it up. Moved with caution, like a man hoping to sneak by unnoticed. “What happened this time?” Helen was surprised how calm her voice was. Three hours she’d rehearsed that phrase, and by midnight all emotion had burnt out inside her. David hesitated. “The boiler broke. I had to fix it.” Helen slowly looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to come in. He looked somewhere past her, into the dark window. “You can’t fix boilers.” “I called a plumber.” “And you had to wait there?” Helen pushed the cup away. “You couldn’t call from here? From your phone?” David frowned, folded his arms. The silence thickened: heavy and unpleasant. “Do you still love her?” Now he looked. Sharply, angrily, hurt. “What nonsense is this? I do everything for Sophie! For my daughter! What’s Anna got to do with anything?” He stepped into the kitchen, and Helen involuntarily edged back with her chair. “You knew, when you got involved with me, that I’d have to go round. You knew I have a child. So what now? Are you going to throw a fit every time I go to my daughter?” Her throat tightened. Helen wanted to reply sharply, proudly, but instead her eyes stung, and the first tear rolled down her cheek. “I thought…” she choked, fighting a lump. “I thought you’d at least pretend to love me. Make an effort.” “Helen, come on…” “I’m tired!” her voice broke into a shout, and she startled herself with the sound. “Tired of being not even in second place! Third! After your ex, after her whims, after midnight boilers!” David struck his palm on the door frame. “What do you want from me?! To abandon my daughter? Not go see her?!” “I want you to choose me, just once!” Helen jumped up, the cup wobbled, tea spilled across the table. “Just once say ‘no’! Not to me — to her! To Anna!” “I’m sick of your drama!” David spun round, grabbed his coat from the hook. “Where are you going?” The only answer was the door slamming shut. Helen stood in the kitchen, tea dripping onto the linoleum, ringing in her ears. She grabbed her phone, dialled his number. Ring, ring, ring. “The subscriber cannot answer.” Again. And again. Silence. Helen slowly sank onto a chair, clutching her phone to her chest. Where had he gone? To her? Back to her again? Or was he roaming the night streets, angry and hurt? She didn’t know. Not knowing made it worse. The night dragged endlessly. Helen sat on the bed, clutching her phone — the screen would blink, then go dark. Dial the number, hear the rings, hang up. Type a message: “Where are you?” Then another: “Please reply.” And another: “I’m scared.” Send — and watch each one get a single lonely grey tick. Not delivered. Or delivered, but unread. What difference does it make? By four a.m., Helen stopped crying. The tears simply ran out, drying up somewhere inside, leaving only a hollow ring. She got up, switched the bedroom light on, and opened her wardrobe. Enough. She’d had enough. The suitcase was on top of the closet, dusty, with a torn tag from some old trip. Helen dropped it on the bed and started packing. Jumpers, jeans, underwear. Not sorting, not thinking — just stuffing it all in, whatever she could reach. If he didn’t care — neither did she. Let him come home to an empty flat. Let him search, call, send messages she’d never read. Let him know how it feels. By six, Helen stood in the hallway. Two suitcases, a shoulder bag, coat fastened crookedly — one side hanging longer than the other. She looked at the bunch of keys in her hand. Time to remove hers, leave it on the table. Her fingers fumbled. Helen jiggled the ring, tried to prise her key off with a nail, but it wouldn’t come, her hands were trembling, and her eyes stung again, who knew from where, more tears— “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The keys clattered onto the tile. Helen stared at them for a second, then just collapsed onto a suitcase, hugged her arms round herself, and sobbed hard. Loud, ugly, choked, like a child who’d broken mum’s favourite vase and thought the world had ended. She didn’t hear the door open. “Helen…” David knelt before her, right on the cold hall floor. He smelt of smoke and the night city. “Helen, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” She looked up. Her face was wet, swollen, mascara streaked black. David gently took her hands in his. “I was at Mum’s. All night. She gave me a real earful… knocked some sense into me.” Helen was silent. She stared at him — uncertain whether to believe or not. “I’m going to take Anna to court. Ask for a proper schedule for seeing Sophie. Official, set by the courts, like it should be. She won’t be able to manipulate things, use Sophie against me.” His fingers squeezed Helen’s hands tighter. “I choose you, Helen. Do you hear me? You. You’re my family.” Something trembled inside her. A little shoot of hope, silly and stubborn, the one she’d tried all night to tear out. “Really?” “Really.” Helen closed her eyes. She would trust David. One last time. After that… whatever happens, happens.

08

HEART OF ICE… Claudia Vincent returned home. She had been to the hair salon—as she does regularly despite her 68 years—always treating herself to visits with her stylist. Claudia spruced up her hair and nails on a routine basis, and these simple rituals lift her spirits and energy. “Claudia, a relative of yours came by,” her husband George informed her. “I told her you’d be home later. She said she’d pop back in.” “What relative? I’ve got no family left,” Claudia replied gruffly. “Probably some distant cousin, here to ask for something. You should have said I’d moved to the ends of the earth!” “Oh, don’t be like that,” George reassured her. “She looked like she belonged to your side—tall and stately, reminded me a bit of your late mother. I doubt she wants anything. Very well-spoken woman, dressed smartly.” Forty minutes later, the relative rang the bell. Claudia answered the door herself. The woman really did resemble her late mother, and looked very polished—expensive coat, boots, gloves, diamond studs. Claudia knew quality when she saw it. She invited the guest to join her at the already-set table. “Well, let’s make introductions if we’re family. I’m Claudia—no formality needed. We seem close in age. This is my husband George. What’s our connection?” she asked. The guest hesitated, then blushed slightly. “I’m Gail… Gail Watson. There isn’t much difference in age between us. I turned 50 on June 12th. Does that date mean anything to you?” Claudia paled. “I can see you remember. Yes—I am your daughter. Please don’t be upset; I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted to meet my birth mother. My whole life I never understood why my mum didn’t love me—she’s been gone eight years now. Why did only Dad ever love me? He died just two months ago—before he passed, he told me about you and asked you to forgive him, if you’re able,” Gail explained, her voice trembling. “What? You have a daughter?” George exclaimed, stunned. “Apparently I do. I’ll explain later,” Claudia replied. “So you’re my daughter? Wonderful—you’ve met me. But if you think I’ll beg forgiveness or show remorse, I won’t. I have nothing to be sorry for,” Claudia answered coldly. “I hope your father filled you in? If you expect me to show motherly feelings—forget it. Not even a spark. Sorry.” “May I visit again? I live nearby in the suburbs—we’ve got a big two-storey house. Why not come over with George? You’ll get used to the idea that I exist. I brought photos of your grandson and great-granddaughter if you’d like to see?” Gail asked timidly. “No. I’m not interested. Don’t come again. Forget about me. Goodbye,” Claudia cut her off sharply. George hailed Gail a taxi and walked her out. When he returned, Claudia had already cleared the table and was calmly watching TV. “You’re so steely! You could command armies. How is it you have no heart at all? I always suspected you were cold, but not to this extent,” George said sternly. “We met when I was 28, right? Well, my soul was trampled long before that,” Claudia replied. “I grew up in the country, desperate to escape to the city. That’s why I worked so hard, was top of my class, went to university—the only one from my village. At 17, I met Victor. Madly loved him. He was nearly 12 years older, but I didn’t care. City life felt magical after my poor childhood. My scholarship barely covered anything; I was always hungry, so I happily accepted his invitations for coffee or ice cream. He never promised anything, but I believed love would lead to marriage. The night he invited me to his cabin, I said yes. Afterwards, I thought I had him for good. Cabin trips became routine, and soon it was clear I was carrying his child. When I told Victor, he was delighted. Knowing my condition would show, I asked when we’d marry—I was 18, legally able to wed. “Did I ever promise you marriage?” he said. “I didn’t, and I won’t. Besides, I’m already married,” he answered calmly. “What about the baby? What about me?” “You’re healthy, strong—could have been a model student-athlete. You’ll take a break from university, hide it until it’s obvious, and after you give birth, my wife and I will take care of the baby. We can’t have children—maybe because my wife is much older. You’ll deliver, we’ll take the baby, and you’ll return to study. We’ll pay you, too.” Back then, no one had heard of surrogacy—but I guess I was the first surrogate mother. What else could I do—go home and shame my family? I lived at their house until the birth. Victor’s wife never spoke to me—maybe jealous. I delivered the baby girl at home, attended by a midwife. Didn’t nurse her; they took her away immediately. Never saw her again. A week later, they sent me off, Victor gave me cash. I went back to university, got a job at the factory, lived in the family hostel, worked my way up. Made friends, never married—until you came along. By then I was 28. I wasn’t keen, but felt I should. You know the rest—nice life with you, three cars, comfortable house, summer cottage. We holidayed every year. Our factory survived the ‘90s since our tractor equipment was unique. Still have barbed wire and watchtowers around it. We both retired early—life’s been good. No children, and that suited me fine. And looking at kids today…” Claudia finished her confession. “We didn’t have a good life. I loved you. I tried to warm your heart and never succeeded. No kids—and you never even took in a kitten or puppy. My sister asked for help with her daughter; you wouldn’t let her stay a week. Today your own daughter came—and how did you meet her? Your daughter! Your own flesh and blood. Honestly, if we were younger, I’d divorce you. Now it’s too late. It’s cold living next to you—so cold,” George said bitterly. Claudia was startled; he’d never spoken so harshly to her before. Her peaceful life disturbed, all because of this daughter. George moved to the cottage. For years now, he’s lived there—adopted three abandoned dogs, countless stray cats. Rarely comes home. Claudia knows he visits her daughter Gail, has met them all, adores the great-granddaughter. “He’s always been soft—a pushover. Let him live how he wants,” Claudia thinks. She never developed the urge to get to know her daughter, grandson, or great-granddaughter. Claudia travels to the coast alone. She relaxes, recharges, and feels absolutely fine.

06

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Living with My 86-Year-Old Mum: My Unmarried Life at 57, Sharing Quiet Days and Simple Joys Together