“Mum, but it’s freezing in winter! You’ll have to stoke the fire, chop wood” “Mum, you grew up in the countrysidethis was your whole childhood. Gran and Grandad lived like that their whole lives, and they were fine. And in summer, itll be lovelythe garden, berries, mushroom picking in the woods”
Helen had only just settled into retirement. Sixty years behind her, thirty-five of them spent as an accountant at the factory. Now she could enjoy slow mornings with tea, books, and nowhere to rush.
The first months were blisswaking when she pleased, leisurely breakfasts, daytime telly. Shopping at quiet hours, no queues. After forty working years, this was heaven.
Then her daughter Emily rang one Saturday:
“Mum, we need to talk. Properly.”
“Whats wrong?” Helen tensed. “Is Lily alright?”
“Shes fine. Ill come round and explain. Dont worry!”
That phrase only made her worry more. When grown children say *dont worry*, theres always reason to.
An hour later, Emily sat at the kitchen table, rubbing her swollen belly. Thirty-two, a second baby on the way, still unmarried to that Mark.
Four years together, little Lily growing up, yet a marriage certificate seemed unimportant.
“Mum, weve got a housing problem,” Emily began, twisting her mug handle. “The landladys upping the rent. We can barely afford it now, and she wants another two hundred quid a month.”
Helen nodded sympathetically. She knew how hard it was. Mark drifted between jobswarehouse one week, courier the next, security after that. Emily on maternity leave, soon to be again.
“We thought about moving somewhere cheaper,” Emily continued, “but no one wants tenants with a kid.”
“So whats the plan?” Helen asked, already sensing trouble.
“Thats why Im here.” Emily tugged at her jumper sleeve. “Mum could we stay with you? Just temporarily. Save up, maybe get a mortgage later.”
Helen nearly choked on her tea. Her tiny two-bed council flat was cramped enoughnow a whole family, a toddler, another on the way?
“Emily, how would we all fit? Two rooms, barely space for one!”
“Well manage. Think of the savingsthirteen hundred a month on rent! Thats fifteen grand a year we could put towards a deposit.”
Helen pictured it: Mark lounging in his boxers, shouting into his phone. Lilys tantrums, toys everywhere, cartoons blaring. Pregnant Emily, demanding special treatment.
“Where would Lily sleep?” she tried.
“Well put her cot in the big room with us. You take the small onejust your telly and sofa. Easy!”
“But Ive *just* retired. Forty years workingI want peace!”
Emily sighed, as if Helen were being unreasonable.
“Mum, whats the point of peace at sixty? Youre healthy! Other grandmas your age are knee-deep in babysitting.”
The guilt-trip stung. *Other* grandmas were usefulshe was just selfish.
“And,” Emily pressed, “youve got Nans cottage. Solid little place, always kept tidy. Fresh air, quietperfect for retirement.”
Helen went cold. The cottage was twenty miles out, one bus a day.
“In *winter*? Youd have me chopping wood like some Victorian?”
“Youre country-born! You grew up with this. And summersveg patches, blackberry picking. Like a holiday!”
Emily made it sound like a spa retreat, not exile to a draughty relic.
“What if I need the doctor? The shops?”
“You dont *daily*, do you? Stock the freezer! And that big chest freezer out theres perfect.”
“My friends? The neighbours Ive known forty years?”
“*Phone* them. Or theyll visithave a barbecue! Lovely.”
Helen couldnt believe her ears. Her daughter was seriously suggesting she become a hermit to free up the flatframed as *concern*?
“How long would you need?”
“A year. Maybe eighteen months.”
A *year*? Trapped with them or banished to the sticks.
“Marks all for it,” Emily beamed. “Says youll thrive out there. No stress. Hell even get you satellite telly!”
Helen imagined Markgenerous as a kingoffering *her* telly upgrades from *her* sofa.
“Mum, think,” Emily pressed. “Two rooms just for you? Wasteful. Well save, get on our feet.”
“And if you and Mark split?”
Emily scoffed. “Four years together, two kidswhats a *certificate*?”
“But if?”
“We wont. And even ifthe flats *yours*.”
Helen knew Markrestless, unreliable. But Emily was besotted, blind to it.
“Em, I *just* retired. Wanted time for myself.”
“*Yourself*?” Emily looked scandalised. “Familys what matters! Grandmas *help*.”
The guilt was surgical. Helens resolve wavered.
“And if I say no?”
Emily paused, then sighed dramatically, hands on belly.
“Mum I dont know *what* well do.” A trembling lip. “Itd *hurt*, you refusing us in our hour of need.”
The threat was clear: Estrangement. No grandkids. The family gossip*Can you believe Helen turned them away?*
“Mark says we could go to his mums,” Emily sniffed. “But her flats tiny, and she doesnt *like* me much.”
Helen knew Marks mothera bulldozer in slippers. Emily wouldnt last a week.
“*Please*, Mum. Just a year! Well be quiet, tidy. Youll *love* the cottage!”
“Fine,” Helen surrendered. “One year. Not a day more. And you *save*.”
Emily flung her arms around her. “Youre the *best*! Youll seeitll work!”
A week later, they moved in. Mark commandeered the wardrobe. Lily rampaged through rooms. Emily orchestrated the invasion while Helen packed for exile.
The first months were hell. Mark blared football at all hours. Emily, hormonal, demanded silence or heat or cold. Lilys shrieks and toys choked the flat.
Helens weekly grocery trips revealed the carnage: Her pristine home was now a sty. Dishes piled up. Laundry festooned the bathroom. Her sofa was crusted with juice and crisps.
“Em, could we tidy?”
“*When*, Mum? The babys due, Marks exhausted”
Helen cleaned anyway, but chaos always returned.
The cottage was worse. Twenty miles from civilisation, one shop three miles away. Neighbours whispered:
“*Living here full-time now, Helen? What about your flat?*”
“Oh, Emilys family needed it temporarily. Saving for a place.”
She couldnt admit shed been evicted by her own child.
Winter was brutal. Chopping wood, hauling water. She felt like a punished serf.
Six months in, Emily had baby Jack. Helen hoped theyd start house-hunting. Instead:
“Mum, no one rents to families with *two* kids! Just another year, yeah?”
Helen finally understood: “Temporary” meant *forever*.
So she called the police. They had to drag them outcursing, threats ringing in her ears.
Did she care? The deal was *one year*. And as they sayyou make your bed, you lie in it.
Was she right? Over to you.
