The relatives of my beloved are rather peculiar, their quirks fluttering about like moths in a dusky corridor. I find myself boasting to strangers at tea that theyve never meddled in the business of our household and have always treated me as if I were their own flesh and blooda kindness I treasure more than I can explain. Yet there is a note of complaint humming beneath the surface, for they cling fiercely to the notion that one must accomplish everything by oneself, despite their comfortable wealth and the substantial inheritance they received from distant relations.
Though I appreciate the idea of self-sufficiency, I cant quite dismiss the feeling that, given we are family, they might lend a hand here and there. In the misty logic of my dream, they possess two other flats in Londonrecently refurbished and standing empty, their polished floors echoing silence. When we hinted, half-whispered, half-pleaded about wishing to live there, they pretended not to hear, as if wed spoken in riddles only understood by clouds.
So my family drifts, always packing up, moving from one rented flat to another, like restless ghosts in search of a home where the kettle will finally boil properly. My parents, tucked away in the country near Somerset, cant offer much help; their savings arent enough for city life and they spend most of their days tending garden and counting the coins for milk and bread.
It feels almost impossible to squirrel away enough pounds for our own flat. Our earnings cover just the rent and the barest essentials, leaving little for saving or joy, and time slips through our fingers like water during a storm.
In my dream, I try, again and again, to relay our predicament to my mother-in-law, weaving our worries about the uncertainty our children face amidst our housing instability and tight finances. But her reply arrives like a cold draft through an open windowshe blames us for having small children, admonishes us that sensible folk put property first, and rebuffs our anxieties, pushing them away as if shooing pigeons from a park bench.
I hover between not wishing to fracture our relationship with them and recognising that they seem to value their belongings above the wellbeing of their grandchildren. They do, occasionally, help by watching the children, but beyond that, I cannot fathom how to nurture a healthy connection with them moving forward. They appear to prefer their own comfort over the family life of their son.
Still, I know they are ageing, and perhaps one day they too will need aid: maybe then, faced with their own vulnerabilities, they will grasp the struggles weve endured and seek our support. Until that moment materialises out of the fog, I remain uncertain how to balance the desire for harmony with the ache of disappointment at their indifference towards their grandchildrens needs.
