I am an only child, once apparently longed for, but never truly cherished. When I was twenty-three and five months pregnant, a strange idea began to swirl in my mind: perhaps I wasnt my parents biological daughter at all. My parents, both in their seventies, shuffled through our poky rented flat in Manchester, weighed down by a constant rain of bills and bad luck. Our pockets always seemed practically empty. My husband and I juggled university with odd jobs, strained for every penny, yet our expenses piled higher than the grey clouds over the city.
Twice, the letterbox coughed up eviction notices, threatening to sweep us out into the street. To stay afloat, we borrowed pounds from friends with the vague hope wed pay them back someday. Our debts crept around the flat with us, our cupboards as bare as winter branches, financial woes gnawing at every meal. Sometimes, my parents delivered bags of groceriesa random act of kinship.
My parents had always pressed us to marry, so a year ago, as if under a spell, we simply marched to the registrars office, spoke our vows, and signed the book. Not long after, my parents began dropping not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren. My mother repeatedly insisted I mustnt tarry, lest I end up, like her, an old mother. My husband and I hesitatedwe didnt feel ready for the weight of responsibility, not with a leaky roof over our heads and debts nipping at our heels.
Then my parents dangled a gleaming carrot before us: Have a baby and well give you enough to buy a cottage in the countryside. Once settled there, well move out and the city flat will be yours. We mulled it over under the brittle city lights and, with hope flickering, decided to accept. We imagined an end to endless rent and the start of our own home; perhaps a sun-dappled future awaited, our child toddling across wildflower fields. My mother promised to care for the baby so I could finish my degree.
They also vowed to help buy all the baby essentials and provide what we needed. Yet when the time came, those promises dissolved like morning mist. Not a single nappy or sleepsuit appeared. During my pregnancy, my mother repeatedly called, interrogating me about hospital bags and nursery colours, while my wallet stayed achingly thin. Shed tut and recommend my husband pick up a third job, as if time grew on trees. When I reminded her of the promised support, she denied ever offering it, calling us reckless and chiding our foolish ways.
When our daughter was born, my parents suddenly recalledout of nowherethe prospect of money. But by then, we had realised dreams, like the clouds above England, rarely rain what you need. We decided to buy a flat ourselves, knowing now that counting on my parents help was as futile as chasing the sun through Manchester drizzle.
