This has been going on for three years now. When my son Oliver brought his new wife into our home—a woman with two kids from her first marriage—I never imagined what my life would turn into. At first, he swore it was temporary, that they’d only stay with me for a couple of months while they found a place. But three years later, “temporary” has become permanent. Worse still, his wife Emily is now expecting his child. And every day of my retirement feels more like torture.
We live in an ordinary two-bed in a quiet part of Manchester. Right now, the flat’s packed with me, my son, his pregnant wife, and her two kids. Soon, there’ll be another baby. I’m not complaining about Emily—she’s polite, doesn’t argue. But she won’t lift a finger around the house, doesn’t even know how. The kids are in nursery, but she doesn’t work, just scrolls on her phone or meets up with her mates. Sometimes she gets her nails done, and I daren’t ask who’s paying for that.
Oliver works, sure. But his wages barely cover groceries and bills, especially with so many mouths to feed. The rest falls on me—my pension and the side job I do every morning: scrubbing floors in two offices before eight. You’d think I could catch my breath after, but no chance—the sink’s piled high with dishes, lunch isn’t made, laundry’s piling up, and the floors need sweeping. And guess who ends up doing it all? Me.
Before the pregnancy, Emily at least went shopping or cooked sometimes. Now? Nothing. Says her back aches. She drops the kids at nursery and vanishes until lunch, when she strolls in with Oliver. Someone’s got to cook, serve, clean up—do you think she lifts a finger? Course not. It’s all on me. And I’m drowning.
Once, I tried talking to my son. “Ollie,” I said, “there’s too many of us in this tiny flat—maybe you and Emily could look at renting somewhere?” He just shrugged. “Mum, half this place is mine, and we can’t afford rent. Deal with it.” Like a knife to the heart. I’ve spent my whole life putting him first, and this is my thanks? Just *deal with it*?
Last month, I had a hypertension scare—collapsed right in the kitchen, nearly took the frying pan down with me. The ambulance came, and the doctor said I needed rest, no stress. But how am I supposed to rest when this house feels like a circus every single day?
The kids aren’t to blame, of course. But between them, pregnant Emily, and my son’s indifference, my golden years have become endless exhaustion. After lunch, I try to lie down for an hour—my legs ache, my back’s killing me—but then it’s back up to cook dinner, clean again. By evening, the place is bedlam: kids screeching, running, fighting, crying. Peace in this flat? A distant memory.
Lately, I keep thinking the only way out is to take out a loan and rent myself a tiny studio. Somewhere quiet. Where no one’s slamming pans, hurling toys, waiting for me to serve them dinner. Where I could finally just *breathe*.
But I’m scared. Scared of being alone. Scared of taking on debt at my age. And yet, even more scared of feeling like a maid in my own home—the home where I thought I’d spend my retirement surrounded by warmth. Instead, it’s just chapped hands and a heart racing like mad.
