I was only eleven when my mother decided to remarry.
Her new husband didn’t want me living with them, so she drove me straight to my grandmother’s house. Mum never lifted a finger to help us—all she cared about was her new bloke—leaving Gran and me to scrape by on her pension alone. Gran had never liked my mother, but thank God she didn’t turn me away. I suppose I should be grateful I take after my father.
Money was tight, but we made do. Gran took on the role of both parents. I asked her advice, confided my secrets—she was the first to know about my school crush, my teenage meltdowns. Through it all, she stood by me.
When I started university, Gran died. I had no other family. The house became mine. Just as I’d finished sorting the paperwork, my mother showed up on the doorstep. I hadn’t seen her in years.
She tried to talk me into swapping homes—they were stuck in a cramped two-bed flat, while I had a proper house. She said it was too much for me alone. When I refused, she exploded.
*”You ungrateful little cow! I birthed you, didn’t I?”*
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I shut her out and snapped back:
*”Gran raised me. Where were you all those years? You tossed me aside like a stray dog the moment you got remarried. So no, I owe you nothing.”*
Five more years passed. I married, had a son. We lived in the house, our little family thriving. My boy was healthy, my husband and I worked steady jobs—normal, happy.
Then she appeared again.
I wasn’t about to let her waltz back into my life. Who does that? Abandons a child, then comes knocking like nothing happened?
*”Mummy, who’s at the door?”* my son called out.
Before I could stop her, she pounced.
*”I’m your grandma! Can I come in? Your mum won’t let me.”*
*”But I’ve never seen you before. Mummy, is she telling the truth? Why didn’t you tell me about her?”*
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*”Sweetheart, go to your room—we’ll talk later,”* I said firmly, then turned on her. *”Why are you here? I don’t want to see you. I don’t trust you.”*
She slumped into a chair, sobbing. Said she’d been swindled—sold her flat, planning to buy a new place, but her husband ran off with the lot. Now she had nothing, and suddenly, she remembered me.
*”I’ve got nowhere else to go. I’ve no other children but you. You’re a good person—you can’t leave me on the streets. Just let me stay. I’m your mother!”*
I let her sleep on the couch that night—couldn’t let her freeze outside. The next morning, I rang my aunt, Mum’s cousin, who lived out in the countryside. Told her my husband would drop Mum off by noon. The village always had odd jobs; she could scrape by there.
As she left, she spat at me:
*”You’re cruel, do you know that? I gave you life!”*
Funny. All I could think was—why *am* I being so unforgiving?
