**”That’s Why We Raise You”**
*”I’ve given you more than anyone, so I deserve more help in return. Or have you forgotten about the flat?”*
Mum’s voice on the phone was sharp enough to grate cheese—or nerves. Lily wedged the receiver between her shoulder and ear, one hand steadying a saucepan, the other stirring porridge.
*”Mum, we’ve already talked about this. Me and James are visiting his parents on Saturday,”* she said, straining to keep the wobble out of her voice. *”They need help in the garden. There’s loads to do.”*
*”And what, my boxes’ll unpack themselves?”* Mum—Gloria—sniffed. *”The mover’s gone on a bender again. I need those crates shifted. Be here by morning, we’ll finish by lunch. Then you can toddle off to your precious garden.”*
Lily sank onto a chair, pulse thudding like a washing machine on spin cycle. These conversations were carbon copies. Gloria never asked; she issued decrees, armed with cast-iron arguments weighted with guilt. Even the *interest* on it.
*”Mum, we promised. They hardly see us as it is. I can’t just cancel.”*
*”Oh, can’t you?”* Gloria’s voice spiked. *”After all I’ve done for my daughter, and she’s still playing favourites?”*
Lily shut her eyes. Here it comes.
*”Remember your wedding? Who gave you the deposit? His parents? They can’t even afford to fix their own leaky roof! You’d still be flat-hopping if not for me.”*
James had heard most of it from the next room—the rest was clear from Lily’s stiff shoulders. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. She felt his stare like a heat lamp.
*”You caught all that?”* she asked weakly.
*”Enough,”* he said. *”Tell her to stop calling. Does she think she bought us?”*
Lily’s protest died in her throat. She *got* it. Every “reminder” of Mum’s generosity left her feeling like a tenant in her own home—with Gloria as the landlady.
James stalked to the balcony, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the teacups.
Lily cradled her head. She’d once believed Mum just wanted the best for her. Now? The honeyed help had a bitter aftertaste.
At the wedding, Gloria had been *magnificent*. Fire-engine-red dress—more bridal than the bride—luxe catering, a string quartet. Then came the gift speech:
*”Darling children, this is your fresh start,”* she’d trilled, waving an envelope like a royal decree. *”From me to you…”* She announced the sum *just* loudly enough for James’s parents—Maggie and Bill—to catch it.
Lily felt James’s grip tighten under the table. His parents handed over their gift later, quietly, no numbers attached.
*”We’re not rolling in it,”* Bill had mumbled, ears pink. *”But it’s given with love. Just… listen to each other, eh?”*
Gloria, busy gossiping with Auntie Pam, missed the point entirely. For her, digits trumped sentiment.
Lily eyed their kitchen—pale walls, slow cooker, the wedding china. Everything here stemmed from that envelope. The reno, the sofa, the fridge.
She’d assumed it was a gift. Now she saw it for what it was: an investment. And with each demand, Gloria cashed in another dividend.
Weeks passed. Calls grew sparse, initiated only by Gloria. Lily would reach for her phone, then stop. Not anger—just dread of the guilt monsoon.
James now outright refused to engage.
*”Visit her if you want,”* he said. *”I’m not ‘working off’ a gift. Family aren’t shareholders.”*
It stung, but Lily stayed quiet. Was he wrong?
She couldn’t dodge forever. One day, steeled with courage, she tried:
*”Mum, we’re grateful, truly. But gratitude isn’t a direct debit.”*
Gloria’s eyebrows vaulted. *”Excuse me? What about giving back? The ‘glass of water in my old age’? Children *owe* their parents. That’s why we raise you.”*
Something in Lily tore clean through.
She remembered flat-hunting—scouring Rightmove for months. They’d found a cosy one-bed in Croydon, tidy, balcony, laminate floors. Not Buckingham Palace, but *theirs*.
Gloria had scoffed. *”You’ll be cramped! Let me top you up for a two-bed.”*
*”We’re fine,”* James cut in. *”We’ll manage.”*
Lily had rolled her eyes. *”Honestly, you act like she’s charging interest.”*
Now, she blessed his suspicion. Otherwise, their “debt” would’ve doubled.
Lately, even Maggie and Bill had cooled. Maggie spoke in polite monosyllables; Bill’s jokes had barbs.
*”Heard the flat’s down to your mum, eh?”* he’d said over tea. *”Lucky lad, marrying into money. Not like our lot.”*
The jab traced back to Gloria’s *whispered* boast at James’s birthday: *”I basically bought that flat. His folks are skint. Should the kids suffer?”*
Turned out, Bill and Maggie had covered a quarter. Not flashy, but solid.
The shame wasn’t even Lily’s to bear, yet it sucker-punched her anyway.
That night, she faced James. He scrolled newsfeeds, silent.
*”I’m… stuck in the middle,”* she said at last. *”But I’m not blind. I see it.”*
He set his phone down. *”Her ‘help’ is costing us more than money. It’s chipping away at *us*.”*
Lily nodded. His calm was permission to brake.
*”No more deals disguised as care,”* she said. *”If she wants a relationship—fine. But no more guilt trips. Even if I have to… well. Put my foot down.”*
She wasn’t alone. That steadied her.
Gloria, of course, dug in.
*”Lily love, can you fetch Auntie Joan from Paddington? Her train’s in at 3 AM. Taxis are hopeless at that hour.”*
Not a request. A summons. Lily inhaled.
*”Mum, we can’t. James has an early shift. If you’d told us sooner—”*
*”Oh, *course*,”* Gloria huffed. *”His parents snap their fingers, you sprint. I need a *booking*.”*
The sigh could’ve powered a wind farm.
*”Fine. But don’t come crying when *you* need help. After all I’ve poured into you—”*
Lily clenched her jaw. She’d braced for this, but pushing back still felt like wrestling a wasp.
*”You *have* helped. Thank you. But I’m not your property. Neither is James.”*
Silence. Then—
*”Crystal clear,”* Gloria snapped.
Click.
A week of quiet. Then, bumping into their mutual friend Sarah:
*”Your mum’s been *spicy* lately!”* Sarah giggled. *”Told Natalie James only married you for the flat!”*
Lily froze.
*”She *what*?”*
*”You know how she is—loose lips, etc. But, um… maybe keep that from James?”* Sarah’s smile faltered. *”Not *ha-ha* funny, is it?”*
Lily’s stomach dropped. How long till *that* grenade landed? Time to act.
They saw a solicitor the next week. Drafted a deed of gift for James’s parents’ share. Symbolic, maybe—but to Lily, it was a manifesto.
She hovered over her phone afterward. To text or not?
She did.
*”Mum, we’ve sorted the flat. James now legally owns 25%. No more money talk—to us *or* your mates. Help’s a gift, not a leash.”*
Gloria left her on read. The silence ached—then, oddly, *lifted*. No more eavesdropping on gossip. If Gloria ranted, it wasn’t Lily’s burden.
Three months later, at James’s parents’—their little Essex cottage with its creaky porch and petunias—Lily flipped burgers on the grill. James and Bill bickered over fence panels (fondly). Maggie hummed, chopping tomatoes.
Watching them, Lily *got* it. *This* was family. No price tags. No “jump when I say.” Here, she could just *be*.
James caught her gaze during a breakShe handed him a burger, and for the first time in years, the weight in her chest felt lighter than air.
