*”Mum’s living off us”—reading those words sent a chill right through me.*
For years, my two-bed flat was home to my son Oliver and his family. Right after the wedding, they barged in with suitcases, chirping, *”Mum, we’ll just stay with you for a little while!”* That was over a decade ago. I’ve celebrated every new grandchild, endured sleepless nights, toddler tantrums, and a noise level that rivalled King’s Cross at rush hour.
My daughter-in-law, Emily, went on maternity leave once, then twice, then a third time. When the kids were ill, it was either her or me taking sick days to mind them. I barely had a moment to myself—just nappies, reheated shepherd’s pie, and walls covered in sticky fingerprints. The only reminder I was more than a live-in nanny? The occasional *”But you’re the grandma!”*
I counted down to retirement like a prisoner marking days on a cell wall. Finally, freedom—or so I thought. The first six months were bliss. Then reality barged back in.
Every morning, I’d drag myself up at six, drive Oliver and Emily to work, rush back to feed the grandkids, drop one at nursery, the other at primary school. Push the pram round the park, whip up lunch, scrub laundry, vacuum, then shuttle everyone to piano lessons, help with maths homework, and tuck them in with *Winnie-the-Pooh*. A military operation, minus the pension.
Some nights, if the stars aligned, I’d steal ten minutes with a book or my embroidery hoop—my one quiet joy. Then, sorting through old jumpers one evening, my phone buzzed. A text from Oliver. *”Mum’s living off us,”* it read, *”and we’re stuck paying for her prescriptions too.”* I reread it, certain it was a mistake. But no—he’d sent it to someone else. The words stuck like a burr. *Knife in the back* would’ve been subtler.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just quietly rented a studio in Peckham, claiming I *”fancied a change.”* Most of my pension vanished into rent, leaving me with beans on toast for dinner—but at least it was *my* toast.
Years back, before retiring, I’d bought a laptop. Emily had giggled: *”Honestly, Mum, you still can’t tell Control from Alt.”* Joke’s on her—my old colleague’s daughter taught me the basics, and soon I was posting my cross-stitch online. First, just for fun. Then ex-workmates begged for custom pieces. Then their neighbours offered cash for lessons. Now, three local girls come weekly. It’s not a fortune, but it’s mine. And for the first time in years, *wanted* doesn’t mean *taken for granted*.
I don’t ask Oliver for help. Don’t beg. Don’t call. At family dos, we stick to small talk—*”Lovely weather for the ducks, isn’t it?”* No hard feelings. Just no illusions, either.
Now my flat smells of lavender, not football boots. The walls display my embroidery, not crayon masterpieces. And my heart? Not quite at peace—but at least it’s my own.
I never wanted a war. Just a *”thanks, Mum.”* Or, failing that, the truth. If Oliver thinks I was dead weight, fine. His table’s got one less chair. Mine’s got room to breathe.
