“Mum’s living off us”—reading those words sent a chill down my spine.
For years, my two-bed flat had been home to my son William and his family. Right after the wedding, they barged in with suitcases, all cheerful grins and “Mum, we’ll just stay a little while, promise!” That was over a decade ago. I’ve been there for every baby’s first cry, endured sleepless nights, tantrums, and a noise level that rivalled King’s Cross at rush hour.
My daughter-in-law, Gemma, went on maternity leave once, then twice, then a third time. When the kids were ill, we took turns calling in sick. I never gave a thought to myself—just nappies, mashed peas, and walls covered in crayon masterpieces. No quiet, no space, no rest. Just the occasional snipe: “You’re the grandma, it’s your job.”
I counted down to retirement like a prisoner awaiting parole. Finally, I thought, a chance to breathe. And for six glorious months, it was. Then reality barged back in.
Every morning at six, I’d ferry William and Gemma to work, rush back to feed the grandkids, drop one at nursery, the other at school. Push the pram round the park, then home to cook, clean, and—come evening—music lessons, homework battles, and bedtime stories. A military operation, minus the pay.
Some nights, once the house settled, I’d sneak a book or my embroidery hoop—my one quiet joy. Then, rummaging through a drawer, my phone buzzed. William’s text. I read it. Froze.
“Mum’s living off us,” he’d written to someone, “and we’re even footing her pill bills.” I checked twice. Not meant for me, but the knife twisted all the same.
No scenes, no tears. Just a quiet hunt for a studio flat in Peckham. “Easier this way,” I lied. Rent swallowed my pension whole—hello, baked beans and thrift-shop jumpers—but it was mine.
Years back, I’d splurged on a laptop. Gemma scoffed, “You’ll never work out the buttons, love.” Joke’s on her. A friend’s daughter gave me a crash course, and soon my embroidery photos were all over Instagram.
First it was ex-colleagues asking for custom pieces. Then their mates. Then Mrs. Next-Door paid me to teach her granddaughter. Suddenly, I had three pupils—pocket money, yes, but mine. Better yet, I felt useful, not used.
I never asked William for another thing. No guilt trips, no grovelling. We exchange weather chat at birthdays, all polite smiles. No grudges—just no more playing the expendable housemaid.
Now my flat smells of lavender, not football boots. My art’s on the walls, not finger paintings. And inside? Not quite peace, but something close: self-respect.
I didn’t want battle. Just thanks. Or truth. But if William thinks I was dead weight, fine—we’ll both manage without. And honestly? I’m doing just fine.
