“Mum’s living off us”—when I read those words, my blood ran cold.
For over a decade, my son Oliver and his family lived in my two-bedroom flat. After the wedding, they turned up with suitcases, declaring, “Mum, we’ll just stay for a little while!” Ten years passed. I was there for every birth, endured sleepless nights, children’s illnesses, and daily chaos like living in a train station.
My daughter-in-law, Emily, took maternity leave once, then again, then a third time. When the kids fell ill, either she or I took sick leave to care for them. I never thought of myself—just endless nappies, reheated meals, sticky walls. No peace, no solitude, no rest. Only guilt trips—“But you’re the grandma.”
I counted down to retirement like a prisoner awaiting release. At last, I thought, I’d have a moment to breathe. And for those first six months, it felt like a miracle. But the dream didn’t last.
Every morning, I was up at six, driving Oliver and Emily to work, then back to feed the grandkids, drop one at nursery, another at school. I took the youngest to the park, cooked lunch, did laundry, cleaned, then shuttled them to music lessons, helped with homework, read bedtime stories. My days were timed to the minute.
Sometimes, late at night when the house finally settled, I stole a moment for myself—a book, or my embroidery hoop. Stitching had always been my quiet escape. One evening, while sorting laundry, I glanced at my phone and saw a message from Oliver. My heart stopped.
“Mum’s living off us,” he’d written to someone, “and we’re even paying for her medication.” I reread it, hoping I’d misread. But no—it wasn’t meant for me. The words stuck like a knife in my back.
I didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. I just found a small flat in the next town over, told them living alone would be “easier.” Rent swallowed most of my pension. I survived on tea and toast, but at least it was mine.
Years before retiring, I’d bought myself a laptop. Emily laughed. “What do you need that for, Mum? You barely know how to turn it on.” But I learned. A friend’s daughter showed me the basics, and soon I was posting photos of my embroidery online.
At first, it was just for fun. Then old colleagues asked if I could stitch pieces for them. Then their friends. One day, a neighbour paid me to teach her granddaughter. Soon, I had three young pupils. Modest earnings, but honest. Best of all, I felt useful—not just obligated.
I stopped asking Oliver for anything. No pleas, no calls. We exchange pleasantries at family gatherings—weather, recipes, nothing deeper. I don’t hold a grudge. I just couldn’t stay where I was unwanted.
Now my flat smells of lavender, not school shoes. My embroidery hangs on the walls, not children’s scribbles. And in my heart? Maybe not peace, but at least self-respect.
I didn’t want a war. Just gratitude. Or honesty. But if my son thinks I was a burden, let him live without me. And I’ll live without him.
