The Freeloader.
Misha finally fell asleep around three in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, frozen in an awkward positionmy arm had gone numb, my shoulder ached, but I didnt dare move. He was teethinghis gums were red, his little fists constantly reaching for his mouth, crying so hard it broke my heart.
It felt like he hadnt slept in an eternity. Every time I tried to put him in his cot, hed wake up instantly, as if sensing I wanted to escape. Just seven months old, and in that time, Id lived an entirely new life. Love, pain, worry, happinessall tangled into a knot I couldnt undo.
When his breathing steadied, I carefully stood. The window across from ours still had a light onsomeone else in our nine-story council block was awake too. I often wondered who it wasanother exhausted mum like me? An insomniac pensioner? A couple in love? Once, Id dreamed that me and Gary would buy our own flat, that Id look out my own window at my own street. But those dreams had vanished like smoke.
Three years working the till at Tescoevery penny of my savings gone. First, the down payment for a mortgage we never signed. Then, the money for renovating this flat where we lived with Garys mum, Margaret. “Itll be cosier,” hed said. But cosy only seemed to apply to them.
From the moment Id stepped through that door with my suitcase and a stupid hope for a happy life, Id never once felt at home.
“Itll sort itself out,” Gary had promised a year and a half ago. “Well get married this summer,” hed said just before I got pregnant. “Just wait a little longer,” hed whispered when Misha was born. I nodded. Believed. Waited. But a marriage certificate, for some reason, seemed like too much trouble to him.
Margaret jingled her keys in the hallway every morning, off to her accounting job. I called her “the terrier” in my headsmall, snappy, nose always in the air. She only spoke to me when necessary, like I wasnt the mother of her grandson but some temporary help. If I cooked, shed grimace: “You dont know how to handle decent food.” If I did laundry: “Those are expensive clothes.” Always with that poisonous smile.
“Sophie, the floors could use a mop,” shed say on my only day off. “Sophia, I bought cottage cheese for little Misha,” shed add, even though I never took anything from her.
Her bedroom was always locked. When we were out, shed rifle through our things. Once, I caught her rummaging in my wardrobe. “Looking for a towel,” shed said without a hint of shame.
The kitchen had its own rules. Her platesseparate. Our platesseparate. Her frying pan, her saucepan, her whisk. Nothing shared. If Gary was late, I ate in our roomanything to avoid sitting at the same table as her.
Still, we somehow managedday after day, month after month. Before Misha, I could still escapeto work, to friends, just for a walk. Now? A baby in my arms, barely fifty quid in my purse and child benefits barely covering basics.
I crept out into the hallway, head pounding from exhaustionsecond sleepless night in a row. Last night, Misha had woken at half one and hadnt gone back down till five. Then up again at ten. I moved like a zombie, my eyes gritty with fatigue.
The kitchen light was on. Margaret was still up. I just wanted water, but before I could take a step
“Still awake?” she turned. “On your phone again, I saw the light under the door.”
“Mishas teething,” I said. “He cant sleep”
She scoffed. That sound said everythingdisbelief, the suggestion I was slacking, the unspoken “I worked and raised kids at your age.”
“Could you keep it down?” I flinched as plates clattered. “He just fell asleep.”
Something flickered in her eyes. She hunched over the sink, then
She whirled around. Face twisted, eyes narrowed. Slammed a mug onto the table.
“Keep it down?” she echoed. “In my own home, I have to tiptoe?”
I leaned against the doorframe. Seven months without sleep. Seven months in these cramped walls, every step like walking on eggshells.
“I just asked you not to bang the dishes,” I said quietly.
“Maybe you just dont know how to put a baby to sleep,” she snapped, arms crossed. “I raised two. No teething problems. Slept like angels.”
I clenched my jaw. My son slept in the next room, and here, in this tiny kitchen, a storm was brewing. Whatever I said would be wrong. Stay silentadmit Im a bad mother. Arguestart a fight.
“I just wanted water,” I muttered, stepping toward the sink.
“Of course,” she didnt budge. “Its always *something* with you. Lie down, scroll your phone. But work? Thats beneath you, isnt it?”
I froze. Work? With a seven-month-old who doesnt sleep?
“Ill go back when hes eighteen months,” I said firmly. “Like we agreed.”
“*Agreed*,” she drawled. “Is my son made of steel? Hes carrying this family alone. And you? Spreading money like confetti. Those curtainshow much? That pramimported?”
I stared. The curtains cost thirty quid. The pram was second-hand for two hundred.
“Speaking of money,” her eyes gleamed. “Have you *ever* paid rent? Bills? Youre a freeloader. No one asked you here. Gary was fine before you”
Something in me snapped. I stood there, rigid. I wanted to scream: *Who paid for your bedroom makeover? Who bought your fridge? Where did my savings go?*
But I stayed silent. Used to swallowing it all. For Misha. For Gary. For this stupid illusion of “peace.”
“You think I dont see how you eye my things?” Her voice shook. “Think youll take my grandson and everything else?”
I went still. What things? The chipped dinner set she guarded like treasure? The old pots she wouldnt let me touch? Gary and I had nothingjust debt and Mishas cot.
I couldnt hold back anymore.
“I dont. Want. Your. Things,” I said, my voice steady even as my hands shook. “Im not here for you. Or this.”
“Then *what*?” She stepped closer, face contorted. “For my son, who youve trapped? For this flat youll never get? For the money?”
It hit like a slap. My chest tightened. The words burst out before I could stop them:
“For a decent life for my child! Whose father, by the way, isnt exactly rushing to provide! Who, as *you* put it, is living off me in *my* room, eating food bought with *his* child benefits! And if you care so muchall my savings went into *your* renovation and a mortgage we never got!”
My own voice sounded foreign. I couldnt remember the last time Id raised it. Maybe never.
“Whats going on?”
Gary stood in the doorwayboxers, wrinkled T-shirt, pillow creases on his cheek. Confused, like a kid woken mid-dream. And thats what he wasa thirty-two-year-old whod never grown up.
Margaret immediately lunged toward him.
“Gary, your Sophies shouting at me! I was just washing up”
His gaze shifted from her to me. I knew that look. How many times in the past year had I been the one at fault? No matter the truth. Always wrong. Always that pause before hed say
“How long is this going on?” he ground out. “Mum cant wash a plate in her own home? I come back from work to *this*?”
From the bedroom, Misha wailed. Of course hed woken. I moved toward the door, but Gary grabbed my arm.
“Stop. Dont walk away when Im talking to you.”
Something in me *clicked*. His fingers digging into my skin. My baby crying. Nothing else mattered.
“Let go,” I said calmly. “Mishas crying.”
“Let him cry,” he snapped. “First, explain how you talk to my mother. Whats wrong with you?”
I yanked free. He stepped forward, pinning me to the wall. His finger jabbed my chest.
“What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?”
I looked at his face. Familiar. A stranger. Twisted with anger. My pulse throbbed. Misha screamedfrantic, desperate. Calling for me. And I stood there, trapped, staring at the
