*”Mum’s living off us” — when I read that, my blood ran cold.*
For over a decade, my two-bed flat had been home to my son, Nigel, and his family. They barged in with suitcases right after the wedding, all cheerful grins and *”Mum, we’ll just stay a bit, promise!”* Ten years and three grandchildren later, I’d weathered nappies, night fevers, and noise levels rivaling King’s Cross at rush hour.
Nigel’s wife, Gemma, was perpetually *”just on maternity leave”* — first for Charlie, then Lily, then little Alfie. Sick days? Tag-team with me, naturally. My life became a blur of mushy peas, crayon-streaked walls, and *”But Gran, you *love* babysitting!”* Retirement glimmered like a mirage—*finally*, time for myself. And for six glorious months, it was.
Then reality hit. Up at 6 AM to drive Nigel and Gemma to work, ferry kids to school and nursery, push Alfie’s pram round Hyde Park, scrub stains, reheat fish fingers, then music lessons, homework, bedtime stories—rinse, repeat. My *”me time”*? Midnight cross-stitching, my one quiet joy.
Then, one night, rummaging through socks, Nigel’s text lit up my phone: *”Mum’s leeching off us, and now we’re paying for her bloody arthritis pills too.”* Sent to *someone else*. I read it twice. No mistake. The words stuck like gum to a shoe.
No theatrics. No tears. Just a quiet hunt for a shoebox flat in Camden. *”Need my own space,”* I chirped. Rent swallowed my pension whole—hello, baked beans on toast—but *my* beans. *My* toast.
Remember that laptop Gemma scoffed at? *”You’ll never work it, Mum.”* Joke’s on her. My old office mate, Brenda, gave me a crash course. Started posting my cross-stitch online—*”Ooh, do one for me!”*—then teaching neighbourhood girls for a fiver a lesson. Modest? Yes. Dignified? Absolutely.
Now my flat smells of lavender, not wet wellies. My walls display *my* embroidery, not finger-paint masterpieces. The peace isn’t perfect, but it’s *mine*.
I never wanted a feud. Just a *”Ta, Mum”* now and then. Or honesty. But if Nigel thinks I was dead weight? Fine. He can manage without. And I’ll manage—happily—without *him*.
