As the rain fell outside the bay windows, the city blurred into a smudge of grey and red buses. My daughter, Emily, married Ian eight years ago, and yet the landscape of our families feels unchangedEmily and her little ones tucked into a cramped flat in Brixton, while Ians parents waltz through their airy penthouse in Chelsea as if gilded by the sun.
We have always tried to give everything to our children. Emily needed a nest, so we uprooted ourselves, leaving our lovely red brick semi in Surreyivy curling around the windows, warm as a teapotin order to squeeze ourselves into a flat just so we could afford one for them. We did it for their sake, painted the walls, bought new furniture, all without any coin or care from Ians side.
I help look after the children. Emily is on maternity leave with baby Oliver, and little Sophies just started Year Oneshes overwhelmed by the morning rush: coaxing Sophie from sleep, tying her shoes, getting both out the door before the clock strikes eight. So Granddad and I each take turns driving Sophie to school, steering through Londons morning fog. It feels as though were both caught in a loopside by side, ferrying the children through the dream-tangle of city streets.
Meanwhile, Ians parents continue drifting above us, as if their sons family is another set of strangers let loose into the world. I watch, and somewhere between waking and dreaming, I marvel at the chill that keeps them from reaching outa pair of ghosts sipping Earl Grey by their picture windows.
Its always been this way. Even before the weddingimagine not giving your son a penny toward his marriage. I remember phoning his parents, inviting them for tea, saying, The children are marrying, lets sit down together. Their response still echoes, shrill and surreal:
What if theyre divorced within a month? Seventy percent of couples do nowadays, or so the statistics say!
So my husband, John, and I hosted the whole wedding ourselves, then gifted Emily and Ian their own little flata snug studio, all we could musterwhile his parents drifted in as outsiders, pressing a limp envelope containing a mere £100 into our hands. Even so, Ian wasnt shy about making requests.
Eight years gone, and that humble flat now overflows with two children. Its tight, but it was meant to be enough for two. I suggested to Ian, If you cant bring in more, perhaps your parents might pitch in a little?
He shook his head. I cant possibly ask them. Thats not something I can do.
I offered, Would you like me to bring it up myself? But Ians tone turned sharphe forbade me even to mention it.
How odd, I thought, in this rain-drenched cityhe finds it shameful to ask his own parents, but not mine, and hes been living on our generosity for eight years now. Doesnt everyone else manage to buy a flat somehow? I tell him, Youre youngtake a second job, look for new opportunity, maybe even abroad.
He deals with Emily the same way. She rings me in the evenings, her voice small, grumbling, Mum, why do you interfere? Ian says his parents will never change, that help is not in their nature.
I feel a strange bitterness: They travel to seaside spas, enjoy their moonlit cruises, refuse to acknowledge the struggle downstairs, while we juggle everything. Ian seems to forbid any complaintsuch a loving son! Yet he spares no thought for the family who truly helps.
In this topsy-turvy London, where the drizzle seeps into dreams and the city bends around our tired bones, I can only wonder at the strange shapes that families take.
