Why did I ever agree to let my son and his wife move in with me? I still dont know.
Im Margaret Whitmore, living in a modest two-bedroom flat in one of Londons quieter suburbs. At sixty-three, Im a widow. My pension is humble, but enough to get by. When my son, Oliver, married two years ago, I was overjoyedas any mother would be. Hes young, just thirty-one, and his wife, Felicity, is a touch younger. They tied the knot, made their vows, but had nowhere to live. No place of their own. Mum, they said, well stay with you just for a little while. Soon enough, well save up for a mortgage deposit and be on our way.
Like a fool, I was delightedimagined Id be doting on grandchildren. So I let them stay. Now I dont know how to undo it. Because that little while has stretched into two years, and none of us has a shred of peace left.
At first, I tried to keep my distance. They were newlyweds, settling into married life. I didnt interferecooked for them, did their laundry, kept everything tidy. Then Felicity fell pregnant. Early days, I thoughtif God wills it, so be it. My grandson, Arthur, arrived. A perfect little cherub. But with his birth went every last penny of savings. Everyone knows how expensive babies are: nappies, formula, porridgeall costly, and Felicity insists on brand names, the freshest, imported stuff.
Im happy to help. But Im not their maid. And yet, somehow, Ive become nanny, cook, and housemaid rolled into one. The young mother is exhausted. Apparently, Arthur wont let her sleep. So she lounges in bed till noon, glued to her phone. The baby stays in his playpen. She sprawls on the sofa. The telly blares, lunch cooked by me, floors mopped, grandson bathed. And Felicity still complains shes run ragged.
And my son? Oliver trudges to work and slinks home silent, jaw clenched. If I try to talk to him, he dodges. Mum, stay out of it, he mutters. Meanwhile, Felicity acts as if she owns the place. I say a word, she snaps back with threealways in that shrill tone. Then Oliver accuses me of bullying his wife. Bullying! Me, after all Ive done for them!
I dont know what to do anymore. I tell Oliver, Find a place to rent. Im worn out. He sighs, We cant afford it, Mum. I suggested downsizingId take a studio, and they could save for a deposit, live like proper adults. Take charge of their lives. Id help a little with Arthur, as much as I could. But no. My son nods blankly, and nothing changes.
I know theyre young. Lifes hard. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures shot, my joints ache, I barely sleep. Yet if they need meoff I dash, to the hospital, the doctors, minding Arthur for days. When I say Im tired, they stare as if Ive betrayed them.
Last week, we had a proper row. I woke early, tidied the kitchen, made Arthurs porridgesame as always. Felicity stumbled in and snapped, Whyd you make this again? I told you I want the packet kind! I lost my temper. Said I was a grandmother, not a kitchen appliance. That they ought to support their own family. She burst into tears, Oliver took her side, they slammed the door and stormed out. An hour later, they slunk back as if nothing happened. Not even an apology.
Now every morning I wake and think: why did I let them stay? Why didnt I put my foot down sooner? Maybe because Im a mother. Because I love my son. But more and more, I catch myself thinkingI love him, but Im spent. And when I sit down to take my blood pressure pills, I wondermaybe its time to send them packing? Itll break my heart, but at least I wont lose my mind.
Tell me thisam I the only one daft enough to fall into this trap? Or are there others my age, just as gullible?
