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 two-bedroom flat in one of the leafy suburbs of Oxford. Sixty-three, widowed, my pensions modest but enough to get by. When my son James got married two years ago, like any mum, I was over the moon. Hes youngjust thirty-one, and my daughter-in-law Emilys a bit younger. They tied the knot, but they had nowhere to live. No place of their own. They said, Mum, well stay with you just for a bit. Well save up for a mortgage deposit and be out before you know it.
Like a fool, I was thrilledthought Id be babysitting grandchildren. So I let them stay. Now? I dont know how to dig myself out of this mess. Because that little while has turned into two years, and none of us have any quality of life left.
At first, I tried not to interfere. Theyre young, newlyweds finding their feet. I kept quiet, cooked for them, did their laundry, everything proper. Then Emily got pregnant. Early days, I thoughtif its meant to be, its meant to be. My grandson Oliver arrived. An absolute darling. But with him came all the savings vanishing. Everyone knows how pricey kids arenappies, formula, baby food, all top-brand, organic, imported, because Emily wont settle for less.
Im happy to help. But Im not their maid. Yet somehow, Ive become nanny, cook, and cleaner rolled into one. The exhausted new mum lies in till noon, glued to her phone. Olivers in his playpen, shes on the sofa. Telly blaring, lunch Ive made, floors Ive mopped, baby Ive bathed. And Emily still complains shes run ragged.
And James? Off to work, comes home sulking, barely speaks. If I try to talk, he shuts me down. Mum, stay out of it. Emily acts like she owns the place. I say one word, she snaps back with three. Always loud, always sharp. Then James says Im bullying his wife. Bullying! Me, who does everything for them!
Im at my wits end. I tell James, Love, find a place to rent. Im knackered. He says, We cant afford it, Mum. I suggested downsizingId take a small studio, they could save for a deposit, live like proper adults. Take responsibility. Id help with Oliver when I could. But no, James just nods, and nothing changes.
I get ittheyre young, its tough. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures dodgy, my joints ache, I barely sleep. Yet if they need me, Im there in a flashhospital runs, injections, looking after Oliver for days. When I say Im tired, they look at me like Ive stabbed them in the back.
Last week, we had a proper row. I woke up, tidied the kitchen, made Olivers porridgesame as always. Emily storms in: Why did you make this again? I told you I want the ready-made pouches! I lost it. Told her Im a grandma, not a flipping microwave. That they should stand on their own two feet. She cried, James took her side, they slammed out. Came back an hour later like nothing happened. Not even a sorry.
Now I wake up every morning thinkingwhy did I let this happen? Why didnt I put my foot down sooner? Maybe because Im a mum. Because I love my son. But more and more, I thinkI love him, but Im worn out. And when I sit there with my blood pressure pills, I wonderis it time to kick them out? Itll break my heart, but at least I wont lose my mind.
Tell meam I the only daft old bird whos fallen into this trap? Or are there others my age out there, just as blindsided?
