Why on earth did I let my son and his wife move in? I still dont have a clue.
Im Margaret Whitaker, living in a modest two-bedroom flat in one of Bristols quieter neighbourhoods. Sixty-three, widowed, and surviving nicely on my pensionuntil two years ago, when my son Oliver got married. Naturally, I was over the moon. Hes youngonly thirty-oneand his wife, Emily, is a bit younger. They tied the knot, all very romantic, except for one tiny hiccup: nowhere to live. “Mum,” they said, “well just stay with you for a little while. Save up for a mortgage deposit, then were off.”
Like a complete fool, I was thrilledimagining babysitting future grandchildren. So I said yes. Now? Im trapped in a sitcom with no laugh track. That “little while” has stretched into two years, and were all miserable.
At first, I kept my nose out of it. Newlyweds, figuring things out. I cooked, did their laundry, played the doting mum. Then Emily got pregnant. Early? Maybe. But when little Henry arrived, he was perfect. Of course, my savings vanished overnight. Babies cost a fortunenappies, formula, organic mush. And Emily? Only the best, freshly imported, top-shelf everything.
Im happy to help. But I didnt sign up to be a live-in maid. Yet here I am, nanny-chef-housekeeper rolled into one. Young Mum is “so exhausted.” Apparently, Henry wont let her sleep. So she lounges in bed till noon, glued to her phone while he babbles in his playpen. Meanwhile, Ive scrubbed the floors, cooked lunch, bathed the baby. And Emily? Still “burnt out.”
Oliver? He trudges off to work, comes home silent. If I try to talk to him, its “Mum, dont interfere.” Emily acts like she owns the place. Say one word? She snaps back with three. Then Oliver accuses me of “bullying” his wife. Bullying! Me, the woman who does everything!
Ive triedgentlysuggesting they find a rental. “Mum, we cant afford it,” Oliver sighs. I even proposed downsizing: Id take a studio, theyd finally grow up and sort their own lives. Id help with Henry when I could. But no. Just vague nods. Nothing changes.
I get itlifes hard, theyre young. But Im not made of steel. My knees ache, my blood pressures through the roof, and sleep? Whats that? Yet the second they need mehospital runs, babysitting, injectionsIm there. But if I mention being tired? Suddenly, Im the villain.
The final straw? Last week, I was up at dawntidying, making Henrys breakfast. Emily finally emerges and snaps, “Why did you make homemade again? I told you, I want the prepackaged stuff!” I lost it. “Im a grandmother, not a flipping catering service. Grow up and support yourselves!” Cue tears. Oliver takes her side. Door slam. Exit stage left. An hour later? Theyre back like nothing happened. Not a single sorry.
Now, every morning, I stare at my tea and think: why did I let this happen? Because Im a mother, thats why. Because I love my son. But more and more, I wonderdo I love my sanity more? Those blood pressure tablets arent working miracles. Maybe its time to say, “Out. Now.” Itll break my heart, but at least I wont lose my mind.
Tell me honestlyam I the only one daft enough to fall into this trap? Or are there other mums my age, drowning in someone elses laundry?
