**Diary Entry**
“It’s your own fault you have no money. Nobody forced you to marry and have children.” That’s what my mother said to my face when I begged for help.
At twenty, I married Jack. We rented a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Both of us worked—he on a construction site, me at a chemist’s. We lived modestly, but it was enough. We dreamed of saving for our own place, and back then, anything seemed possible.
Then Thomas was born. Two years later, Oliver arrived. I went on maternity leave, and Jack took on extra shifts. Even with his overtime, money ran short. Everything went to nappies, formula, doctor’s visits, bills, and—of course—rent. Half his wages vanished just to keep a roof over our heads.
I’d look at our boys and wake each morning with dread: What if Jack gets sick? What if we’re evicted? What then?
Mum lived alone in a two-bed flat. So did Nan—both in the city centre, both with spare rooms. I didn’t ask for a palace—just a temporary solution. Until the boys were older. Until we could stand on our own feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Nan so we could take the other flat. Just me, Jack, and two little ones—hardly a crowd. But Mum wouldn’t hear it.
“Live with *her*?” She scoffed. “Are you mad? My life isn’t over. I’m still young. And Nan would drive me up the wall. Sort yourself out—don’t drag me into it.”
I swallowed my pride and called Dad. He’d remarried, living in a spacious four-bed house. I hoped he’d take Nan in—she *was* his mother. But he refused. Said his new family filled every corner, and there wasn’t room.
Desperate, I called Mum again. I sobbed. Pleaded for even just a temporary roof. That’s when she spat it out:
“You chose this. No one made you marry. No one told you to have kids. Wanted to play grown-up? Well, here’s your prize. Sort it out yourself.”
It felt like a slap. I sat there, phone in hand, everything crumbling inside. My own mother. The one person meant to be my safety net. I hadn’t asked for much—just a corner, just a shred of kindness.
The next day, Jack and I weighed our options. The only one who offered help was his mum, Margaret. She lives in a village outside Nottingham—a cramped cottage, but a room for us. She’d even help with the boys while we worked.
But I’m terrified. It’s not the city. No proper clinic, no decent school, hardly any buses. What if we move and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances, no future? What if I lose myself there?
Yet we’ve no choice. Mum’s washed her hands of us. Nan’s too frail to take us in. Dad’s moved on. So here I stand: leap into the unknown or accept help from someone who *wants* us.
The bitterest truth? It’s not the struggle that cuts deepest. It’s knowing the people closest by blood are the furthest by heart. My fear isn’t for me—it’s for my sons. That they’ll never know what it’s like to be tossed aside by family who should’ve loved them most.
