Your sister is getting married, she has nowhere to live, Granny will move in with you: Granny wept, feeling like a burden to everyone.
When Andrew and I married, we dreamed of our own place. We lived in a small town near Bristol and relied only on ourselves. My parents couldn’t help, and Andrew had grown up with his grandmother, Margaret Williams, never wanting to return to her house. He barely spoke to his mother—she only visited occasionally to see Granny. To him, she was a stranger now, wrapped up in her new husband and baby daughter, as if her firstborn no longer mattered.
We took out a mortgage and worked ourselves ragged, desperate to pay off enough to start a family. Andrew borrowed a bit from his mother, but we paid her back quickly. For five years, we scrimped on everything until the mortgage was nearly settled. We sighed in relief—even if I took maternity leave, we’d manage. The very day we decided to try for a baby, we found out I was pregnant. That same evening, as we planned our celebration, his mother, Elizabeth, knocked on the door. Her visit struck like lightning from a clear sky.
“What’s the occasion?” she sneered, eyeing us.
We shared our news, but she didn’t so much as blink. Instead of congratulations, she snapped, “That’s not why I’m here. Andrew, your sister Emily’s getting married. She’s got nowhere to live. Granny’s moving in with you, so make space.”
“Why us?” Andrew stiffened.
“She raised you—be grateful and help her,” Elizabeth cut back.
“Mum, she has her own flat! Why does Emily get to live there?”
The argument dissolved into accusations before she slammed the door and left. The next day, Granny arrived, clutching a handkerchief, tears in her eyes. “I’m just a nuisance, nobody wants me,” she whispered, and my chest ached. Andrew hugged her. “Don’t cry, Gran, it’ll be alright.” But I already sensed our peaceful life crumbling.
With Margaret’s arrival, the nightmare began. Elizabeth turned up anytime, day or night, unannounced, insisting she had every right to visit her mother. After her visits, things went missing—small things, but unsettling. A vase she’d admired, a figurine from the shelf. I bit my tongue, but resentment simmered. Then Emily took Granny’s telly—the one we’d bought so she could watch her soaps. Granny said her granddaughter just boxed it up and left without a word. Worse, Emily took her pension, leaving her with nothing.
One day, Margaret finally spoke up. “If you miss me so much, I can move back. Emily hasn’t got children, but Andrew’s about to be a father.”
After that, Elizabeth visited less, likely fearing Granny might reclaim the flat. A year after our son was born, I returned to work—Granny adored looking after her great-grandchild. We dreamed of a bigger place; our two-bed felt cramped now. One evening, Margaret beamed and said, “Emily’s expecting and wants help with the baby. But I’ve settled here now—I don’t want to leave. Let’s get a three-bedroom and wait for our little princess!”
I want to believe it. But every time I remember Granny’s tears and Elizabeth’s cruelty, anger boils inside me. Our family’s earned its peace, and I’ll do whatever it takes to shield it from those who see us only as something to use.
