When Andrew and I married, we dreamed at once of having a home of our own. We lived in a small village near Liverpool and relied only on ourselves. My parents could not help us, and Andrew had been raised by his grandmother, Agnes Whitmore, and refused to return to her house. He seldom spoke to his mother—she appeared only now and then, visiting his grandmother. To Andrew, she was no longer family: she had a new husband and a young daughter, while her son had long since become a stranger.
We secured a mortgage and worked like dogs, desperate to pay off part of the loan so we could plan for children without worry. Andrew borrowed a small sum from his mother, but we repaid it swiftly. For five years, we scrimped on everything, and by then, the mortgage was nearly settled. We breathed easier—even if I took maternity leave, we could manage the payments. And so, when we finally dared hope for a child, we learned I was expecting. That very evening, as we prepared to celebrate, there was a knock at the door. It was Andrew’s mother, Margaret. Her arrival was like a bolt from the blue.
“What’s the occasion?” she sneered, eyeing us coldly.
We shared our joyful news, but she didn’t so much as blink. Instead of congratulations, she snapped: “That’s not why I’m here. Andrew, your sister, Eleanor, is getting married. She has nowhere to live. Your grandmother is moving in with you, so make room.”
“Why with us?” Andrew stammered.
“She raised you—be grateful and look after her,” Margaret cut in.
“Mum, she has her own flat! Why should Eleanor take it?”
The argument ended in a storm of accusations before Margaret slammed the door and left. The next day, Agnes arrived. She stood trembling on the doorstep, clutching her handkerchief, tears in her eyes. “I’m just a burden—no one wants me,” she whispered, and my heart ached. Andrew hugged her. “Don’t cry, Nan, it’ll be alright.” But I already sensed our peaceful life was about to shatter.
With Agnes’s arrival, the nightmare began. Margaret turned up at all hours, unannounced, insisting she had every right to visit her mother. After her visits, small things began vanishing—a vase she had admired, a figurine from the shelf. I seethed in silence. Then Eleanor took Agnes’s telly—the very one Andrew and I had bought so she could watch her programmes. Agnes confided that her granddaughter had simply packed it up and left without a word. Worse, Eleanor took her entire pension, leaving the old woman with nothing.
One day, Agnes finally snapped. “If you miss me so much, I could move back home. Eleanor has no children, but Andrew’s about to become a father.”
After that, Margaret’s visits grew scarce—fearful, perhaps, that her mother might truly reclaim the flat. A year after our son was born, I returned to work, and Agnes happily cared for her great-grandchild. We began dreaming of a larger house—the cramped two-bedroom no longer sufficed. One evening, Agnes beamed and said, “Eleanor’s expecting and wants my help. But I’ve settled here now—I won’t go back. Let’s buy a three-bedroom and wait for our little princess!”
I believe we shall. Yet whenever I recall Agnes’s tears and Margaret’s cruelty, anger rises in me like a tide. Our family has earned its peace, and I will do everything to shield it from those who see us only as a means to their ends.
