“Youre to blame for being brokeno one forced you to marry and have kids,” my mum snapped when I asked for help.
Back when I was twenty, I married James. We rented a shoebox of a flat on the outskirts of Brighton. Both of us workedhe was in construction, I was at a chemists. Money was tight, but we scraped by. We dreamed of saving for our own place, and back then, anything felt possible.
Then came Oliver. Two years later, little Archie arrived. I took maternity leave, and James started pulling extra shifts. Still, the pennies never stretched far enough. Nappies, formula, doctor visits, billsand, of course, the rent, which swallowed half his wages.
Every morning, Id look at our boys and feel the same knot in my stomach: What if James got sick? What if we got evicted? What then?
Mum lived alone in a two-bed in London. So did Nan. Both had spare rooms. I wasnt asking for a mansionjust a corner, temporary, while the kids were small. While we got back on our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Nantwo birds, one stone, and wed take the other flat. Its not like wed be underfootjust me, James, and two tiny tornadoes. But she wouldnt even entertain the idea.
“Live with *my* mother?” she huffed. “Are you mad? My life isnt over yet. And that old bat would drive me round the bend. Sort yourself out, but dont drag me into it.”
I swallowed the sting. Next, I rang my dad. Hed been with his new wife for years in their spacious four-bed house. Id hoped hed take Nan inshe *is* his mother, after all. But no. “The kids from my second marriage take up all the space,” he said. “The walls are bursting as it is.”
Desperate, I called Mum again. I cried. Begged her to take us in, even just for a while. Thats when she spat the words:
“Its your own fault youre skint. No one made you get married. No one asked you to have kids. Wanted to play grown-up? Now deal with the mess yourself.”
It hit like a slap. I sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, feeling the world crumble. This was my *mother*. The one person who shouldve had my back. I wasnt asking for the moonjust a roof, just a shred of kindness.
The next day, James and I weighed our options. The only one who answered our SOS was his mum, Margaret. She lives in a village near Canterbury, in a cottage with a garden. Shes got a spare room and said wed be welcomeeven offered to mind the boys while we worked.
But Im terrified. Its not London. Theres no proper GP surgery, no decent schools, not even a reliable bus. What if we go and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances, no future? What if I just give up?
Still, weve no choice. Mums turned her back. Nans too frail to help. Dad doesnt see us as family. Now Im stuck: leap into the unknown or take a lifeline from the last person I expected.
The worst part? Its not the poverty. Its not the struggle. Its knowing your own flesh and blood are the first to walk away when you need them most. And my biggest fear isnt for meits for my boys. That theyll never feel what its like to be unwanted by their own grandmother.
