“Youre to blame for your lack of moneyno one forced you to marry and have children,” my mother snapped when I begged for help.
I was twenty when I married Oliver. We rented a cramped one-bed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Both of us workedhim in construction, me at a chemist. We scraped by, but it was enough. Back then, we dreamed of saving for our own home, and anything seemed possible.
Then came Liam. Two years later, Ethan. I took maternity leave, and Oliver pulled extra shifts. Still, the money vanishednappies, formula, doctor visits, bills, and rent swallowing half his wages. Every morning, I woke with the same dread: What if Oliver fell ill? What if we were evicted? What then?
My mother lived alone in a two-bed. So did Gran. Both in London. Both with empty spare rooms. I wasnt asking for a mansionjust a corner, temporary. Just until the kids were older. Until we got back on our feet.
I suggested Mum move in with Grantwo flats freed up, one for us. We wouldnt take much spacejust me, Oliver, and the boys. She didnt even let me finish.
“Live with *her*?” She scoffed. “Are you mad? My life isnt over. Im still young. That old woman would drive me up the wall. Sort yourself out, but dont drag me into it.”
I swallowed the sting in silence. Next, I called Dad. Hed lived with his new wife for yearsa spacious four-bed in Surrey. I hoped hed take Gran. She *was* his mother. But he refused. “The house is bursting at the seams with the kids from my second marriage,” he said.
Desperate, I called Mum again. I wept. Pleaded for shelter, even just for a while. Thats when she spat the words that shattered me:
“This is your own fault for being broke. No one made you marry. No one asked you to breed. Wanted to play grown-up? Now deal with it. Sort your own mess.”
I sat frozen in the kitchen, phone clutched in my hand, the world collapsing. This was my *mother*. The one who shouldve been my safety net. I hadnt asked for muchjust a roof, just a shred of mercy.
The next day, Oliver and I argued over options. The only one who answered our despair was his mum, Margaret. She lived in a village near York, a cottage with a garden. A spare room. Shed take us gladlyeven offered to mind the boys while we worked.
But Im terrified. Its not London. No proper clinic, no decent school, not even a bus route. What if we go and never leave? What if the boys grow up with no chances, no future? What if I give up altogether?
Still, weve no choice. Mum turned her back. Grans too frail. Dad doesnt see us as family. Now Im trappedbetween nothing and a kindness that, though not ours, is real.
You know what cuts deepest? Not the poverty. Not the struggle. Its knowing your own flesh and blood are the farthest when you need them most. And my worst fear isnt for me. Its for my sons. That theyll never know what its like to be unwanted by their own grandmother.
