“You’ve torn our family apart!” shrieks my daughter.
My daughter, Emily, blames me for her divorce, and her words cut like a knife. She believes I never gave her and her husband the means for happiness. It began with their fight over the mortgage—I begged them not to rush into debt. Yet now, I’m the villain of their misery, and the guilt gnaws at me without rest.
Emily and her husband William married three years ago. She dreamed of a lavish wedding—a hundred guests, a white Rolls-Royce. I pleaded for something simpler, but her mother-in-law, Margaret, thumped her chest and declared, “For my only son, I’ll throw a celebration all of Manchester will remember!” I emptied my savings just to keep face, warning Emily there’d be no gift from me—I’d spent my last pound on their spectacle. Even now, I shudder at the cost of that single day, now just a memory of wasted money.
After the wedding, they rented a flat. I held my tongue, though I knew they were throwing money away. They wanted independence, but their resolve lasted only a year. Rent drained them dry.
When William’s grandmother passed, she left him a crumbling one-bed flat on the city’s edge. The walls were peeling, the kitchen cramped, but it was shelter. Legally, it was Margaret’s, but she let them move in. They planned renovations. I urged Emily, “Why invest in someone else’s property? You have no claim—if things go wrong, you’ll lose everything!” But she wouldn’t listen.
I visited just once—for their housewarming. The neighbourhood was bleak, the commute endless, the courtyard choked with weeds. The flat itself was claustrophobic, the kitchen too small for two. But Emily and William glowed with pride, so I bit my tongue, unwilling to ruin their joy.
A year later, Emily announced her pregnancy. That tiny flat could never fit a child. William begged his mother to sell it, to help with a mortgage, but she refused. Still, they took the loan. I begged them to wait: “Emily, how will you pay it on maternity leave? You’ve got a roof—don’t invite disaster!” My words were just wind.
Then Margaret suggested a trade: I’d move into their dingy flat, and they’d take my three-bedroom home in Chelsea. I refused. Live in that grimy shoebox on the city’s fringes? No. My home is mine—I’m the mistress here. Why should I swap comfort for a view of the rubbish bins?
Emily grew bitter. Defiant, she and William took out a mortgage on a worn-down flat. But when little Sophie was born, his wages vanished into repayments. They had nothing. My husband and I helped where we could, but we weren’t made of money. I told them, “You chose this path—you deal with it.” Harsh, perhaps, but what else could I do?
Then Emily returned, clutching Sophie, her voice shattering my heart: “This is all your fault! If you’d just swapped homes, William and I would still be together! Sophie’s growing up without a father because of you!” She screamed, she wept, and I stood frozen, hollow with grief.
It pains me that their marriage failed. But was it truly my fault? I only wished to protect what was mine, to guide them wisely. Or did I misstep? What would you have done in my place?
