“I can live in your house for one simple reason: I gave birth to you!”
I was just eleven when my mum decided to remarry. Her new husband didn’t want me around, so she packed me off to live with my nan. Mum never lifted a finger to help us—she was too wrapped up in her new bloke. Nan and I had to scrape by on her pension alone. Nan never cared much for my mum, thank goodness, but at least she didn’t turn me away. I suppose I should be glad I take after my dad.
Money was tight, but we made do. Nan became my whole world—I’d ask her advice, confide in her about everything. She was the first to know about my schoolyard crush, my teenage meltdowns. All those years, she was my rock.
When I started uni, Nan passed away. I had no other family left. The house became mine. Once I’d sorted the paperwork, my mum turned up out of the blue. I hadn’t seen her in years.
She tried to talk me into swapping places—her cramped two-bed flat for my spacious house. She reckoned it was too much for me alone. When I said no, she flew off the handle:
“You ungrateful girl! I brought you into this world!”
——————
I couldn’t stand hearing it. “Nan raised me,” I shot back. “Where were you all that time? You tossed me aside like a stray the second you got married. I owe you nothing.”
Five more years passed. I got married, had a son, and we settled into that same house. Life was quiet, normal. My boy was healthy, my husband had steady work—everything as it should be. Then Mum showed up again. I wasn’t about to let her waltz back in. What kind of person abandons a child, only to reappear when it suits them?
My son peeked out from behind me. “Mum, who’s that?”
Mum didn’t miss a beat. “I’m your grandma! Can I come in? Your mum won’t let me.”
“But I’ve never seen you before.” He frowned up at me. “Mum, is she telling the truth? Why don’t I know her?”
——————
“Love, go to your room—we’ll talk later,” I said, then turned to Mum. “Why are you here? I don’t want you around. I don’t trust you.”
She slumped into a chair, crying. Said she’d been conned—sold her flat to buy a new place, but her husband ran off with the lot. Now she had nowhere to go.
“Let me stay,” she begged. “You’re my only child. You can’t leave me on the streets. You’re a good person. I gave birth to you!”
I let her sleep on the sofa that night—couldn’t have her out in the cold. Next morning, I rang up Auntie May, Mum’s cousin down in Devon. Told her my husband would drop Mum off by evening. Country folks always need an extra pair of hands. She could make herself useful there. I wouldn’t have her under my roof—not after everything. Nan was the one who raised me.
As she left, Mum spat venom: “Why are you so heartless? I brought you into this world!”
Funny, that. I wondered the same thing—why *was* I so heartless?
