Every Man for Himself “Mum, you just don’t understand what the housing market’s like right now,” Max shuffled through a stack of printouts, anxiously arranging them into piles and then fanning them out across the kitchen table. “Prices are all over the place every week, and if we don’t put down a deposit now, this flat’s going to go.” Lydia slid a cup of cold tea toward her son and sat down across from him. Floorplans, numbers, repayment schedules flickered across the printouts. A three-bed in a new build, a proper room each for Tim and Sophie—at last. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max rubbed his forehead. “I know it’s a lot. But Anna’s at the end of her tether, the kids are growing and we’re still renting and moving house every year…” Lydia looked at her son and saw the same boy who used to bring her bunches of dandelions. Thirty-two years old, two kids, but the frown between his eyebrows was the same as when he’d forgotten his homework. “I do have some savings put away in my account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, honest. As soon as things calm down, I’ll start chipping away at it.” She put her roughened hand over his, calloused by years of cooking and cleaning. “Max, this is for the grandchildren. Don’t mention paying it back—family matters more than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled in the forms with the careful handwriting honed over thirty years as an accountant. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—the better part of everything she’d managed to save for a rainy day, just in case. Max hugged her right there by the counter, queuing customers be damned. “You’re the best, you know. I mean it. I’ll never forget this.” Lydia patted him on the shoulder. “Go on, off you go. Anna will be waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of treks across town. Lydia arrived with bulging shopping bags—butter, chicken, groceries for the kids. She helped Anna hang curtains, build flat-pack furniture, scrub builder’s dust off every ledge. “Tim, careful with those tools!” she yelled, hanging curtains while explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make proper cabbage rolls. Anna nodded, scrolling on her phone. Max turned up evenings, tired after work, devoured his mum’s cooking, then disappeared into their room. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d call as he rushed by. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.” …Six months later, his number lit up her screen. “Mum, bit awkward…but the mortgage payment’s landed the same time as car repair. We’re thirty-five grand short.” Lydia transferred the money, no questions asked. It’s hard for young people, she told herself. Getting used to new expenses, kids so small, work so stressful—it’ll sort itself out. They’ll pay her back. Or maybe they won’t. In the end, what difference does it make, when it’s family? The years slipped by, quicker than water through fingers. Tim turned seven—Lydia gave him a Lego set, the exact one he’d begged his parents for. Sophie twirled in a sparkly pink dress, just like her cartoon princess idol. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie squealed, her arms tight around Lydia’s neck, smelling of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took the grandkids to hers, or out to the theatre, a funfair, the ice rink. Bought ice cream, toys, books. Her old coat pockets were always bulging—with sweets and wet wipes. Five years blurred by in this voluntary, generous grind. Mortgage money—“Mum, it’s tight again this month.” Sick days with the grandkids—“Mum, we just can’t get time off.” More groceries—“Mum, you’re going anyway…” Grateful words faded, arriving less and less. …That morning, she stared at the watermarks creeping across her kitchen ceiling. Flooded by a neighbour. Now the flat was unlivable. She rang her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve had a leak upstairs and I’ve no idea when I’ll get the insurance money—” “Mum,” he cut her off, “you do know I’ve got other priorities now, don’t you? Kids have got after-school stuff, Anna’s just started a new course…” “I’m not asking for much. Just to help me find someone for the repairs. Or at least—” “I’ve got no time for that sort of thing, Mum, really, it’s nothing… Let’s talk about it another time, yeah?” Click. Dial tone. Lydia set down the phone. The screen flashed up a photo: last New Year’s Eve. Herself, Tim, and Sophie. Everyone smiling. The money he’d taken without thinking. The weekends she’d given to his children. All that time, all that love—all “back then.” And now—“other priorities.” A drip splashed cold onto her hand. She flinched. Next day, Anna called herself—a rarity that unsettled Lydia before her daughter-in-law even spoke. “Lydia, Max said you called. You do know that everyone has to handle their own problems? We’ve got our own place, paying our own mortgage…” Lydia almost laughed. The mortgage she’d been covering every third month. The deposit, for the most part, her savings. “Of course, Anna. Everyone takes care of their own.” “Well, glad that’s settled. Just don’t want Max getting upset—hope you’re not offended?” “No. Honestly. Not at all.” Click. Lydia stared at the phone for a long time, as if it were a strange bug. Then she moved to the window—only to turn away; there was nothing outside to comfort her. Nights became endless, the ceiling weighed down, her mind racing. She lay in the dark, counting over the last five years bead by bead. She‘d made Max believe a mother was an endless resource. Next morning, Lydia called an estate agent. “I’d like to sell my cottage. Six acres in Kent, mains electricity.” The little country place she and her husband built over decades. The apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda—their family summers. A buyer emerged within a month. Lydia sighed as she signed the papers. The money came through and she methodically split it: flat repairs, a new savings account, a little for unexpected bills. By next week, builders were hard at work on her flat. Lydia chose everything: tiles, wallpaper, taps. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not “for a rainy day,” not for someone else’s need. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too. First he rang after the repairs finished. The kitchen gleamed, the windows no longer howled with drafts, and the pipes were fixed. “Mum, why aren’t you coming over? Sophie’s noticed.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Life, Max. My own life.” A week later, she visited. She brought books for the grandchildren—nice gifts, but not like before. Two hours over tea, chatting about the weather and Tim’s schoolwork. She turned down dinner. “Mum, could you take the kids Saturday? Anna and I—” “Not this week. I’ve got plans.” Lydia saw Max’s face fall, confused. He didn’t understand—not yet. But understanding was coming. With no “top-ups” from mum, the mortgage ate a third of the family’s budget. With no gran to mind the kids, there was no one to step in. Meanwhile, Lydia opened a new savings account at a decent rate. Bought a proper new coat—warm, good quality, not from the clearance rail. Spent a fortnight at a spa. Signed up for a Nordic walking group. She thought back to Anna’s parents. Always at arm’s length—polite greetings on birthdays, routine visits every couple of months. No cash, no help, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter. Maybe they were right all along? Visits with the grandchildren became formal. Lydia arrived, handed over modest gifts, chatted about friends, about school. She left after a few hours—no more overnight stays or weekend outings. One day, Tim asked: “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s got things to do nowadays, sweetheart.” He didn’t get it. But Max, standing in the doorway, was slowly beginning to. Lydia would come home to her immaculate, freshly painted flat. She’d brew a proper cup of tea, settle into a comfy chair paid for with the cottage sale. Guilt? It still nipped at her, in the small hours. But less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned a simple truth: love doesn’t mean endless giving—especially when no one notices or cares for the sacrifice. For the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood, she chose herself.

Everyone for Themselves

Mum, youve no idea what the property markets like right now, Matthew was nervously shuffling a stack of printouts, lining them up and then fanning them out again across the kitchen table. Prices are going up every week. If we dont put down the deposit now, someone else will snap up the flat from under us.

Lillian slid a mug of cooling tea towards her son and sat across from him. The papers were full of floorplans, numbers, repayment schedules. A three-bedroom in a new development finally, separate rooms for Timothy and Sophie.

How much are we short?
Eighty-two thousand pounds, Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose. I know its a lot. But Annies at her wits end, the kids are growing up and were still living out of boxes in rented places…

Lillian looked at her son and saw the little boy who used to bring her bunches of daisies. Thirty-two, two kids of his own, but that same crease between his brows as when hed worried about unfinished homework.

Ive savings. In the account.
Mum, I promise Ill pay it back. As soon as everything settles down, Ill start setting money aside.

She covered his hand with hers, fingers roughened from years of cooking and cleaning.

Matthew, this is for your children. Whats the use in talking about repayment? Family matters more than money.

At the bank, Lillian filled in the forms with the careful hand of someone whod worked as an accountant for thirty years. Eighty-two grand almost everything shed managed to put away over the years. For a rainy day, for just in case, for you never know.

Matthew hugged her tightly right at the counter, ignoring the queue behind.

Youre the best, you really are. I wont forget this.

Lillian patted his back.
Go on, Annie must be waiting.

…The first few months after the move blurred into an endless merry-go-round of trips across London. Lillian would arrive with bags from Tesco chicken, rice, butter, fromage frais for the children. Shed help Annie hang curtains, assemble flat-pack furniture, scrub building dust from the window ledges.

Timothy, careful with that hammer! shed shout, while stringing up curtains and explaining to her daughter-in-law how to make shepherds pie.

Annie would nod, half-listening, scrolling through her phone. Matthew would come home late from work, wolf down his mums food and vanish into the bedroom.

Thanks, Mum, hed toss over his shoulder. Honestly, what would we do without you?

…Six months later, his number flashed up again.

Mum, look, bit of an issue the mortgage payments landed at the same time as the car repairs. Were thirty-five hundred short this month.

Lillian transferred the money without asking questions. Its hard for the young ones, she understood that. New bills, little children, stressful jobs. Itll sort itself out theyll pay her back. Or not. Did it really matter, when family was at stake?

The years slipped by quicker than water through her fingers. Timothy turned seven, and Lillian gave him a Lego set the very one hed been begging for. Sophie spun around in a new dress, pale pink and sparkly, just like a princess shed seen on TV.

Granny, youre the best! Sophie squealed, clinging to her, smelling of baby shampoo and sweets.

Every weekend, Lillian took the grandchildren out to the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought them ice cream, toys, books. The pockets of her battered old coat bulged with sweets and wet wipes.

Five years slipped away in that generous, self-chosen treadmill. Mortgage money Mum, things are really tight this month. Sick days with the kids Mum, we cant get time off work. Shopping Mum, youll be at Sainsburys anyway

But the words thank you came less and less…

…That morning, she stared at the stains on her kitchen ceiling. Brown water marks were spreading fast. The upstairs flat had flooded her, and now her home was unlivable.

She called her son.

Matthew, I need help with the repairs. Ive been flooded heaven knows when Ill get compensation…
Mum, he cut in, you do realise Ive got completely different priorities at the moment. The kids have lessons, clubs, Annies started a course…
Im not asking for much. Just to help me find someone to do the repairs. Or at least…
I really havent got time, Mum. Especially not for things like this, Matthew repeated, as if he hadnt heard. Lets talk about this another time. Ill call you, alright?

Dial tone…

Lillian let her phone drop onto the table. On the screen was the wallpaper a photo from last Christmas. Her, Timothy, Sophie. All smiling.
That money hed borrowed without a second thought. Those weekends shed given up for his children. All that time, effort, and love that was before. Now? Different priorities.

A drip from the ceiling landed on her hand. Cold…

The next day, Annie rang. Rare enough to make Lillian uneasy before her daughter-in-law said a word.

Mrs. Parker, Matthew told me about your chat, Annies tone was sharp. You do understand everyone needs to sort out their own problems, dont you? We handle our own mortgage, our own flat…

Lillian nearly laughed. The mortgage shed paid off every third month. The deposit that was almost entirely her savings.

Of course, Annie, she replied evenly. Everyones responsible for themselves.
Glad we agree. Matthew was worried youd taken offence. You havent, have you?
No. Not at all.

Dial tone…

Lillian stared at her phone, as if it were some peculiar insect. She wandered to the window but quickly turned away there was nothing outside to bring comfort.

Nights became endless hours, the ceiling pressing down, her mind in a whirl. Lillian lay in the darkness, replaying the past five years like an old rosary.

Shed done this to herself. Shed raised her son to believe a mother was an inexhaustible resource.

In the morning, Lillian rang an estate agent.

Id like to put my cottage up for sale. Six-acre plot in Kent, electrics sorted.

The cottage she and her husband had spent twenty years building. The apple trees shed planted while expecting Matthew. The porch where theyd passed so many summer nights.

A buyer was found within a month. Lillian signed the papers, refusing to dwell on what she was letting go. The money came through, and she quickly divided it repairs for her flat, a new savings account, a small reserve for emergencies.

The builders came the next week. For the first time in years, she spent money on herself picking tiles, wallpaper, fittings. Not putting aside for a rainy day, not worrying about who might need help next.
Matthew didnt call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lillian stayed silent too.

He finally rang when the work was finished. Fresh, white kitchen, no more draughty windows, and pipes that at last behaved.

Mum, why havent you been over? Sophie was asking.
Ive been busy.
With what?
Living, Matthew. My own life.

She visited the following week. She brought the children books good gifts, but not lavish. Two hours over tea, making small talk about the weather and Timothys school. She declined to stay for supper.

Mum, could you look after the kids on Saturday? Annie and I have…
I cant. Ive got plans.

She saw his face drop. He didnt understand. Not yet, anyway.
Months passed. The truth dawned on him, slowly and painfully. Without his mothers handouts, the mortgage swallowed a third of their salary. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to help with the children.

Meanwhile, Lillian opened a new savings account. She bought herself a proper winter coat not from the January sales, either. She holidayed at a spa for a fortnight. Signed up for a walking group.
She recalled how Annies parents always kept their distance polite at Christmas, a dutiful visit every couple of months. No cheques, no favours, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter.

Perhaps, theyd been right all along?

Sporadic meetings with the grandchildren became just that: formal. Lillian would arrive, hand over modest gifts, chat about school and friends, leave within a couple of hours, never staying the night or extending an invitation for a sleepover.
One day Timothy asked:

Granny, how come you dont take us to the park anymore?
Grannys got things to do now, Timothy.

He didnt understand. But his father, standing in the hall, was finally starting to.
Lillian returned to her newly refurbished flat after every visit, where the air smelt of fresh paint and new furniture. Shed brew some good tea, settle into an armchair bought with the proceeds from selling the cottage.

Guilt? Yes, sometimes, in the small hours. But less and less. Because Lillian had finally learned a simple truth: love does not mean self-sacrifice, especially when nobody notices or values what you give up.

She chose herself. For the first time in thirty-two years of being a mother.