I fell pregnant at sixteen, still studying at school. In our small English village, it caused rather a scandal. Neighbours would point and whisper, and my parents hardly knew where to put themselves from the shame. My father wouldn’t even look at me.
It wouldve been better if youd died than brought us such disgrace! Off you go to your gransI cant bear this any longer.
So I went to stay with my grandmother in the next village over, at the edge of town in her old, drafty cottage. It was cold and dreary, but I bore it as best I could. The hardest part were the last few months of pregnancy: there was no one to help, no one to comfort or look after me. When the time finally came, the ambulance barely made it in time. But somehow I managed, I gave birth and I raised my son in that rickety old cottage of Grans.
Everyone insisted it was high time I found a husband, but I didnt want that. I worked whatever jobs I could and lived entirely for my boy, Thomas. When he grew up and left for university, I finally decided to work abroad in Italy, just as many from our region did.
I never wanted to leave earlier, as I simply couldnt bear to leave my child behind. Yet working abroad, compared with the hardship of rural life, truly felt like a dream. I cared for an elderly lady who treated me with kindness and often pressed an extra hundred or two hundred euros into my hand as a token of gratitude. Thanks to this, within several years I was able to buy Thomas his own small flat and provide for him.
Still, money changed Thomas. He stopped visiting his grandmother, which troubled me, but I continued to send him £500 every month, putting aside the rest towards a place of my ownI had no intention of moving back to that tumbling old cottage. The years rolled by, and then Thomas decided to marry. Of course, I paid for the wedding and helped them buy what they needed. I thought, finally, I might start saving for myself.
But within five years theyd had two children, and just as the world began to change with the war, my daughter-in-law fell pregnant with their third. I continued to help out financially all the same. Even so, I managed to save up £20,000 for a flat. A good friend was selling a well-kept one-bedroom with new fixtures, and we agreed on the sale.
That summer, I returned home to settle things with the solicitor, when Thomas sprung news on me.
Mum, we sold the flat and put a deposit down on a house. Now you need to give us the money for the next payment.
What money? I asked. Eighteen thousand pounds, he said.
Are you out of your mind? Im about to buy my own flat.
Mum, you cant! Weve movedthree kids in a single room is madness. I was counting on you.
And why didnt you save a little yourself? Or at least warn me! No, youll have to sort it yourselfIve made arrangements. Ill help a bit later on, but I cant give the full sum.
Mum, dont you care how your grandchildren live?
Of course I care. I sent you £500 each monthyou could have saved yourselves by now.
Youll easily make enough for a place in a few years. Why bother now? Youll only be going back to Italy, wont you?
But what if something happens and I have to return suddenlyor if Im taken ill? Where will I even stay?
You can live at Grans in the village!
In that case, why dont you take the children and go live with her then?
I stood my ground and refused to hand over the money. I couldnt afford to lose the flat Id spent years saving for. Thomas was dreadfully upset and stopped speaking to me altogether. I heard he borrowed from anyone whod lend him a penny. But was I truly obliged to keep giving, again and again? How much is one person meant to sacrifice?
