Why did I let my son and his wife move in with me? Even now, Im not sure.
Im Margaret Whitmore, living in my two-bedroom flat in a quiet corner of Oxfordshire. At sixty-three, Im a widow, my pension modest but enough to get by. When my son, Henry, married two years ago, I was overjoyed, as any mother would be. Hes youngonly thirty-oneand his wife, Eleanor, is a few years younger. They said their vows, tied the knot, but had nowhere of their own to live. Mum, they said, well stay with you just a little while. Save up for a mortgage deposit, then well be off.
Like a fool, I was delightedI imagined grandchildren to dote on. So I let them stay. Now, I dont know how to undo it. That little while has stretched two years, and none of us are better for it.
At first, I kept to myself. They were newlyweds, finding their way. I didnt interferecooked their meals, did their washing, kept the house tidy. Then Eleanor fell pregnant. Too soon, I thought, but if it was Gods will, so be it. My grandson, Oliver, arriveda sweet boy. But with him came the end of any savings. Everyone knows how costly a child isnappies, formula, baby foodall dear, and Eleanor would accept nothing but the finest, freshest, imported brands.
I dont mind helping. But Im not their servant. Still, I became nanny, cook, and housemaid rolled into one. The young mother was exhausted, claimed, Oliver kept her awake. So shed lie in bed till noon, glued to her phone while the child sat in his playpen. The telly blared, lunch was readymade by methe floors scrubbed, the baby bathed. And Eleanor? Still worn out.
And Henry? Off to work hed go, returning silent, shoulders hunched. If I tried to speak, hed brush me off. Dont interfere, Mum. Meanwhile, Eleanor acted as if the flat were hers. A word from me, and shed answer with threesharp as knives. Then Henry would accuse me of bullying his wife. Bullying! Me, whod done nothing but help!
I dont know what to do. I tell Henry, Find a place to rent. Im tired. He says, Weve no money, Mum. I suggested downsizingId take a small studio, they could save for their own home, live as proper grown-ups. Id help with Oliver when I could. But Henry just nods, and nothing changes.
I know theyre young, lifes hard. But Im not made of steel. My blood pressures up, my joints ache, I dont sleep. Yet if they need mehospital visits, injections, minding OliverI run to help. And if I say Im weary, they look at me as though Ive betrayed them.
Recently, it boiled over. I woke early, cleaned the kitchen, made Olivers porridgesame as always. Eleanor stormed in. Whyd you make that again? I told you, I want the packet kind! I lost my temper. Said I was a grandmother, not a kitchen drudge. That they ought to stand on their own feet. She cried, Henry took her side, they slammed the door and left. An hour later, they slunk back, not a word of apology.
Now I wake each morning and wonder: why did I let this happen? Why didnt I put my foot down sooner? Because Im his mother, I suppose. Because I love him. And more and more, I catch myself thinkingI love him, but Im worn to the bone. Some nights, swallowing my blood pressure pills, I wonderis it time to tell them to go? Itll break my heart, but at least Ill keep my sanity.
Tell meam I the only fool here? Or are there others my age, trapped just the same?
