Oh, youll never believe what happened to my friend Margarethonestly, its one of those stories that makes you rethink family. Right, so Margarets sixty-seven, a retired schoolteacher from York, widowed but still sharp as a tack. Shed always been proper thrifty, saving every quid she could after her husband passed, all for her son, Oliver. Raised him single-handedly, worked herself to the bone so hed never want for anything.
Well, three weeks back, her lease in Leeds ended, and Oliver and his wife, Charlotte, offered to let her stay with them in their little place in Bath. Margaret thought itd be lovelyhelp with the chores, maybe babysit their terrier, Winston, while they were at work. She even made shepherds pie every Sunday, proper traditional, the way Oliver used to love as a boy.
But then Charlotte started with these little digs, you know? Blimey, Margaret, youve left the telly on again, or Must you hover while Im cooking? At first, Margaret laughed it off, didnt want to make a fuss. But then one night, Charlotte outright said, You cant just freeload here, you know. This isnt a bed and breakfast.
Margaret nearly dropped the gravy boat. She looked at Oliver, waiting for him to say somethinganything. But he just scrolled through his phone like she wasnt even there.
Next morning, she found her bags packed by the door, her late husbands photo tucked between her jumpers. Charlotte wouldnt even look at her. Oliver mumbled something about needing space. Margaret, bless her, kept her chin up, called a cab, and left without a scene.
But heres the kickershed been saving for *years*. Not just pennies, mind you. Enough to outright *buy* their house as a surprise, so theyd never worry about rent again. Shed dreamed of their faces when she handed them the deed.
Instead, she rang Oliver from her hotel in Brighton. I was going to buy your house, she said, calm as you like. But since youve made it clear Im not welcome, Ill be spending that money on myself. Perhaps a river cruise down the Thames, then off to the Cotswolds. Maybe even Italy.
Dead silence. Then Oliver started blubbering, Mum, please, Charlotte pushed me into it But Margaret cut him off. Love doesnt mean letting someone treat you like rubbish, Ollie.
Now? Shes booked a month in Cornwall, then a proper holiday in Spain. Still gets texts from Oliverapologies, guilt trips, the lot. She hasnt replied.
Last I heard, shed written in her diary: *Family isnt just shared blood. Its shared respect. And if thats gone, youve every right to walk away.*
Honestly? Good for her. Sixty-seven and finally putting herself first. Makes you think, doesnt it? Sometimes the people youd bleed for are the ones who leave you out in the cold. But lifes too short to waste on folks who dont know your worth.
(And between us? I reckon shell have a far better time sipping sherry in Seville than she ever wouldve done folding Olivers pants.)
