I still recall the weeks when my niece, Blythe, turned up at my flat in Cambridge, only to leave feeling slighted because I hadnt set a proper meal out for her.
My sister, Margaret, lives up in York, while Ive been making a living in Cambridge for years. Her daughter has long dreamed of studying at the university here, where shell soon move into a college hall. Before the term begins she came down for a couple of weeks perhaps to sit an exam, perhaps simply to sort her paperwork in person. I never bothered with the particulars; I only knew that a preuniversity visit was perfectly ordinary. Margaret and I agreed that Blythe would lodge with me for the short stay.
We never spoke about who should provide the meals. When her mother, Eleanor, kept quiet on the subject, the two of them simply expected the other to sort it out. One afternoon I found Blythe sulking on the sofa, arms folded. I asked what was the matter, and she replied that she had expected a warm lunch from me. In a flash I snapped, Im not going to feed you, and Ill be keeping to my own schedule. I have to get out now! Call your mum and have her transfer some cash onto your account, then go buy some biscuits, a few rolls and a cuppa. The teas gone, you know! Youre eighteen now, not a child.
Eleanor hadnt spoken to me in ages; she never learned that once my children had flown the nest, my husband vanished to some unknown job, and I threw myself into work. My days have been a relentless grind, my presence at home irregular, my energy for domestic chores all but spent. A proper nights sleep is a luxury I can only dream of.
I have no intention of sacrificing anything for a guest. It is, of course, pleasant to see Blythe againshes grown into a graceful young womanbut I am no longer the carefree Aunt Lucy who once could whip up a feast in the blink of an eye, sparing no time or effort. I expect her to buy her own groceries, chop, boil, fry or steam as she wishes. Better still, perhaps she should pick up something readymade, so she wont end up wrecking my stove or my flat.
Thus she fell into a quiet resentment, sulking each day, apparently hoping for a full board and a mothers handout. Maybe things will settle eventually. It is hard to drop the role of the everready, accommodating aunt overnight; after all, Ive spent years maintaining gentle, supportive relations with everyone in my close circle. Even now I am still pleasant enough to offer a free bed, albeit without the extra comforts. I even saw a therapist for advice on how to explain, with kindness, that I am no longer as functional as I once was. She told me to make it clear that people should expect less from me now.
