I have often thought back to those years when I, Margaret, finally felt I could breathe after a lifetime of sacrifice. It was the early 1970s, and my world had been turned upside down by a bitter divorce. For fifteen long years I raised my two daughters alone, toiling at two jobs, denying myself any pleasure. Then, five years earlier, I met Michael, a steady, dependable man who accepted me with all my baggage and never asked for the impossible.
My daughters grew up, went to university, and each managed to acquire a home of their own. My eldest, Kate, and Michael bought a modest onebed flat in north London; my younger daughter, Lucy, secured a studio in a new development down the Thames. I finally landed a respectable post at a publishing house, signed up for Italian lessons, and began setting aside a modest sum of pounds each month for the dream of a trip to Italy a lifelong wish.
But Kate, at twentythree, married a stranger she barely knew and, six months later, gave birth. I had warned her against such haste, yet she ignored me. Her husband proved unreliable, earning a wage here and there, and the household income came in sporadically. Kate was torn between caring for her baby and taking any odd job she could find, struggling to keep the household afloat. From that moment my phone rang incessantly with her pleas.
One evening I pressed my forehead against the cool kitchen window, exhausted by the constant demand to sacrifice myself. Kate hinted that moving back in with us would make things easier for everyone, especially with the child. I refused, saying I had my own life, my work, my plans. She sobbed into the receiver, lamenting the loss of her youth.
A week later Lucy, barely twenty, announced she was pregnant. The father was a courier she had dated for only three months, living in a shared house with little prospect of a steady future. She burst into the sitting room, beaming, and exclaimed, Mum, youll see, Victor and I are going to be parents! Well have a little one!
I stared at her, feeling the familiar irritation rise. Lucy, have you and Victor thought about how youll raise a child? Where will you live? How will you afford everything? I asked calmly.
Lucy fidgeted with the edge of her cardigan. Well, Victor has a spare room for now Well figure something out. Youll help us, wont you? Well need your support.
I set my tea cup down more firmly than intended. No, Lucy. You have the right to have a child, and I dont object to that. But I will not fund a young family. Ive already bought you a flat and given you all I could. Now you must manage on your own.
Tears welled in Lucys eyes. How can you say that? Youre heartless! Im your daughter, and that child will be your grandchild!
I replied, Im merely telling you the truth. Youre both adults. Youve finished university, Victor works. If youve decided to have a baby, you must bear the responsibility yourselves. My obligations are fulfilled. I have my own life and my own plans.
What plans? Nothing is more important than family! How can you have plans when your daughters are in trouble? she shouted, grabbing her bag and storming out. Kate followed, her voice shaking with accusation, calling me selfish.
The family group chat exploded with accusations of egoism and coldness. Kate sent long messages about how hard it was for her, how a mother should help, while Lucy added that she never imagined her mother could be so indifferent.
Michael tried to soothe me each night, wrapping his arms around me, but the tension only grew. Kate began dropping by unannounced, pushing a pram through the hallway and leaving a hurried note: Mum, Ill be back in a couple of hours, look after Max.
I tried to protest, but Kate was already descending the stairs. Michael frowned but said nothing. Lucy called, tears streaming, pleading for moral support, complaining that Victor didnt understand her, that there was no money, that she was at a loss.
I felt cornered, as if I were an endless well from which they could draw forever.
One quiet Saturday evening, Michael and I were preparing to watch a film and discuss the details of our Italian trip. A sharp knock at the door interrupted us. Michael opened it to find Kate, luggage in hand and Max cradled in her arms, with Lucy trailing behind, eyes red from crying.
Were moving back in for a while, Kate announced without preamble, dragging her suitcase inside. Sergey will bring the rest of our things tonight. Well rent out my flat to bring in some income, so we can spend more time with Max while I work.
What? I stammered. Kate, we never discussed this.
Whats there to discuss? Youre my mother; youre supposed to help, she snapped.
Lucy squeezed through after her, sniffling, Mum, I need money for a cot. We have nothing. Victor barely earns, and I cant stay on maternity leave forever. I need to work.
Something inside me snapped. All the fatigue, irritation, and hurt of the past months burst forth.
No, I said sharply, stepping forward. Kate, go back to your own home. Lucy, there will be no money. Thats it.
Both daughters froze, staring at me.
Youre serious? Kate whispered, cradling a nowcrying Max. Are you really going to send us away?
Absolutely, I crossed my arms. I raised you, gave you education, bought you flats. Now spread your wings and build your own nests. Dont hang my name on yours any longer.
How can you say that? Lucy shrieked. Were your daughters! Your blood!
I can because Im speaking the truth. Youre adults, you chose your partners and when to have children. I warned you, I advised you, and you ignored me. The responsibility is yours.
Kate shifted Max to her other arm, eyes narrowed. Youre throwing us out? My child onto the street?
Im not throwing you out. You have a house, I replied. And you have a husband, Kate. Deal with your own problems.
Youre a cold, selfish woman! Lucy cried, stamping a foot. We mean nothing to you! All you think of is Italy!
Yes, Italy is on my mind, I said calmly. My plans, my life. I spent twenty years living for you. What more do you want? To be a nanny until my grave?
The sisters exchanged glances, then Kate seized her suitcase and headed for the door. Lucy followed, their voices echoing down the stairs, tones laced with resentment.
For a week there was no call, no message. Michael told me I had done the right thing. Yet a knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. Was I too harsh? Was I right?
Later I learned that Kate had indeed sold her flat and moved in with her husbands parents, confined to a cramped twobedroom where every small task was scrutinised, the motherinlaw dictating how the baby should be raised. The fatherinlaw muttered that the younger generation was lazy and useless.
Lucys fate emerged from a neighbours gossip. She had been seen sobbing on the steps outside the block. Victor, frightened by responsibility, vanished, taking only his few belongings. Lucy was left alone, pregnant, penniless.
I stood in my kitchen, torn between compassion for my daughters and the firm resolve not to intervene. I had given them a solid start; how they used it was no longer my concern.
Soon the phones rang again. Kate complained of her motherinlaw, cried that she could no longer bear it. Lucy wailed that she was utterly alone, unable to manage. I listened, felt sympathy, but offered no assistanceonly advice.
But the advice wasnt what they wanted. They wanted a mother who would solve all their problems, who would open her home, who would hand over money. I refused each time.
With Michael, I finally booked our tickets to Italya threeweek journey we had postponed countless times. Before leaving, I called my daughters, calm as ever.
Are you serious, Mum? Kate asked, bewildered. What about us?
Youre adults, I replied, eyeing the suitcase by the door. When you learn to solve your own problems and stop treating me as a freestanding nanny and cash source, we can speak as equals. Until then, grow up.
Youre abandoning us? Kate whispered. What are we to do?
Im not abandoning you. You have the right to make mistakes. I have the right not to pay for them. I will always be your mother, but Im not obliged to sacrifice myself for adult children and their illthoughtout choices.
Michael waited by the car. I descended the steps, slid into the passenger seat, and inhaled deeply. I decided then that I would no longer be haunted by guilt. I had given my children education, shelter, love. I had offered counsel; they had not heeded it. My mission was complete. It was time to think of myself.
I imagined the narrow cobblestone streets of Rome, the Florentine galleries, the Venetian canals. I pictured the freedom I had earned. Everything felt wonderfully possible once more.
