**Diary Entry 12th October**
Blood isnt always thicker than water. That lesson hit me hard yesterday when Mum called.
“Daughter, Ive been thinking Why do you need three bedrooms? Ones enough, isnt it? Little Sophie sleeps with you anyway.”
At first, I didnt grasp what she meant. Thought she wanted to dump another one of her “treasures” on ussome scuffed armchair or dusty sideboard cluttering up her place.
“Well yes, were not using the other rooms,” I admitted cautiously.
“Exactly! So Ive decided to rent them out. Quiet tenants, respectable sorts. No point letting good space go to waste. You understand, dont you? I let you stay there, and now Im barely scraping by.”
My stomach dropped. Strangers in our homenoise, chaos, random guestswith a three-month-old baby? It mightve been fine, but why gamble with my daughters safety?
“Mum what tenants? I have a child! I dont want strangers in the house.”
“Oh, please. You grew up in a shared flat and turned out fine,” she scoffed. “Ive been generoushardly charging you anything while you save. What am *I* supposed to do? Live on air?”
I clenched my teeth. Betrayal. Shed never rent out her *own* flat, but ours? No hesitation.
Forcing calm, I said, “If its that important fine. Well pay you for this month. Then well figure something out.”
I expected her to back downsay she couldnt take money from her own daughter, especially now. But
“Good. Ill charge you family rates£500,” she said, magnanimous. “Just give me two weeks notice if you leave. And youll need to show the flat to the next tenants. No gaps in rent.”
“Fine,” I hissed, hanging up.
The bank app made it official. As I hit *Send*, our relationship turned transactional.
—
Mums always been like this. Skilful at twisting things her wayjust never so brutally.
At ten, I learned my godmother sent lavish gifts yearlyplush ponies, robot dogs, fancy dollswhile Mum passed them off as her own. I was hurt, but not deeply. My godmother, though, stopped trusting her and sent gifts through Gran instead.
Then there was Aunt Lydia, who only needed a week in town for paperwork. Shed booked a hotel, but Mum insisted: “Why stay in some dodgy place? Come to us. Well manage.”
Aunt Lydia, ever conscientious, stocked our fridge. “Our groceries, your cooking,” she joked. “Well be out all day anywayshowing Emily the sights.”
They were no trouble. Yet on day three, Mum announced: “Lydia, Ive overestimated myself. Maybe call that hotel?”
Aunt Lydia never spoke to us again.
Back then, I believed Mum was just tired. Now I see: she wanted free food. Got it, then kicked them out.
Id been collateral beforeteachers side-eyeing me because Mum refused school donations, birthday invites revoked (“Who knows what those parents are like?”). Really, gifts were the issue. But this? This was different.
—
James and I met at school. Best friends first, then more. He gave up his dreammedical school abroadbecause I wouldnt follow. We studied psychology instead: me, a school counsellor; him, HR. Married, saving for a house. Kids? Later.
Then life laughed. A positive test.
James squeezed my hand. “Your choice.” He wanted the baby but knew the timing was dire.
Enter Mum. “Dont overthink it! God sends the babe, hell send the bread. Stay in my second flatGrans old place. Save up. And dont you dare terminate! What if you cant conceive later?”
Her “generosity” swayed us. A mother helping her struggling daughterhow noble. Until it wasnt.
Now, I braced for worse. Would she demand more money? Move in mates? Nothing would surprise me.
That night, James held me as I cried. “Ill fix this. Faster than a month.”
And he did.
Days later, at his mums, Margaret took my hand. “James told me. Dont fretIll help with the deposit.” Her voice was quiet, no fanfare. Just warmth. I broke down. The contrastmy mother squeezing us dry, his offering a lifelinewas staggering.
We moved in with Margaret temporarily. I left Mums keys in the mailbox.
“You didnt come up?” she texted.
“Was it not obvious?”
“You chose to leave. No one forced you. Youre the one who took offence.”
I cut contact. Between paperwork, freelancing, and a shoestring renovation, I had no energy for her. Hard? Yes. But for the first time, I felt part of something realJames, Sophie, Margaret. Family isnt always blood. Sometimes its the ones who dont let you drown.
