Mom, Im not applying for a job as a maid, I heard on the phone as I answered my sons earlymorning call.
Mother, weve got a problem. The landlady wants us to vacate the flat immediately. Sort out my room and clear as much space as you can. Were coming over today with the whole family.
The news hit me like a bolt. You cant just throw tenants out in the middle of winter, especially without a proper tenancy agreement, I blurted, caught off guard.
My mum wont give us any time. Poppy had a row with the landlady yesterday, and shes still fuming, my son, Andrew, replied irritably.
Ah, so that explains it. Poppy needs to learn to keep her mouth shut and treat people with a modicum of respect, I muttered.
Dont start, Mum! Bottom line: clean the room, well be there this evening with our things, Andrew snapped before hanging up.
I heard the brief buzzing of the line and sank onto the floor, bewildered. Yesterday had been a nightmare at work: two new hires arrived, my boss insisted I show them everything, I had to draft two reports for senior management, and a mountain of other tasks. By evening I was dragging myself home, exhausted.
I had big plans for the weekend. Saturday was meant for a liein and a stroll in the park; Sunday was set for a coffee with a friend and a shopping trip. Now everything was in tatters.
How could four people possibly fit into my tiny twobedroom flat? Me, my son, his wife Poppy, and my sevenyearold grandson Oliver. The grand weekend plans evaporated. I had to clear out Andrews former room, rearrange a few things, then head to the supermarket and cook dinner before nightfall.
The prospect made me miserable. It wasnt that I didnt love my son or my grandson. My relationship with Poppy had always been strained, and I didnt want another clash. I always tried to treat her with courtesy, to keep Andrew from taking sides, and to avoid the periodic fireworks that erupted in our household.
Despite the ruined plans and sour mood, I set to work. After tidying, I went to the shop and prepared a modest dinner.
By evening everything was ready. When Andrew arrived with his family, the flat buzzed with noise and laughter. I slipped early into my own bedroom. Andrew and Poppy lingered at the table while Oliver watched cartoons.
Good night, then. Youll clear the table yourselves, right, Poppy? I said, heading out of the kitchen.
Yeah, Poppy mumbled, eyes glued to her phone.
Through halfasleep, I heard chuckles and footfalls, but I tried to ignore them. I genuinely believed the family would stay only briefly, just a nighttonight stopover while they sorted a new place. The mess Poppy created was of her own making. Id repeatedly told her that people need to negotiate and show respect, yet she either brushed me off or sparked a fresh argument.
The next morning the alarm jolted me awake. In the kitchen lay halfempty tea cups, a pile of candy wrappers, and apple cores. In the sink waited a mountain of unwashed dishes.
Mom, whats for breakfast? Andrew shouted, still in his car, his voice muffled by traffic.
Make yourself a sandwich and a cup of tea. Im only having coffee, I replied.
Mom, Im stuck in a jam. One sandwich wont keep me alive.
Then the blame falls on your wife. She should spend less time in the bathroom and whip up a proper breakfast for her husband. I didnt sign up to be a maid, yet Im late for work because I have to wash your dishes. You didnt think to clean up yesterday.
Before I could finish, Poppy appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
I knew it. Its half eight, and youre already grumbling.
Im not grumbling, Poppy, Im talking to Andrew. Could you at least make him breakfast? I cant keep washing dishes and cooking for you all the time. Please look after yourselves.
Sure, she said, still glued to her phone.
The following five days were tense. I held my tongue as best I could, hoping that within a week Andrew would resolve the housing issue and I could return to a normal weekend.
Friday night brought no sign of a move. I guessed Andrew simply didnt want to drag me into his affairs. Saturday morning they slept in, as if dead. By lunchtime Andrew emerged from his room, and I realized no relocation was in sight.
On Sunday I asked him straight:
Andrew, have you found a flat?
Been looking. Everythings either too pricey or too far. Well probably stay with you another week.
Fine, stay then, I said, resigned. I couldnt kick my son and his family out; I would just endure another week. Anything was better than another argument.
But nothing changed. A week later they were still there, looking more settled than ever. Poppy barely lifted a finger at home. She tossed dirty dishes into the sink and collapsed onto the sofa. She tossed clothes into a basket, leaving me to wash, iron, cook, and clean all weekend.
Poppy, Im heading to the shop. Could you wash the floors, please?
Margaret, youre the lady of the house. Ill do something else later maybe tomorrow.
Im the lady of the house, but you live here too, you know.
Whats your problem with me? Ive got a headache!
Thats downright rude! I snapped.
Thats exactly why youre doing it! she shot back.
I didnt press the fight further. I went to the shop, did the mopping, then sat down for a cup of tea and tried to relax.
A sudden thump woke me Oliver was bouncing a ball inside.
Oliver, you should play outside, not in the flat. Its evening and the neighbours can hear, I warned.
But Grandma, Mum and Dad wont take me out. I want to play now, he panted, still dribbling.
Stop it, I ordered.
Andrew stepped out of the living room.
Andrew, tell Oliver to stop.
He always plays inside Andrew began, but Poppy cut in.
Thats exactly it! Youve been nagging me all morning, now youre picking on the child. What, you want us out? she shouted.
If you wont follow my house rules, perhaps you should find somewhere else to live, I said quietly.
A heavy silence fell.
Fine! Youre kicking us out! By the way, Im pregnant, and I cant be stressed! Poppy wailed, retreating to her room.
Mom, she really is pregnant Andrew whispered.
I didnt know, but Im not asking for miracles. I just want my own home.
That evening Poppy packed a suitcase and announced they would move to the neighbouring town to stay with her parents while Andrew continued his search.
I felt a pang of worry, having tried to reason with her, but she remained stubborn, theatrically crying, sniffling, and refusing any compromise.
Three days later Andrew finally secured a flat and moved out with his family. I gave the flat a thorough deepclean, took a weeks holiday, and life settled back into its usual rhythm. The sour aftertaste lingered, though.
Our contact grew thin; I learned about the birth of my granddaughter only from acquaintances. It was awkward, a family rift that left a quiet ache.
Now I live for myself. I visit a seaside resort twice a year, send money to the grandchildren on their birthdays, and receive birthday calls from Andrew always over the phone.
A spa and personal space can never replace the warmth of holding my grandchildren, but you can only give happiness to others when you are truly happy yourself. Thats the lesson Ive learned: contentment within is the foundation for any healthy relationship, and sometimes stepping back lets both sides find peace.
