Dear Diary,
This morning the phone rang with a rather unsettling request. My son, Andrew, shouted through the line, Mum, weve got a problem. The landlady wants us out of the flat, and she needs it cleared ASAP. Sort the bedroom, make as much space as you can. Well be there with the whole family this evening. I could hear the panic in his voice.
I was taken aback. You cant just evict someone in winter without a proper tenancy agreement, I replied, trying to keep my composure. At the very least they should be given some time to find somewhere else. Andrews reply was clipped: They wont give us any time. Natalie had a row with the landlady yesterday, and thats why this is happening.
I sighed. Natalie needs to learn to keep her mouth shut and treat people with a modicum of respect. Andrew muttered, Mum, dont start on that! The mood was already sour. He reminded me again to sort the room, as theyd be arriving with boxes later.
The brief buzzing on the line left me standing, bewildered, on the kitchen floor. Yesterday had been a marathon at work: two new clerks started, my supervisor insisted I show them everything, and I had to pull together two reports for senior management on top of a mountain of other tasks. By evening I was practically crawling home, exhausted.
I had big plans for the weekend. Saturday I wanted to sleep in, then wander through the park in the afternoon. Sunday Id meet my old friend Emma for a bit of shopping. And thenwhat now?
My tiny twobedroom flat suddenly seemed incapable of housing four people: me, Andrew, his wife Natalie, and my sevenyearold grandson Oliver. All those weekend ambitions crumbled to dust. First I had to clear out Andrews old bedroom, shuffle a few pieces of furniture, then dash to the offlicence for groceries and cook an evening meal.
The prospect of this chaotic scramble brought me no joy. It wasnt that I disliked my son or my grandson; it was the strained relationship with Natalie that made every encounter feel like walking on thin ice. I always tried to be courteous to her, to keep the peace for Andrews sake, and to avoid the flareups that seemed to erupt at regular intervals.
Even with my plans in tatters, I set to work. I tidied the flat, then went to the supermarket and prepared dinner. By the time Andrew arrived with his family, the house hummed with noise and laughter. I retreated early to my bedroom. Andrew and Natalie lingered at the table while Oliver stared at cartoons.
Good night, then, I said, stepping away from the kitchen. Youll clear the table yourselves, wont you, Nat? Natalie murmured without looking up from her phone.
The muffled sounds of chuckles and footfalls drifted past my closed door, but I pretended not to hear. I convinced myself the visit was only temporary; theyd need somewhere to crash for the night. Yet it was Natalies own stubbornness that had brought the whole family into my home. Id repeatedly urged her to learn compromise and respect, but she either brushed me off or ignited a fresh argument.
The next morning the alarm dragged me to the kitchen, where a scene of disarray greeted me: halffilled tea cups, a mountain of candy wrappers, apple cores strewn about, and a sink piled high with unwashed dishes.
Andrew shuffled in, blearyeyed, Mum, whats for breakfast? I replied, Make yourself a sandwich and brew a cup of tea. Im only having coffee. He groaned, Im stuck in traffic; a sandwich wont fill me. I snapped, Then blame your wife. Let her stop twiddling in the bathroom for forty minutes and make you something.
Before I could finish, Natalie appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes. I knew it. Margaret, its half past seven and youre already complaining, she said.
Im not complaining, Natalie, I retorted, Im just speaking to Andrew. Could you at least make him a breakfast? I cant be the one washing dishes forever, nor cooking every meal. Please look after yourselves.
She gave a halfhearted yeah and turned back to her phone.
The following five days were a tense blur. I held back as best I could, hoping that within a week Andrew would sort out his housing and I could return to a semblance of normal life. Friday night brought no sign of them moving out. Saturday morning they slept in, as if they had never left. By lunchtime Andrew finally emerged from his room, and it was clear there were no moving plans.
On Sunday I asked him straight: Andy, have you found a place? He shrugged, Ive been looking. Everythings either too pricey or too far. Well probably stay here another week. I replied, resigned, Fine, stay as long as you like. I couldnt simply throw him out; Id rather endure the inconvenience than spark a fullblown feud.
Weeks slipped by without any progress. Instead of packing, they settled in as if the flat were theirs. Natalie made no effort to share the choresshed dump dirty plates in the sink and retreat to the sofa, leaving me to wash, iron, cook, and tidy all weekend.
Nat, Im off to the shop; could you please mop the floor? I asked. She snapped, Margaret, youre the one who runs this house. Ill do something later, maybe tomorrow. I tried to reason, You live here too, you know. She shouted, Stop nagging me! Ive got a headache! I exclaimed, This is absurd! She shot back, Exactly, you caused it! I let the argument die and went on with my errands, then settled with a cup of tea and a brief rest.
Later, the constant thumping woke meOliver was playing ball inside. Oliver, you need to play outside; its getting late and the neighbours can hear, I warned. He protested, But Mum, they wont take us out. I just want to play. I told him to stop. Andrew intervened, Andy, tell him to quit. Before he could speak, Natalie interjected, Youve been picking on us all morning, now youre attacking my child! What do you want, to kick us out? I said calmly, If you cant respect my house rules, perhaps you should find somewhere else to live. The room fell silent.
Natalie suddenly declared, Were moving to the next town and staying with my parents while Andy looks for a place! She burst into tears, clutching her bag, insisting she was pregnant and couldnt handle the stress. I felt a pang of sympathy, though Id never been aware of her condition.
In the end, three days later Andrew secured a new flat and, with his family, moved out of my flat. I took a weeks leave, gave the place a thorough spring clean, and slowly fell back into my own rhythm. Yet a lingering sourness remained.
Our communication is now thin and strained. I learned about the birth of my granddaughter from acquaintances rather than directly from my son. Its awkward, but what can I do? Ive resigned myself to living for myself. Twice a year I retreat to a spa resort, send birthday money to the grandchildren, and receive birthday calls from Andrewalways over the phone.
No holiday retreat or personal space can replace the warmth of a genuine family connection, but happiness must first reside within oneself before it can be shared. Thats the conclusion Ive reached, and I have no regrets about the choices I made. Should Natalie decide to reach out, that decision lies entirely with her, and Ill bear whatever consequence that brings.
