I remember how, many years ago, I found myself caught in the relentless tugofwar between my own needs and the expectations of my two daughters.My name was Grace Whitmore, a fiftytwoyearold widow living in a modest terraced house in Birmingham. It seemed that only now, after the bitter sting of a long divorce, could I finally exhale.
For fifteen years I had shouldered the care of my children while working double shifts at a factory and a department store. I denied myself any pleasure, convinced that sacrifice was the only way to keep the roof over our heads. Five years earlier a dependable man named James Hart entered my life. He accepted my past, my debts, and my exhausted spirit without demanding miracles, and together we began to rebuild.
Both Emily and Poppy grew up, finished school, and each bought a home of their own. Emily and James helped her purchase a modest onebedroom flat in Manchester, while Poppy secured a studio in a new development in Leeds. Meanwhile, I finally landed a respectable post as an editor at a regional publishing house, enrolled in an evening Italian class, and started setting aside a modest sum each month for a longdreamedof trip to Rome.
Emily, at twentythree, married a man she barely knew and, six months later, welcomed a baby boy called Max. I had warned her against such haste, but she brushed my words aside. Her husband turned out to be an unreliable fellow, earning money sporadically; Emily was left torn between caring for an infant and scrambling for odd jobs to keep the household afloat. From that moment on my phone rang incessantly with her pleas.
It wore on me to constantly be called upon, as if my own life was a wellsprung reservoir from which they could draw forever. Emily hinted that moving back in with us would make things easier for everyone, especially the child. I refused, explaining that I, too, had plans, a job, and a future I wished to live. She cried into the handset, bemoaning the loss of her youth.
A week later the news grew still more startling. Poppy, twentytwo and freshly graduated from university, announced she was pregnant. The father was Tom, a courier she had been dating for only three months, living in a shared flat with no steady income. She burst into the living room, eyes shining with the naïve optimism of someone who believed a child would solve everything.
Mother, can you imagine? Tom and I are going to be parents! Well have a little onehow wonderful! she exclaimed, flopping onto the sofa.
I watched her, feeling a familiar rise of irritation. Poppy, have you thought about how youll raise a child? Where will you live? A studio is hardly suitable for a baby, and what will you buy for the nursery? I asked calmly.
She fidgeted with the edge of her cardigan. Well, Tom has a spare room well figure something out. Youll help us, wont you? Well need your support.
I placed my tea cup on the table a fraction of a second too sharply. No, Poppy. You have the right to become a mother, but I am not prepared to finance a young family. The flat I bought for you is yours; everything I could give you, Ive already given. Now you must manage on your own.
Her eyes welled up. How can you say that? Youre heartless! Im your daughter, and the child will be your grandson!
I answered, Thats precisely why I speak plainly. You are adults now. You finished university; Tom works. If you decided to have a child, you must also shoulder the responsibility. I have fulfilled my part. I have my own life, my own plans.
The argument escalated until both daughters stormed out, their voices echoing through the hallway. The family group chat soon filled with accusations of selfishness and coldness. Emily wrote long messages about how hard it was for her, insisting a mother should be a saintly caregiver; Poppy echoed with tears, claiming she never expected such indifference.
James tried to soothe me in the evenings, holding my hand and offering quiet reassurances, but the strain grew. Emily began turning up unannounced with Max, pushing the pram through the front door and leaving a note: Mum, Ill be back in a couple of hours. Look after Max. I attempted to object, but she was already descending the stairs. James frowned, but said nothing. Poppy called in sobs, begging for moral support, lamenting Toms lack of understanding and the emptiness of their purse.
I felt cornered, as if I were a bottomless well from which they expected an endless flow. One quiet Saturday evening, James and I had planned to watch a film and discuss the final arrangements for our Italian journey. A sharp knock interrupted us.
James opened the door to find Emily standing there, luggage in hand, Max cradled against her chest. Behind her, Poppy followed, eyes reddened from crying.
Were moving in with you for a while, Emily said bluntly, without greeting. Serge will bring the rest of our belongings later. Well rent out our flat to bring in some income, so you can spend more time with Max while I work.
What? I stammered, frozen in the doorway. Emily, we never discussed this.
Its simple, she replied. Youre my mother; you ought to help. Who else will?
Poppy slipped inside, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Mum, I need money for a cot. We have nothing. Tom earns little, I cant stay on maternity leave; I need to work.
A surge of pentup frustration burst forth. No, I snapped, stepping forward. Emily, pack your things and go home. Poppy, there will be no money. Thats final.
Both daughters stared at me, stunned. Are you serious, Mum? Emily asked, rocking Max, tears streaming down her face. You cant be?
Yes, I am, I said, crossing my arms. I raised you, gave you education, bought you homes. Now you must spread your own wings. I will not bear the weight of your children any longer.
Youre throwing us out? With a baby? Poppy shouted, her voice cracking. Were your daughters! Your blood!
Im not throwing you out, I retorted. You have a house. You have a husband, Emily. Sort your problems yourselves.
Youre a heartless selfish woman! Poppy spat, stamping her foot. All you think about is your Italy!
Yes, Italy is a priority, I answered evenly. My life, my plans. I spent twenty years living for you. What more could you possibly demand? To nanny you until my last breath?
The sisters exchanged a look, then Emily snatched her suitcase and hurried to the staircase. Poppy followed, their footsteps fading as they descended, their voices low and bitter.
For a week, not a single call came. James told me I had done the right thing. Yet a knot of doubt settled deep inside me. Had I been too harsh?
Later I learned that Emily did indeed hand over her flat and move in with Toms parents, confined to a cramped twobedroom where every minor fault was scrutinised. Toms mother raised Max as she saw fit; Toms father muttered about the laziness of the younger generation.
Poppys plight became known through a neighbour who saw her weeping on a park bench. Tom fled, abandoning her with a growing belly and no means of support.
I stood in my kitchen, torn between pity for my daughters and the resolve that had taken me years to cultivate. I had given them a starta roof, an education, a foothold. How they used it was no longer my burden.
The phones began to ring again. Emily complained of her motherinlaw, sobbing that she could not endure any longer. Poppy cried that she was alone, unable to cope. I listened, offered sympathy, but gave no money, no shelter. My advice was met with gratitude yet also with the expectation that I would somehow solve everything.
James and I finally booked tickets to Italy for three weeks, the trip we had postponed for far too long. Before leaving, I called the girls.
What are you thinking, Mum? Emily asked, bewildered.
Im not abandoning you, I said, looking at the suitcase by the door. You are adults. Youll manage. When you learn to solve your own problems and stop treating me as a freestanding nanny, Ill be glad to talk as equals. Until then, grow up.
Youre leaving us? Poppy whispered.
Im not leaving you. You have the right to err. I simply have the right not to foot the bill for those errors, I replied, slipping on my coat. I will always be your mother, but Im no longer obliged to sacrifice myself for your imprudent choices.
James waited by the car. I slid into the passenger seat, breathed in deeply, and felt a weight lift. I had given my children education, shelter, love. I had offered counsel, which they ignored. My mission was complete. It was time to think of myself.
I imagined strolling through Romes cobbled streets, admiring Florences galleries, drifting along Venices canals. I pictured the freedom I deserved after decades of selfeffacement. And for the first time in many years, the future looked bright, not because of anyone elses expectations, but because I finally allowed myself to live for me.
