Live for yourself, you coward, the voice whispered as if from a fogfilled London street, the lamplight flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Mum, could you look after Max today? Katie begged, her throat hoarse as a night bus engine. I have to pop to the office theres an urgent file I must collect.
Margaret, leafing through her diary, sighed. Katie, Ive a meeting with the editor at sevenp.m. tonight. I cant.
Always busy, Mum! Hes your grandson! Is work really more important than family? Katies words hung in the air, heavy with accusation.
Margaret pressed her lips together. Manipulation, she thought, wrapped in a veil of guilt.
Kid, I warned you: having a baby with a man you barely know is reckless. You ignored me. Its your choice, your burden. Margarets tone was flat, like the cold tile of a subway platform.
Fine, Katie snapped, her voice ice. So you dont care about me or the baby. Thanks for the support. She hung up, the click echoing like a door closing on a dream.
Margaret had just turned fiftytwo, and for the first time in years she felt she could finally exhale. A divorce fifteen years earlier had turned her world upside down. Shed raised two daughters while juggling two jobs, denying herself every indulgence. Five years ago, Michael arrived steady, dependable, accepting her with all her baggage, never demanding the impossible.
The girls grew, earned degrees. With Michael, Margaret bought Katie a onebedroom flat; Lily, the younger, a studio in a new block. Margaret finally landed a respectable post at a publishing house, enrolled in an Italian course, and began stashing away for a trip to Italy a lifelong dream.
But Katie, at twentythree, married the first man she met. Six months later she gave birth. Margarets warnings about haste fell on deaf ears. The husband proved unreliable, working sporadically, money trickling in at random intervals. Katie was torn between a newborn and odd jobs, scraping what she could. From then on, Margarets phone rang ceaselessly with Katies pleas.
One night Margaret rested her forehead against the cool kitchen glass, weary of the endless demand to sacrifice herself. Katie hinted at moving back home, It would be easier for everyone, especially with the baby. Margaret refused, explaining she had her own life, work, plans. Katie wept into the receiver, lamenting her lost youth.
A week later, a fresh shock arrived. Lily, fresh from university, announced she was pregnant. The father was a courier shed dated for three months, living in a shared house with no prospects. She burst into the living room, bright-eyed, as if announcing a royal birth.
Can you believe it, Mum? Victor and I are going to be parents! Lily plopped onto the sofa, excitement spilling over. Well have a little one! Isnt that wonderful?
Margaret watched her, irritation rising like tide. The same story repeated.
Lily, have you thought about how youll raise the child? Where will you live? A studio with a baby? How will you afford everything? she asked calmly.
Lily fidgeted, tugging at the edge of her sweater. Well, Victors got a spare room Well figure something out. Mum, youll help us, wont you? Well need you.
Without the usual courtesy, Margaret set her cup down hard. No, Lily. You have the right to have a baby, I dont oppose that. But I wont fund a young family. The flat is yours, Ive given all I can. Now you must manage yourselves.
Lily leapt up, eyes brimming. How can you say that? Youre heartless! Im your daughter! The child will be your grandson!
Im telling you the truth. Youre adults. Youve finished university; Victor works. If youve decided to have a child, you must take responsibility. Ive fulfilled my duties. My life, my plans, are my own. Margarets voice was steady, as if reciting a mantra.
Lilys voice cracked. What plans could be more important than family? How can you be so selfish when your daughters are in trouble? She snatched her bag and fled, leaving Margaret standing, eyes shut, the room a blur of accusation.
The family chat exploded with accusations of selfishness and coldness. Katie sent long messages about how hard it was, how a mother should help; Lily echoed, lamenting a mother who seemed indifferent to her own children.
Michael tried to hold things together, hugging Margaret each evening, soothing what he could, but tension thickened. Katie began appearing unannounced, pushing a stroller through the hallway, dropping off Max for a couple of hours. Margaret tried to protest, but Katie was already racing down the stairs. Michael frowned, but said nothing. Lily called, sobbing, demanding moral support, complaining Victor didnt understand, that money was nonexistent, that she was lost.
Margaret felt cornered, as if she were an endless well from which they could draw forever.
Saturday evening fell quiet. Margaret and Michael had planned a peaceful night at home, a film, a chat about the Italy trip. A sharp knock shattered the calm.
Michael opened the door. Katie stood there, suitcase in hand, Max cradled against her chest. Behind her, Lily appeared, eyes red from tears.
Mum, were moving in temporarily, Katie declared without greeting, dragging her suitcase inside. Serge will bring the rest of our stuff later. Well rent out my flat to get money! That way I can spend more time with Max while I work.
What? Margaret stared, frozen in the hallway. Katie, what are you saying? We never discussed this.
Whats there to discuss? Youre my mother; youre supposed to help, Katie snapped. Who else will?
Lily slipped in behind her. Mum, I need cash for a cot. We have nothing. Victor earns little, I cant stay on maternity leave, I have to work.
Something inside Margaret cracked. All the fatigue, the irritation, the months of hurt burst forth.
No, she said sharply, stepping forward. Katie, turn around and go home. Lily, there will be no money. Thats it.
Both daughters froze, staring at her.
You cant be serious? Katie asked, rocking a crying Max. Are you kidding?
Absolutely, Margaret crossed her arms. I raised you, gave you education, bought flats. Now fly out of the nest and build your own lives. Dont hang your children on my neck.
How can you say that? Lily shrieked. Were your daughters! Your blood!
I can, because Im telling the truth. Youre adults. You chose your partners, chose to have children. I warned you, gave advice. You ignored it. This is your responsibility, not mine.
Katie shifted the baby to her other arm, bewildered and angry. Youre throwing me out? My child on the street?
Im not throwing you out. You have a house, Margaret replied, eyes unwavering. And you have a husband. Sort your own problems.
You selfish monster! Lily shouted, stamping a foot. You dont mean anything to us! All you think about is Italy!
Yes, Italy matters to me, Margaret said calmly. My plans, my life. Ive spent twenty years living for you. What more do you want? That I nurse you till the grave?
The sisters exchanged a look. Katie grabbed her suitcase and fled, Lily following. Margaret heard their hurried steps down the stairs, their muffled words lost, but the contempt clear.
A week passed without a call or message. Michael told her shed done the right thing. Yet inside her, a knot of anxiety tightened. Had she been too harsh?
Later she learned Katie had indeed sold her flat. She and her husband moved into his parents cramped twobedroom, where every chore was scrutinised, every mistake scolded. The motherinlaw raised the grandson as she saw fit; the fatherinlaw muttered about lazy youth.
Lilys fate emerged from a neighbours gossip. Shed been weeping on a bench outside the block. Victor fled, terrified of responsibility, grabbed a bag and vanished. Lily was left alone, pregnant, penniless.
Margaret stood in her kitchen, torn between pity and resolve. She had given them a start education, roofs, love. How they used it was no longer her burden.
The daughters called again. Katie complained about her motherinlaw, sobbing that she could no longer cope. Lily wept, saying she was utterly alone, unable to manage. Margaret listened, sympathised, but offered only advice, no money.
They wanted more than counsel; they wanted her to solve everything, to let them live under her roof, to fund them. Each time she refused.
With Michael, she finally booked tickets for a threeweek Italian holiday a longpostponed pilgrimage to Romes cobbled streets, Florences galleries, Venices canals. Before leaving, she called her daughters.
Are you kidding me? Katie asked, baffled. What about us?
Youre adults, youll manage, Margaret said, 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. Grow up.
Youre abandoning us? Katie whispered into the phone. What are we supposed to do
Im not abandoning you. You have the right to err. I have the right not to pay for your errors, Margaret replied, slipping on her coat. Ill always be your mother, but Im not obliged to sacrifice myself for grownup children and their rash decisions.
Michael waited by the car. Margaret descended the stairs, slid into the passenger seat, and breathed in a long, liberating sigh. She had decided no more guilt, no more endless wellsprings. Shed given them everything she could: education, shelter, love, advice. Their choices were theirs.
She imagined herself strolling along the Tiber, the sun warming her face, the freedom shed earned. The dream lingered, surreal as the nighttime London fog, and she finally allowed herself to live for herself.
