Why I agreed to let my son and daughterinlaw move in with me still eludes me.
Im Vera Semião, 63, a widow living in a tworoom flat in a quiet residential district of Coimbra. My pension is modest, but it gets by. When my son Mario married two years ago, I was, like any mother, overjoyed. Hes thirtyone, and his wife Inês is a bit younger. They had tied the knot but had nowhere of their own to live. Mom, well stay with you for a while, they said. Soon well save enough for a downpayment and move out.
Foolishly, I welcomed them, thinking Id look after the grandchildren. Yet two years later were all living without any quality of life.
At first I tried not to interfere. They were young, getting used to married life. I kept to the kitchen, washed the laundry, did what a house should do. Then Inês got pregnantso early, I thought, if God wanted that, there must be a reason. My grandson Martim arrived, a charming little boy. But with his birth every saving vanished. Everyone knows how expensive a child is: diapers, formula, baby foodall pricey, and Inês insists on brandname, fresh, imported products.
Im willing to help, but Im no domestic worker. Still, I ended up being babysitter, cook and housekeeper all at once. The young mother is exhausted; Martim keeps her awake, so she lies in bed until noon, glued to her phone, while the child plays in the park and she lounges on the sofa. I make lunch, clean the floor, bathe the grandson, and Inês complains of being drained.
And my son? Mario goes to work and returns with his head down, silent. When I try to talk, he dodges, saying, Mom, dont interfere. Inês acts as if she owns the place. I utter a word, she answers with three, always in a raised tone. Then Mario accuses me of oppressing his wifeoppressing! Yet Im the one who does all the helping.
Im at a loss. I tell Mario, Find a place to rent; Im tired. He replies, We have no money, mum. I suggested swapping apartments: Id move into a tiny studio while they saved for a downpayment and lived independently, taking responsibility for their own lives. Id only help with the grandson as I could. But Mario merely nods, and nothing changes.
I understand theyre young and its complicated, but Im not made of steel. I suffer from hypertension, joint pain, insomnia. When they need me, I rush to the hospital, get injections, and spend days with the baby. When I say Im exhausted, they look at me as if I were a traitor.
A recent clash summed it up. I woke up, cleaned the kitchen, prepared baby porridge as usual. Inês snapped, Why did you make this porridge again? I told you I want the packaged kind! I lost my temper, telling her Im a grandmother, not a kitchen machine, and that they must feed their own family. She burst into tears, Mario took her side, they slammed the door and left. An hour later they returned as if nothing had happened, without even apologizing.
Now I get up each morning asking myself: why did I let them stay? Why didnt I push back from the start? Maybe because Im a mother, because I love my son. Yet the love is paired with exhaustion. When I sit down to take my bloodpressure pills, I wondermaybe its finally time to ask them to leave. It will hurt, but at least I wont lose my sanity.
Tell me, am I the only one so naïve, or are there others my age who have fallen into the same trap?
