My son has just turned thirty-one. Not long ago, he announced with a tone that shattered me: the tenants in his fathers old flat must move out, because he and his wife intend to live there now.
I often believe lifes no random affaireach step we take is ours to own, the outcome of choices made long before. The past haunts the present. My own fatal decision was marrying a man utterly irresponsible. I fell for David. Trusted him, even though everyone knew of his wandering eye. I told myself hed love me enough to change. But people do not changenot truly. When our son was born, Davids heart wandered as much as ever.
The gossip began quietly. Friends dropping hints, neighbours whispering at the gate, even a cousin mentioning things in hushed tones. I dont remember if it was the shame or the hurt that cut deeper. Five years passed in limbo, my pride and pain locked in battle.
At last, David, with his usual carelessness, left his flat and signed it over to our sondodging child maintenance, leaving me with nothing but debts and bruised resolve. I had little choice but to rent a small place from him, moving in with my boy and my mother, who already needed too much care.
Every penny I saved from subletting our cramped little flat, I poured into giving my son the childhood Id dreamed for himhis school uniforms, all his books, the room above his head, and a share for Grannys medicine and groceries. I never treated myself; I figured, once he was grown, my son would see all Id poured into his life and be grateful.
But the years have stolen my strength. Now, at fifty-seven, struggling with diabetes, my world has shrunk to counting tablets, jabbing myself with insulin, and hoping for one less phone call from another bill collector. Im too ill to workno shop on the High Street would hire a woman of my age and condition. My only lifeline has been the rent from that very flat.
And now my own boymy Alextells me the tenants must go, for he and his new wife want to start fresh in that home. And when I asked where that leaves me, he replied only that it was no concern of his.
I lie awake, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering how I could work myself to the bone for thirty years and have nothing savedno comfort, no pension, only debts and dread. With every injection I wonder, what am I meant to do now: how can I pay the gas, buy bread, afford the medicine? My own flesh and blood shrinking away from me. Who does he think he is? How did my story end here?
