My old acquaintance, Margaret, was a woman of hard fortunes. She had spent her life as an accountant, raising four children alone after her husband’s passing, keeping the household afloat, and scrimping on herself. Just when it seemed she might finally rest in her retirement, she found herself burdened anew. Two of her grown sons had become idle loafers—living off her for over a year, refusing to lift a finger. Each had been given a flat of his own years earlier, a gift from their late father, yet both chose instead the comfort of their mother’s modest semi-detached house in Coventry.
Her eldest daughter and youngest son were independent, with families and careers of their own. But the middle two—William and Edward—had settled into the belief that as long as their mother tolerated them, they need not lift a finger. Margaret endured it, cooking, cleaning, and paying the bills, hoping they might come to their senses. Instead, she heard excuse after excuse: “There’s no decent work about,” “Nothing suits my qualifications,” “After the holidays, I’ll find something…”
When her patience finally wore thin, she took drastic action. Using all her accrued holiday leave and taking unpaid time besides, she announced her “retirement”—official in name only, for it was a calculated move. She laid it plainly before them: “I’m not working anymore. We live on my pension now.”
The first week, they suspected nothing, only remarking on how often their mother was home—and how unusually quiet she seemed. One even asked, “Mum, are you ill?” to which Margaret replied coolly, “No. I’m a pensioner now.” Suddenly, both grew restless, urging her to return to work. They argued that her meagre pension couldn’t sustain three, that all retirees took odd jobs now. One even tallied up the monthly costs of food and utilities. But she held firm. “I’ve done my time. If you want to stay, we’ll manage on my pittance. I can live on porridge and tap water if need be.”
And so she did. Breakfast was watery porridge. Lunch, a thin broth with no meat. Supper, bread and weak tea. No treats, no extras. The larder grew bare, the cupboards emptier by the day. She never scolded, never argued—just kept serving the same meagre meals. Before long, William cracked. He moved back to his own flat, which he’d been letting out. A week later, Edward followed. Within a month, both had found work.
When Margaret told me this tale, I struggled to believe it. “How did you bear it?” I asked. She shrugged. “What choice did I have? Otherwise, they’d never have left. They needed a proper jolt.”
These days, she lives alone. Her sons visit sometimes—bearing gifts, offering thanks, admitting they’ve learned much. And Margaret, with a quiet smile, replies, “Sometimes loving your children means taking away, not giving.”