One mother with the wife, another with the husband. Is this still a family when the couple lives at different addresses?
“I bought chicken drumsticks on sale today—I’ll make a stew,” said Margaret Wilson, dragging an overstuffed shopping bag behind her. “Andrew adores stew, always goes back for seconds. Just don’t know how I’ll haul it all home—my legs are about to give out…”
“Did you forget the cat food again?” chimed in her friend, Barbara. “It’s cheaper just round the corner—go there.”
“No, I won’t buy it here—too pricey. Near the market, it’s twenty pence cheaper. I’ll drop the bags off first, then nip out later. No energy left, but it’s always me hauling everything.”
Both women stood in the queue at a small supermarket on the outskirts of Manchester. Margaret’s trolley held nothing extra: rice, a box of cheap tea, butter, a couple of carrots, milk, discounted biscuits. All strictly budgeted, strictly sale items. No fruit, no treats, no indulgences. Everything for the family.
“Doesn’t anyone help you? Your daughter and son-in-law are grown—let them pitch in!”
“David lives with his parents in Leeds,” Margaret sighed wearily. “I won’t wait two hours for him to get here. And my daughter’s at mine with the kids. That’s how it’s been for eight years. The grandkids, school—it’s all nearby. Works for us.”
“Wait… eight years? So your Sophie’s with you and the kids, but her husband’s at his mum’s? How does that even work?”
“Well, yes… Right after the wedding, she lived with them. But his mother—oh, what a piece of work. Strict, overbearing, always poking her nose in. Sophie couldn’t take it long—came back to me. Thought it’d be temporary, then the first grandchild came, space got tight, and here we are.”
“What about renting a place?”
“David wanted to, but Sophie says they can’t swing it. Two kids, modest salaries, and his job’s closer from his mum’s. I help—get the little ones ready in the morning, walk them to school, so Sophie can catch up on sleep. They even considered a mortgage, but I talked them out of it. That’s a life sentence. Not now.”
“But is this a family? Your grandkids, your son-in-law off somewhere. You’re carrying them all. Maybe it’s time they stood on their own?”
“They’re my children. How could I do any less? We’ve got a system: the school’s near my house, my eldest grandson’s anxious—can’t handle breaks well. And Sophie would struggle alone. I’m not babysitting; I’m helping. And David? He calls daily, pops by evenings, weekends at the cinema or theatre. He hasn’t forgotten his family. Handles the bills, helps where he can. This works for everyone now.”
“But they don’t live together…”
“You know how many couples live like this these days? Some share a roof and stay strangers—these two are family, despite the distance. Maybe not every meal together, but they’ve got each other’s backs. And that, believe me, matters more.”
“I can’t wrap my head around it… If mine slept under another roof, I’d have given him an earful.”
“I didn’t. I see my daughter’s eyes still shining. So it’s worth it. Soon she’ll be back at work, we’ll save for a place. There’s time. For now—this. No drama, just human.”
Margaret’s story isn’t unique. Couples living apart but holding on—what is it? A commuter marriage? Convenience? A compromise for the kids’ sake? Or just denial, a family unraveling? Where’s the line between sacrifice for loved ones and being trapped by circumstance? Who’s right—the woman bearing the weight, or the world demanding the “proper” family mold?
Is it still a family—wife with one mum, husband with another? That’s for each to decide. But in this story, one thing’s beyond doubt: in this woman’s heart lives a love—not flashy, not for show, but real, weary, heavy, and endlessly warm.