Wife with one mum, husband with another. Is it still a family when the couple lives at different addresses?
“I got chicken thighs on sale today—thought I’d make a roast,” said Margaret Thompson, heaving an overstuffed shopping bag behind her. “Oliver loves it, always goes back for seconds. Though I don’t know how I’ll haul this lot home—my feet are killing me.”
“Did you forget the cat food again?” reminded her friend, Louise. “It’s cheaper round the corner—go back for it.”
“No, not here—too dear. The market’s twenty pence cheaper. I’ll drop these bags off first, then pop out. No strength left in me, but I’ll manage.”
The two women stood in the queue at a small supermarket on the outskirts of Birmingham. Margaret’s basket held nothing extra—just the essentials: rice, a packet of cheap tea, butter, a couple of carrots, milk, biscuits on offer. Everything strictly budgeted, strictly on sale. No fruit, no treats, no indulgences. All for the sake of family.
“Why doesn’t anyone help you? Your daughter and son-in-law are grown—they could swing by!”
“Oliver’s at his parents’ in Coventry,” Margaret sighed. “I’m not waiting two hours for him to get here. My daughter and the kids are with me. We’ve lived like this eight years now. The grandkids, school—it’s all close. Works for us.”
“Hold on… eight years? So your Emily’s with you and the kids, but her husband’s at his mum’s? How’s that even work?”
“Well, after the wedding she lived with them. But his mother—God, what a piece of work. Strict, meddling, poking her nose in. Emily 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?”
“Oliver wanted to, but Emily says they can’t. Two kids, middling wages, and his job’s closer from his mum’s. I help out—get the little ones ready, walk them to school, so Emily can catch some sleep at night. They thought about a mortgage, but I talked them out. That’s shackles for life. No need yet.”
“But is this even a family? Grandkids here, son-in-law off somewhere else. You’re carrying them all. Shouldn’t they stand on their own?”
“They’re my children. How could I not? It works—the school’s near mine, the eldest gets anxious, can’t handle breaks well. And Emily would struggle alone. I don’t coddle—I help. Oliver? Calls every day, stops by evenings, weekends they go to the cinema, the theatre. He doesn’t forget his family. Pays his share. Helps where he can. It’s what suits everyone now.”
“But they don’t live together.”
“And do you know how many couples live like this these days? Some share a roof and stay strangers—these two? They’re family, distance or not. Maybe not every meal together, but they’ve got each other’s backs. That, believe me, matters more.”
“I can’t wrap my head around it. I’d have torn mine apart if he slept under a different roof.”
“I didn’t. I see the light still in my daughter’s eyes. That means it’s worth it. She’ll get back to work soon, save for a place. There’s time yet. For now, this’ll do. No fuss, just… human.”
Margaret’s story isn’t unique. Couples, split between homes but clinging to their bond—what is it? A visiting marriage? Convenience? A compromise for the kids’ sake? Or just denial, the slow unravelling of family? Where’s the line between sacrifice and dependence? Who’s right—the woman shouldering the weight, or the world insisting on what a “proper” family looks like?
Is it a family—wife with one mum, husband with another? That’s for each to decide. But one thing’s certain in this story: in this woman’s heart, love lives—not the flashy kind, not the filtered sort, but the real, weary, heavy, endlessly warm kind.
