Without going into too much detail – partly because it’s not technically a done deal – yesterday my dad and my mum were in my kitchen explaining to me how now, thanks to the confluence of events around my grandmother’s death, they were going to own a house. This seems a minor thing, but my father is sixty-five years old; my mother is a retired schoolteacher. In their entire life, they have never owned a single thing worth more than a car (unless you count the really old AT computer that was bought for them as a gift), and now they are looking at owning their own home.
No more doubt of renting.
No more nervousness about bumping the walls.
No more wasted money.
My parents have worked their whole lives, and worked hard, trying to provide, at first, a life for me and my sister that included expensive schooling, which turned out to be a massive waste. My sister would have succeeded anyway – she’s brilliant. All that sweat and all those tears flowed together into a drain, gurgling worthlessly into the past, with good intentions crashing against poor decisions.
Dad and mum are finally going to have something to feel secure about. It’s a very, very strange feeling to suddenly realise your parents have stepped into the middle class.