It so happened that in my twilight years, I found myself alone—not by choice, not by some cruel twist of fate, but because my daughter-in-law, the very one I once welcomed into my home, cast me out like an unwanted relic. Now I dwell in a crooked, half-ruined cottage in the middle of nowhere, without plumbing, heating only by a stove I must feed each dawn, with nothing but a drafty outhouse and buckets hauled from the well. Everything I once had now belongs to her.
My name is Evelyn Whitmore. I was born in York. My son, William, is thirty-two. He married five years ago—blinded by love, or so it seemed. He dragged home a girl named Gemma—some southern lass with no home, no trade, no shame or scruples to speak of. William was smitten from the start, but I sensed trouble the moment she crossed the threshold. Still, I held my tongue. I hoped it would pass.
After the wedding, the three of us lived in my modest flat. I gave them the larger room and squeezed myself into a cupboard of a bedroom where you could barely turn around. Barely two months passed before Gemma announced she was expecting. The dates were questionable—William had only known her a month before conception. I did the maths. It didn’t add up.
“Born premature,” she declared.
“Premature? Full weight, no complications, not a trace of underdevelopment?”
I said nothing. William believed her. I didn’t. I knew then—that child wasn’t his. But what could I prove to a man who refused to see?
At first, she played at being a dutiful wife—mopped floors, cooked meals. Then she stopped. I kept the household afloat alone. Then came the demand that shattered everything: Gemma insisted I hand over my pension for their “shared expenses.” No shame, no pretense. Just bald-faced greed.
“And what’s your contribution, Gemma?” I asked. “Not a day’s work before the wedding, nor after!”
William took her side. Suddenly, I had to justify every penny spent on myself. Clearly, Gemma had schooled him well—she knew every allowance, every benefit I received. I couldn’t even buy medicine without a lecture.
Eventually, I’d had enough. I bought a fridge and put it in my room. Stopped paying for their food, split the bills. I wasn’t obliged to feed a layabout and her child. And that was that.
That’s when Gemma realized she’d have to force me out. One day while I was gone, she rifled through my papers. Found the deeds to the flat. And there was the catch: after divorcing William’s father, I’d bought his share but put everything in my son’s name. Back then, I thought—let him have it. He’s my only child.
Gemma was thrilled. She made her threat plain:
“Clear out! You’ve no claim here! Say a word to William, and I’ll divorce him and take half. Then you’ll *both* be on the streets!”
What could I say? I knew my son was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I didn’t want to break him. So I packed my things and left for the old family cottage in the countryside—bought years ago but never finished. Now I rot in this forgotten corner of the world, where winters bite and summers leave nothing but lonely smoke from the chimney to mark my existence.
I told William I wanted peace, quiet, nature. He never suspected. Gemma was delighted—one less mouth to feed. He visited a few times that first year, but now? Not a whisper. And I know—she won’t let him come.
My only regret? Not keeping the flat in my name. Believing my son’s love would protect me, that his wife had an ounce of decency. Now I’m alone, without shelter, without family, without hope. Old age, meant for comfort, has become mere survival.
So it goes—one stranger, let into my home, took everything. My flat. My son. My dignity. Now I lie awake each night praying William wakes up. That he sees what she is. But I fear—when he does, it’ll be too late.
