So here’s how it went—I ended up alone in my old age. Not by choice, not because life’s cruel, but because my daughter-in-law, the one I once welcomed into my home, kicked me out like I was some old, useless thing. Now I’m stuck in this run-down, half-finished cottage in the middle of nowhere. No running water, just a wood stove I have to light every morning, an outdoor loo, and buckets hauled from the well. Everything I owned? Hers now.
My name’s Margaret Whitmore. I’m from York originally. My son, James, is thirty-two. He got married five years ago. Blindly, if you ask me. He brought home this girl, Lucy—some southerner with no job, no home, no shame. James was head over heels; I had my doubts from day one. But I bit my tongue. Figured it’d pass.
After the wedding, the three of us lived in my two-bed flat. I gave them the big room and squeezed into the tiny spare one—barely room to turn around. Couple months in, Lucy announces she’s pregnant. Already pretty far along. Problem? James had only known her a month before the baby was supposedly conceived. I did the maths. Didn’t add up.
“Early birth,” she said.
“Early? A full-weight baby, perfectly healthy, no signs of being premature?”
I kept quiet. James believed her. I didn’t. I knew then—that wasn’t his child. But what could I prove when my son was so smitten?
At first, she pretended to be the lady of the house—mopping, cooking. Then she stopped. I did everything. Then came the final straw. Lucy demanded I hand over my pension for the “household budget.” No shame, no subtlety. Straight-up.
“And what’s *your* contribution, Lucy?” I asked. “Never worked a day before or after the wedding!”
James jumped to her defence. Wanted me to account for every penny I spent on myself. Clearly, Lucy had been coaching him. Knew about every pension boost, every benefit. Couldn’t even buy medicine without a lecture.
Eventually, I snapped. Bought a mini fridge, kept it in my room. Stopped chipping in for food, split the bills. Wasn’t my job to feed her and that kid. Full stop.
That’s when Lucy realised she’d have to force me out. One day while I was out, she went through my papers. Found the deeds. Here’s the catch—after the divorce from James’s dad, I bought out his share but put the flat in James’s name. Back then, I thought—it’s his anyway, he’s my only child…
Lucy was thrilled. Threatened me:
“Clear out! You’ve got no rights here! Say a word to James, I’ll divorce him and take half. Then you *both* end up homeless!”
What could I say? I knew James was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Didn’t want to tear him apart. So I packed up and left for this old family cottage in the countryside. Bought it years ago with my ex, never got round to fixing it up. Now here I am, in this forgotten corner where winters freeze you to the bone and summer’s just lonely smoke from the chimney to remind anyone I’m even here.
I told James I wanted peace, quiet, the countryside. He didn’t suspect a thing. Lucy? Over the moon—one less mouth to feed. These days, I hardly see him. Came by a couple times the first year, now? Radio silence. And I know—she won’t let him.
Only thing I regret? Not putting that flat in my name. Believing my son’s love, trusting that girl’s decency. Now I’m just… alone. No roof, no family, no hope. Old age was supposed to be cozy. Instead, it’s survival.
And just like that, a stranger—someone I let into my home—took everything. My flat. My son. My dignity. Now every night I pray he wakes up. Sees what he’s chosen. But I fear… it’ll be too late.
