It just so happens that in my old age, I’ve ended up alone. Not by choice, not because of some cruel twist of fate—but because my daughter-in-law, the one I once welcomed into my home, threw me out like an old, useless thing. Now I live in a crumbling, run-down cottage in the middle of nowhere. No plumbing, just a stove I have to light every morning, an outdoor toilet, and buckets of water from the well. Everything I once had—now belongs to her.
My name is Margaret Anne. I’m originally from York. My son, William, is thirty-two. He got married five years ago. At the time, I thought he was blinded by love. He brought home this girl, Lucy—a southerner with no home, no job, no shame, no conscience. William was enchanted by her, but I was wary from the start. Still, I bit my tongue. Hoped it would pass.
After the wedding, the three of us lived together in my two-bedroom flat. I gave them the larger room and moved into the tiny spare bedroom—hardly room to turn around. Barely two months later, Lucy announced she was pregnant. Already quite far along. But here’s the thing—William had only known her for a month before the supposed conception. I calculated. The numbers didn’t add up.
“She came early,” she insisted.
“Early? With a healthy weight, no complications, not even a hint of prematurity?”
I stayed quiet. My son believed her. I didn’t. I already knew—that child wasn’t his. But how do you prove it when your own son won’t see the truth?
At first, she pretended to be a proper housewife—mopped floors, cooked. Then she stopped. I was the one keeping the household running. Then came the final blow. Lucy demanded I hand over my pension to their “shared budget.” No shame, no hinting. Straight to my face.
“And what’s *your* contribution, Lucy?” I asked. “Not a single day’s work before or after the wedding!”
William jumped to her defense. Insisted I account for every penny I spent on myself. Clearly, she’d been working on him. Knew all about my pension, my benefits. Had it all memorised. I couldn’t even buy medicine without a lecture.
One day, I’d had enough. I bought a mini fridge and put it in my room. Stopped chipping in for groceries, refused to pay their share of bills anymore. I wasn’t obliged to feed a freeloader and her child. Not obliged—period.
Then Lucy realised she couldn’t push me out so easily. One day while I was out, she dug through my papers. Found the deeds to the flat. And here’s the catch—after my divorce from William’s father, I bought his share but put it in my son’s name. Back then, I thought—let him have it, he’s my only child…
Lucy was overjoyed. She threatened me:
“Get out! You’ve got no rights here! Say a word to William, and I’ll divorce him and take half the flat. Then you *and* he will be out on the street!”
What could I say? I knew my son was caught in the middle. I didn’t want to tear him apart. So I packed my things and left for my parents’ old cottage in the countryside. We’d bought it years ago but never got around to fixing it up. Now I live in this forgotten corner of the world, where winters are bitter, and the lone plume of smoke from my chimney in summer is the only proof I still exist here.
I told William I wanted peace, quiet, nature. He never suspected a thing. Lucy was thrilled—one less mouth to feed. These days, I hardly see my son. He visited a handful of times that first year, but now—nothing. And I know—she won’t let him. Won’t allow it.
My only regret? Not keeping the flat in my name. Not trusting my son’s love, my daughter-in-law’s decency. Now here I am—alone, without a proper roof over my head, without family, without hope. Old age, which should have been cosy, has become mere survival.
And so, one woman—a stranger who settled into my home—has taken everything from me. My flat. My son. My dignity. Now I pray every night for William to wake up. To see who he chose. But I fear—by the time he does, it’ll be too late.
