**Diary Entry**
I always believed family would be my anchor—that my children would stand by me as I grew old. I thought trading my home for the warmth of kin would be worth it. Now, each morning I wake in unfamiliar corners, never knowing where I’ll lay my head next. This is the life of Granny Annie—once known to her entire street as the proud owner of a spacious, well-kept house in the quiet countryside of Devon. Now, her refuge is borrowed kitchens, transient rooms, and the constant worry: *Am I in the way?*
It began when her sons—David and Michael—convinced her to sell the old house. *Why struggle alone in the middle of nowhere, Mum?* they said. *You’re not as young as you used to be—no more tending the garden, stoking the fire, or trudging through snow. Stay with us in turns. It’ll be easier for you, and we’ll have you close. The money from the sale won’t go to waste—we’ll share it for the grandchildren.* What could a weary mother say? She agreed, thinking she was helping. She wanted to be near them.
My parents, Annie’s neighbours, tried to warn her:
*”Don’t rush into this, love. You’ll regret it. You’ll never buy another place like yours, and your sons have their own families, their own rules. You’ll be a guest, not the mistress. Flats are cramped—you’ve always loved open space.”*
But no one listened. The house sold. The money was divided. And so began Granny Annie’s life with a suitcase, shuffling between David’s London flat and Michael’s cottage in Surrey. Three years now, this has been her rhythm.
*”Michael’s place is better,”* she confessed to my mother once. *”At least there’s a little garden where I can putter about, soothe my soul. His wife, Emily, is kind—polite, gentle, and the children are sweet. They gave me a small room—not much, but it’s got a telly and even a mini fridge. I stay quiet, out of the way. While they’re at work and the kids are in school, I tend the flowers or do a bit of laundry. Then it’s back to my corner.”*
She’d planned to stay through summer, then move to David’s come autumn. But life with her elder son was different. His flat offered no room—just a cramped space between the kitchen and balcony. A narrow sofa, a side table with a telly, a bag of belongings. She cooked in secret, washed clothes when no one was home. Always, she felt like a burden.
*”Charlotte—David’s wife—barely speaks to me,”* she admitted. *”Not a word. And the grandson? We’ve no connection. I’m old-fashioned; he’s glued to his gadgets. I’m a stranger in their home. Never once invited to their weekend cottage. I drift through like a ghost. At night, I leave my dinner on the radiator to warm it. I avoid the kitchen, afraid I’ll be in the way.”*
Recently, she fell ill. *”Fever, aches—thought that was it,”* she murmured. *”They called a doctor, handed me pills, left me in bed for days. But the worst wasn’t the illness. It was that no one came. No kind word. Just ‘Stay there, don’t be a nuisance.’”*
My parents asked gently, *”Annie, what if it gets worse? Who’ll care for you? You’re not as strong as you were. And still you’re tossed from one place to another—no home, no peace.”*
She sighed. *”Too late now. I made a dreadful mistake. Sold my home, and with it, my freedom. I shouldn’t have listened. I wanted to help, thought we’d be better together. Now I’ll never afford another place. What’s left? A bit set aside for my funeral. The boys have their own troubles. A new home isn’t in the cards.”*
She often says, *”I should’ve stayed in my own house. Hard as it was, cold as it got—it was mine. I was the mistress of my own life. Now? Just an old woman with no roof, no voice. I linger in one place, then the next. No garden, no hearth. Just a suitcase and a handbag.”*
Every time she leaves my parents’, they watch her go and whisper, *”God willing, she’ll last till summer. Then back to the earth, the quiet, the garden. That’s where she breathes.”*
Now, Granny Annie dreams not of peace or love—just a quiet death where she won’t be a burden. She told her sons, *”When I’m truly gone, put me in a care home. At least there’ll be someone to tend to me. You’ve your own lives to lead.”*
And so she lives—between a suitcase and a calendar. Counting days, wondering where next summer will take her. Waiting not for a call, but for a reluctant nod: *Can you stay a few months?*
I’m certain her sons should never have persuaded her. They should’ve said, *”Mum, keep your home. It’s your castle. We’ll visit, we’ll hug you, we’ll share meals—then return to our lives. Not you to us, but us to you.”* But it’s too late. What’s done can’t be undone. And one question haunts those who knew her before: *Why do we forsake the ones who gave us everything?*
