**Diary Entry – 12th June**
I don’t want to end up alone and unwanted in my old age.
My son married ten years ago. Since then, he, his wife, and their little girl have been crammed into a tiny one-bed flat. Seven years back, Gregory bought a plot and slowly began building a house. At first, there was silence for ages. A year later, they put up a fence and poured the foundations. Then, nothing again—no money left. It’s been like this the whole time: slow, difficult, but he keeps saving for materials, refusing to give up.
All these years, and they’ve only managed the ground floor. Yet they dream of a two-storey home with space for them—and for me. My son’s kind; he’s always said, *“Mum, you’ll live with us too, you’ll have your own room.”* To afford the build, they even swapped their two-bed flat for a smaller one, putting the difference into the house. But now, it’s cramped, especially with a child.
Every visit turns into chatter about the build—where the bathroom will go, how they’ll insulate the walls, the wiring… I listen, but my heart aches. Not a word about my health, no care for how I’m feeling—just walls, pipes, lofts.
Then one day, I gathered my courage: *“So, should I sell my flat?”*
They lit up. Fussed over me, painting grand pictures of us living together. But as I watched my daughter-in-law, I knew—I couldn’t bear life under the same roof as her. She can’t stand me, and I bite my tongue just to keep the peace.
Still, my heart breaks for Gregory. He’s trying so hard. Another ten years, maybe, without help. I *do* want to ease his burden. But I had to ask: *“Where will I live?”*
The answer came sharp. My daughter-in-law, ever the ideas-woman, chirped: *“You’ve got the cottage, haven’t you? Just stay there. Quiet, peaceful—no bother to anyone.”*
The cottage *exists*, yes. A forty-year-old wooden shack. No heating. Fine for a summer day—fresh air, picking apples. But *winter*? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs give way now; my blood pressure’s wild. I’m afraid to go there *alone*, and they expect me to *winter* there?!
I tried explaining: *“It’s freezing, the loo’s outside, no proper heating—”*
Her reply? *“People manage in villages, don’t they? They don’t drop dead.”*
That was it. No offer to stay with them until the house was done, no promise they’d be nearby. Just: *“Sell your flat—the build’s stalled!”*
Then, the other day, I overheard her on the phone to her mother: *“Shift her next door to that widower, let them keep each other company. Then sell the flat before she changes her mind.”*
My knees buckled. So, it’s settled, is it? They’ve decided my fate. I thought there’d be a room for me—instead, it’s *next door*, my flat keys handed over…
I do visit Archie, the widower next door. We chat, drink tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? *Forced* into it? It’s humiliating.
I sit here wondering—should I sell? Help with the house, ease Gregory’s load. Maybe he *will* give me a corner. Maybe he’ll stay kind.
Then I catch my daughter-in-law’s eye, remember her words… and dread creeps in: *What if they cast me out? What if it’s back to the cottage with a “cheers” and a shove?*
I’m nearly seventy. I don’t want to end up on the streets. A helpless old woman, shoved from pillar to post. I won’t die in a freezing cottage, under a blanket, rats skittering past. And I *won’t* be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want peace in my old age. *My* home. *My* bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I’m not afraid to close my eyes.
I’m his mother, yes. But I’m still a person.
