I don’t want to end up alone and unwanted in my old age.
My son got married ten years ago. Since then, he, his wife, and their little girl have been crammed into a tiny one-bed flat. Seven years ago, George bought a plot of land and slowly started building a house. At first, there was silence for ages. A year later, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then nothing again—no money. That’s how it’s been all this time: slow, tough, but he kept saving for materials, never gave up.
All these years, they’ve only managed to build the ground floor. But they dream of a two-storey home—room for them and me. My son’s kind, always said, “Mum, you’ll live with us too, you’ll have your own space.” To help with the build, they even swapped their two-bed for a one-bed and put the difference into the house. But now it’s cramped, especially with a child.
Every time they visit, it’s all about the build. Where the bathroom will go, how they’ll insulate the walls, the wiring… I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no interest in how I’m doing—just walls, pipes, attics.
So one day, I finally asked straight out:
“So, should I sell my flat?”
They lit up. Got all excited, painting this picture of us living together. But I looked at my daughter-in-law and knew—I couldn’t stand living under the same roof as her. She can’t stand me either, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying too much.
But my heart aches for my son. He’s trying so hard. It’ll take him another decade to finish that house without help. I do want to make it easier for him. But I asked the big question:
“Where will I live?”
The answer came quick. My daughter-in-law, always full of “brilliant” ideas, piped up:
“You’ve got your cottage, haven’t you? You could stay there. Nice and quiet, out of the way.”
I’ve got the cottage, yes. But it’s a forty-year-old wooden shed with no heating. Fine for a summer afternoon, picking apples, breathing fresh air. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the loo? My knees are gone, my blood pressure’s all over the place. I’m scared to go there alone, and they want me to *winter* there?
I tried to explain:
“It’s freezing, the loo’s outside, no heating, no proper facilities.”
And the reply?
“People manage in the countryside, don’t they? They get by.”
There you go. Not even an offer to stay with them while the house is finished, no “We’ll be nearby.” Just: “Sell your flat—the build’s stalled!”
Then the other day, I overheard my daughter-in-law on the phone to her mum:
“We could move her to the neighbour’s, let them live together. Sell the flat quick before she changes her mind.”
My legs gave way. So that’s it. They’ve decided my future for me. And here I was thinking I’d at least have a room in the house. But no—ship me off to the neighbour’s and hand over my keys.
I do visit Archie, the neighbour. He’s a widower, lives alone. We chat, have tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? Not by choice? That’s humiliating.
I sit here wondering—maybe I *should* sell the flat? Put the money into the house, help my son. Maybe he’ll really give me a corner of my own. Maybe he’ll be kind.
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, remember her words… and the fear creeps in. What if they kick me out later? What if it’s back to the cottage with a “cheers, love”?
I’m nearly seventy. I don’t want to end up on the streets. Don’t want to be some helpless old woman shoved from pillar to post. I don’t want to die in a freezing shed under a blanket, rats skittering about. And I *definitely* don’t want to be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want peace in my old age. In my own home. In my own bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I’m not afraid to close my eyes.
I’m his mum, yeah. But I’m a person too.
