My son, Oliver, got married ten years ago. He, his wife Eleanor, and their daughter have been squeezing into a tiny flat in Manchester ever since. Seven years ago, Ollie bought a plot of land and began building his dream house. The first year, nothing happened. The next, they put up a fence and poured the foundations. Then silence again—money dried up. Still, penny by penny, he kept hoping.
Over the years, they only managed to put up the ground floor. But their dream was a big two-storey house with room for everyone, including me. Oliver always wanted us close, a proper family under one roof. They got the ground floor built because Eleanor convinced him to downsize their two-bed flat, putting the difference into the build. Now even that feels cramped.
When they visit, all they talk about is the house. They argue over wallpaper, wiring, insulation. No one asks after my health, my life. I listen, nodding, but dread coils in my chest.
I’d always suspected they wanted to sell my flat to finish the build. Once, Oliver let slip, *”We’ll all be together, Mum—proper family home!”* I couldn’t help asking, *”So you’re after my place?”*
They lit up, nodding, painting pictures of cosy evenings together. But I saw Eleanor’s face—cold, sharp. She’s never liked me, and I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t show. Still, I ache for Oliver. He’s trying so hard, but at this rate, it’ll take another decade. I want to help, give his girl a proper home. But then I asked the question gnawing at me: *”Where do I live?”* I can’t move into their shoebox or a half-built shell with no heating.
Eleanor had an answer ready: *”You’d love the cottage!”* Yes, we have a little place in the Lake District. Charming in summer—flowers, fresh air, a weekend retreat. But winter? Chopping wood, hauling water, an outhouse in the freezing dark? My bones aren’t up for that.
*”People manage,”* Eleanor scoffed. Sure—in proper cottages, not some glorified shed. But the build needs cash, and I feel the push to sacrifice.
Lately, I’ve been visiting my neighbour, William. Lonely, like me. We share tea, biscuits, quiet chats. Then, the other day, I overheard Eleanor on the phone: *”We could shift her in with William and sell her flat.”*
I froze. What next? I always knew their *”big family home”* had no room for me. But to plan it so brazenly? My chest aches. Part of me still wants to help Oliver—he’s my boy. But the fear won’t leave: will I end up old and homeless, left under some bridge with nowhere to go?
