Margaret carefully reached for the ripe apples on the branch. Her back ached with familiar pain, but she ignored it—this year’s harvest was too good to waste. The apples were perfect: large, fragrant, with just the right tartness. Ideal for the preserves her son-in-law, William, loved, and her granddaughter Lily would adore an apple pie with tea when she visited at the weekend.
“Mum, are you up that ladder again?” Her daughter’s voice made Margaret start. “How many times have I told you to call me or Will? We’ll take care of it!”
Emily, her daughter, stood on the garden path, hands on her hips. In her crisp white blouse and neatly styled hair, she looked out of place among the apple trees and rows of thyme.
“Oh, don’t fuss, love—I’m being careful,” Margaret said guiltily, climbing down. “You’ve enough on your plate without me adding to it.”
“That’s exactly the point,” Emily said, taking the basket of apples. “Will’s been buried in paperwork for days, I’m juggling clients nonstop, and here you are scaling ladders. What if you fell? I don’t have time to run you to hospital, Mum!”
Margaret stayed silent. What could she say? The children had their own lives now. Emily and William ran a small home renovation business—always on calls, always in meetings. No time for Mum.
“Mum, we need to talk,” Emily said, carrying the basket to the patio before returning. “Come sit with me.”
Margaret’s heart sank. She knew that tone—Emily had made a decision, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
They sat on the old bench beneath the cherry tree, the one Margaret had painted green years ago. The paint was peeling in places—she’d meant to touch it up, but never got round to it. Now, it seemed, she never would.
“Mum, remember when Will and I mentioned expanding the business?” Emily began, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the orchard.
“Of course,” Margaret nodded. “You wanted a second showroom across town.”
“Exactly. And it’s all falling into place. The loan’s approved, we’ve found the perfect location—but we need extra funds for refurbishment and stock.”
Margaret tensed. She had modest savings—her “rainy day” fund—but she’d hand them over without hesitation if Emily asked.
“Love, if you need money—”
“No, Mum, it’s not that,” Emily cut in. “We’ve decided to sell the cottage.”
“What?” Margaret couldn’t believe her ears. “Which cottage?”
“This one, Mum.” Emily gestured to the garden. “Old Mr. Thompson’s wanted to extend his plot for years—he’s offered a good price. And we’re desperate for the cash.”
Margaret’s head spun. Sell the cottage? But this was their family home. Her late husband, Henry, had built it with his own hands, planted every tree. Emily had grown up here, learned to tend the soil in these very beds. Thirty summers they’d spent here—and after Henry’s death, Margaret had made it her sanctuary, staying from spring till autumn.
“But what about me?” she whispered. “Where will I go?”
“Mum, be reasonable—at your age, it’s too much to manage alone,” Emily said, patting her shoulder. “The roof leaks, the garden’s overgrown. Will and I can’t keep running out here to fix things. You’ve got your flat in town—warm, convenient. We’re not throwing you out.”
“I don’t want the flat,” Margaret said, tears rising. “Emily, this is my home. My flowers, my vegetable patch, the neighbours I’ve known for years. How can you do this?”
“Mum, it’s not up for debate,” Emily said sharply. “It’s decided. Mr. Thompson’s offered a fair price, and we’ve shaken on it. Papers are being drawn up. You’ve got two weeks to pack. Take what you want to the flat—we’ll deal with the rest.”
“Two weeks?” Margaret gasped. “So soon?”
“Better quick than drawn out,” Emily said flatly. “And Mum… the cottage is in mine and Will’s names. You remember—you and Dad transferred it a decade ago to avoid inheritance hassles.”
Margaret remembered. Henry had insisted: “Let’s sort it now while we’re fit and well. Less paperwork later.” How could she have imagined her own daughter would evict her from the home they’d built?
Emily stood. “Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t a choice—it’s the business or bankruptcy. And the cottage? Just bricks and land sucking time and money. You’ve said yourself your back aches from weeding.”
“I said it lovingly,” Margaret murmured.
That night, she lay awake in the small bedroom Henry had panelled himself, staring at the ceiling. How could she leave the apple trees they’d planted when Emily was five? The strawberry patch neighbourhood children raided while she pretended not to notice? The arbour where she and her friends drank tea on summer evenings?
The next morning, William arrived with boxes and bin bags. “Margaret, let me help you pack,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “What’s going to the flat?”
“And the rest?” she asked. “For Mr. Thompson? He’ll bulldoze it for the extra land.”
“Well, some things might need tossing,” he mumbled. “The furniture’s old, the appliances… Em said you’d buy new for the flat.”
“With what pension?” Margaret nearly asked, but bit her tongue. Her meagre income barely covered medicine and food—another reason she preferred the cottage, where she could grow her own veg and barter with neighbours.
“Will,” she said quietly, “is there really no other way?”
He looked away. “Margaret, believe me, we’ve thought it through. At your age, you should be near shops, hospitals. Out here, it’s miles to the bus—impossible in snow.”
“I don’t stay in winter,” she said, but he was already rummaging through drawers.
The week blurred by. Margaret packed mechanically, still unable to accept it. Each morning, she wandered the garden, touching the apple trees like old friends. Her neighbour, Mrs. Harris, shook her head: “Margaret, love, how will you manage without your garden?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret wiped a tear. “The children know best.”
“Couldn’t you refuse? Say you won’t sign the sale?”
“It’s not in my name,” Margaret sighed.
“Ah,” Mrs. Harris muttered.
That evening, Emily arrived with Lily, who dashed straight to the swing Henry had hung years ago. Emily frowned at the fridge. “Mum, why are you stocking up? We’re leaving in a week.”
“Life goes on,” Margaret shrugged. “Lily needs feeding.”
Emily sat heavily. “You’re still angry. But this is our future. The business—”
“Emily,” Margaret interrupted, “remember when your dad and I scrimped for your first car? Penny by penny from our pensions. We never asked for anything back. Because your happiness was ours.”
Emily flushed. “That’s not the same! If you’d said, ‘Here’s the money, but you owe me forever’—”
“Did I ever say that?” Margaret sighed. “I just want to stay in my home, love. Every brick holds memories.”
“Not this again!” Emily slapped the table. “It’s decided!”
Lily ran in: “Granny, apples are falling everywhere!”
“I’ll gather them, poppet,” Margaret smiled.
“No, you won’t,” Emily snapped. “Your dress is new. Go watch cartoons.”
That night, Margaret lay awake again. Should she fight it? But the deed wasn’t in her name. The sale was between the children and Mr. Thompson—her signature meant nothing.
At dawn, she marched to Mr. Thompson’s. The burly sixty-year-old was tinkering with his tractor.
“Margaret! What’s the matter?”
“Emily’s selling the cottage to you,” she said bluntly. “Did you know they’re throwing me out?”
His brows furrowed. “What? But where would you go?”
“Some flat in town. But this is my home—my garden, my neighbours…”
He rubbed his neck. “Blimey… I thought it was a family decision. Listen—let me talk to Will.”
She didn’t hear their discussion, just saw them deep in conversation on the patio. Later, Emily arrived, flustered. “Mum, Mr. Thompson’s offered to buy just half the plot—enough for his needs. You could keep the house and orchard.”
Margaret’s breath caught. “Truly?”
“Yes,” William said. “We’d sell the back land. Less money, but…”
“But enough to start,” Emily finished.
“God bless you!” Margaret cried. “I only need the garden and my trees!”
Days later, surveyors divided the plot. Mr. Thompson set up a new fence but added a gate. “Pop round anytime, Margaret. Try my plMargaret sat under the cherry tree, sipping tea with Mrs. Harris, and though her garden was smaller now, her heart felt lighter knowing kindness still grew in unexpected places.
