At sixty-nine, I realised the most terrifying lie is when children say I love you, when in truth, they only love your pension and your flat.
Mum, weve been thinking, my son Oliver began cautiously, barely stepping over the threshold. His wife, Emily, nodded eagerly behind him, as if confirming the wisdom of his every word.
She brought with her the scent of expensive perfumeand a sickening hint of worry.
This wont end well, I muttered, closing the door. Whenever the two of you think, it always ends badly.
Oliver pretended not to hear. He walked into the sitting room, eyeing each piece of furniture as if appraising its worth. Emily fussed with a cushion on the sofathe one she had just moved deliberatelybefore placing it back carefully.
Were worried about you, she said with feigned concern. Youre alone. And at your age anything could happen.
I sank into my favourite armchair, fingers tracing the worn, familiar fabric. I knew this chair better than I knew my own children.
Like what? I asked. High blood pressure from your worry?
Oh, Mum, dont start, Oliver sighed. Its a brilliant idea. We sell your flat and our tiny place, take out a small loan, and buy a big house in the countryside! With a garden! Youll be with the grandchildren, breathing fresh air.
He said it as if offering me a ticket to heaven. Emilys eyes shimmered with false sincerity. She was a good actress.
I studied their faces, their rehearsed gestures. In their eyes, I saw the gleam of estate agents scenting the sale of a lifetime. No warmth. No honesty.
And then, I understood. The cruelest lie is when your children say, We love you, but what they truly love is your pension and your flat.
It wasnt sadness I felt. It was as though everything had simply fallen into place.
A house, you say, I murmured. And whose name would it be in?
Well, ours, of course, Emily blurted before biting her tongue. Oliver shot her a sharp look.
To spare you the paperwork, Mum, he added hastily. Well handle everything. All the legal bits.
I nodded slowly, stood, and walked to the window. Outside, people hurried past, absorbed in their own troubles. And there I stoodfaced with a choice: surrender or fight.
You know what, children, I said without turning. Its an interesting idea. Ill think about it.
A relieved sigh rose behind me. They thought theyd won.
Of course, Mum, take your time, Emily said sweetly.
Only, Ill think about it here. In my flat, I replied, facing them. You should leave now. Im sure youve got plenty to do. Loans to calculate. House plans to study.
I looked them straight in the eye, and their smiles faded. They understoodthis wasnt over. It was only the beginning.
From that day, the campaign began. Daily calls, all carefully orchestrated.
In the morning, Oliverdry, methodical:
Mum, Ive found a perfect plot! Pines all around, a river nearby! Imagine the grandchildren breathing fresh air!
In the afternoon, Emilys honeyed voice:
Well give you your own room, Mum! Overlooking the garden. Your own bathroom! Well bring your armchair and your ficus. Just as you like it!
They pressed every weak pointthe grandchildren, my loneliness, my health. Each call was a performance where I played the frail old woman in need of rescue.
I listened, nodded, and told them I was still thinking. Meanwhile, I acted.
My friend Margaret had worked in a solicitors office. One call, and there I was, studying every possible outcome.
Nora, never sign a deed of gift, she warned. Theyll toss you out without a second thought. A lifetime lease, perhaps. But they wont want that. They want everything. Now.
Her words steeled my resolve. I wasnt a victim. I was a survivor. And I wouldnt surrender.
The climax came on a Saturday. The doorbell rang. Oliver and Emily stood therewith a man in a suit, clutching a folder.
Mum, this is Ian, the estate agent, Oliver said lightly, stepping in. Hes just here to value our property.
The man entered, scanning my flat like a vulture. Walls, ceiling, carpet. He didnt see a home. He saw square footage. A sellable asset.
Something in me broke.
Value what? I asked, my voice suddenly sharp.
The flat, Mum. To know our starting point, Oliver replied, already opening my bedroom door. Go on, Ian.
The agent took a step, but I blocked his path.
Out, I said softly. So softly they all froze.
Mum, what are you doing? Oliver stammered.
I said out. Both of you. My gaze shifted to Emily, pressed against the wall. And tell your husband that if he ever brings a stranger into my home without my permission again, Ill call the police. And file a report for attempted fraud.
The agent, sensing trouble, was the first to retreat.
Ill ring you later, he mumbled, scurrying off.
Oliver glared at me, the mask of the loving son gone.
Youve lost your mind, you mad old
Not yet, I cut in. But youre working hard on it. Now leave. I need rest. From your love.
A week of silence followed. No calls. No visits. I knew it wasnt over. They were regrouping.
The next Friday, Emily called, her voice dripping with remorse.
Nora, forgive us, we were stupid. Lets have coffee. Like before. No talk of the flat. Just family.
I knew it was a trap. But I went.
They waited at a corner table. A dessert sat untouched in the middle. Oliver looked defeated; Emily held his hand.
Mum, forgive me, he murmured. I was wrong. Forget all this.
But behind his downcast eyes, I saw only impatience.
Ive been thinking too, I said calmly, unfolding a letter. And Ive made a decision.
It wasnt a will. It was a statement.
Ill read it, I said. I, of sound mind and memory, declare that my children, Oliver and his wife Emily, have attempted through words and actions to pressure me into selling my only home. Due to lost trust and concerns for my future, I have decided
I paused. Olivers eyes lifted, cold and sharp.
to sell the flat.
Emily gasped. Oliver jerked upright.
What?
Yes, I said. Ive already found buyers. A lovely young couple. Theyre happy to wait until I move into a little house in the countryside. For myself alone.
Shock. Disbelief. Angertheir faces cycled through them all.
And the money? Emily snapped.
Dont worry, I smiled. Some in the bank, with good interest. The rest? Ill spend it. Travel, maybe a cruise. After all, you just want me to be happy, dont you?
Olivers jaw tightened.
You you wouldnt.
Why not? I stood, leaving the letter on the table. Its my flat. My life. Good luck with your loan, children. Without me.
I walked away without looking back.
I felt no triumph. Only emptiness. Where a mothers love had once been, there was scorched earth.
But I did it. I sold. My bluff became the best decision of my life.
I bought a bright little studio in a quiet, leafy neighbourhood. Ground floor, shared garden. I took my armchair, my ficus, my favourite books.
At first, the silence after cutting ties with my son was a wound. I didnt take a cruise. Instead, I fulfilled an old dream: I enrolled in watercolour classes.
Three times a week, I painted. My early attempts were dreadful, but the soft colours on paper brought me quiet peace.
The money stayed in the bank. Not a burden, but a foundation for serenity. For the first time in years, I wasnt afraid of the future.
Six months passed. One evening, watering flowers in the garden, I saw a familiar figure at the gate.
Oliver. Alone. No Emily. He looked tired, older.
Hello, Mum, he said.
Hello, I replied, setting down the watering can.
We sat on the little bench by the door. He was quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on his hands.
Emily and I we split up. After what happened, everything fell apart. She said I was weak. That I hadnt made you do it.
He said it plainly, without self-pity.
Im sorry, I said
