At sixty-nine, I realised the most terrifying lie is when children say, “We love you,” when all they truly love is your pension and your flat.
“Mum, weve been thinking,” my son Oliver began cautiously, barely stepping over the threshold. His wife, Emily, hovered behind him, nodding eagerly as if confirming the wisdom of his every word.
She brought with her the scent of expensive perfumeand the faint, sickly whiff of worry.
“This doesnt bode well,” I murmured, shutting the door. “Whenever the two of you start thinking, it always ends badly.”
Oliver pretended not to hear. He strode into the lounge, eyeing each piece of furniture as though appraising its worth. Emily fussed with a cushion on the sofathe one she had just rearranged deliberatelybefore smoothing it back into place.
“Were worried about you,” she said with practised 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 concern?”
“Oh, Mum, dont start,” Oliver sighed. “Its a brilliant idea. We sell your flat and our studio, take out a small mortgage, 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 paradise. Emilys eyes shone with false sincerity. She was a decent actress.
I studied themtheir expressions, 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 really love is your pension and your flat.
I didnt feel sadness. It was as if everything had simply clicked 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 murderous look.
“To spare you the hassle, Mum,” he added quickly. “Well handle everything. All the paperwork.”
I nodded slowly, stood, and walked to the window. Outside, people hurried past, absorbed in their own troubles. And there I wasfacing a choice: surrender or fight.
“You know what, children?” I said without turning. “Its an interesting idea. Ill think about it.”
A relieved sigh rustled behind me. They thought theyd won.
“Of course, Mum, take your time,” Emily added sweetly.
“Only, Ill do my thinking here. In my flat.” I turned to face them. “You should go now. Im sure youve got plenty to do. Mortgages to calculate. House plans to study.”
I met their eyes, and their smiles faltered. They understoodthis wasnt over. It was only the beginning.
From that day, the “campaign” began. Daily phone calls, all carefully scripted.
In the morning, Oliverdry, methodical:
“Mum, Ive found a fantastic plot! Pine trees everywhere, a river nearby! Imagine the kids breathing fresh air!”
In the afternoon, Emilys saccharine voice:
“Well give you your own room, Mum! With a garden view. Your own ensuite! Well bring your armchair and your fern. Just how you like it!”
They pressed every buttongrandchildren, loneliness, my health. Each call was a performance where I played the frail old woman in need of saving.
I listened, nodded, and told them I was still considering it. Meanwhile, I acted.
My old friend Margaret had worked in a solicitors office. One phone call, and there I was, sitting in her kitchen, running through every scenario.
“Nina, whatever you do, dont sign a deed of gift,” she warned. “Theyll toss you out without a second thought. A life interest, 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 wasnt surrendering.
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 breezily, stepping inside. “Hes just here to value our property.”
The man entered, scanning my flat like a vulture. Walls, ceiling, floorboards. He didnt see a home. He saw square footage. A saleable asset.
Something in me snapped.
“Value what?” I asked, my voice suddenly sharp.
“The flat, Mum. To see where we stand,” Oliver replied, already opening my bedroom door. “Go ahead, 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 spluttered.
“I said out. Both of you.” My gaze shifted to Emily, pressed against the wall. “And tell your husband that if he brings another stranger into my home without my permission, Ill call the police. And file a report for attempted fraud.”
The agent, sensing trouble, was the first to retreat.
“Ill Ill call you,” he stammered, fleeing.
Oliver glared at me, the mask of the dutiful son gone.
“Youve lost it, 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 rang, her voice dripping with remorse.
“Nina, please forgive us. Weve been stupid. Lets meet for coffee. Like before. No talk about the flat. Just family.”
I knew it was a trap. But I went.
They waited at a corner table. A dessert sat untouched between them. Oliver looked defeated; Emily clutched his hand.
“Mum, Im sorry,” he mumbled. “I was wrong. Lets forget all this.”
But behind his lowered eyes, I saw only impatience.
“Ive been thinking too,” I said calmly, unfolding a sheet of paper. “And Ive made a decision.”
It wasnt a will. It was a letter.
“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 coerce me into selling my only home. Due to loss of trust and concerns for my future, I have decided”
I paused. Olivers eyes lifted, cold and sharp.
“to sell the flat.”
Emily gasped. Oliver lurched forward.
“What?”
“Yes,” I said. “Ive already found buyers. A lovely young couple. Theyre happy to wait while I move into a little cottage in the countryside. For myself alone.”
Shock. Disbelief. Ragetheir faces cycled through them all.
“And the money?” Emily demanded.
“Dont worry,” I smiled. “Some in the bank, earning interest. The rest? Ill spend it. Holidays, maybe a cruise. After all, you only want me to be happy, dont you?”
Olivers jaw clenched.
“You you wouldnt,” he hissed.
“Why not?” I stood, leaving the letter on the table. “Its my flat. My life. Good luck with your mortgage, children. Without me.”
I walked away without looking back.
I didnt feel triumph. Just emptiness. Where a mothers love had once been, there was only 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 kept my armchair, my fern, 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 first attempts were dreadful, but the soft colours on paper brought me peace.
The money sat 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 spotted a familiar figure by 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 silent for a long time, staring at his hands.
“Emily and I we split up. After what happened, everything fell apart. She said I was weak. That I hadnt pushed hard enough.”
He said
