The couch had long since taken the shape of my weary body after three sleepless weeks. I pressed my cheek deeper into the rough fabric, breathing in the scent of my son Olivers cologne mixed with his wife Beatrices lavender diffuserthe perfume of my banishment. Through the thin walls of their London flat, their hushed voices carried, discussing me as though I were an inconvenience rather than the woman whod brought him into this world.
At sixty-two, I never thought Id be curled up on a pull-out sofa in my own sons sitting room, my life whittled down to two battered suitcases. The ink on the divorce papers was still fresh when Oliver had offered this temporary arrangement. Temporary. As if thirty years of marriage crumbling overnight was nothing more than a minor hiccup.
Morning light seeped through Beatrices spotless cream curtains, streaking the hardwood floors I wasnt permitted to tread upon with shoes. Every unwritten rule in this house was ironclad: dont use the fancy towels, dont adjust the central heating, dont cook anything with garlic. I had become a spectre haunting the edges of their polished existence.
Mum, youre awake early, Oliver said, appearing in the kitchen doorway already suited for work. At thirty-five, he had his fathers strong jawline and my stubbornnessthough he seemed to have forgotten where the latter came from.
Couldnt sleep, I muttered, stirring instant coffee with water heated in the microwave. The proper espresso machine was off-limitsa wedding present, Beatrice had reminded me with a tight-lipped smile.
Beatrice and I were talking, he began, rubbing his neck the way he used to as a boy when nervous. We think it might be time you looked into more permanent options.
The coffee turned sour in my mouth. Permanent options?
Retirement communities. Theyre quite nice these days.
How thoughtful, I set my mug down harder than intended. Silly me, imagining I might stay until I got back on my feet.
Dont be like that. Were trying to help.
Help? The word came out sharper than Id meant. Oliver, yesterday you drove Beatrices mother to view that new luxury flat in Kensington. The one with the marble countertops.
His throat bobbed. Its different. Her mother has specific needs.
My specific need is a bed that isnt your couch.
Beatrice glided in then, her auburn hair in a sleek chignon. She moved through the kitchen with rehearsed grace, avoiding my gaze. Morning, Margaret, she said without glancing up. The use of my full name was a quiet reminderI was not family; I was an imposition.
The spare room theyd used for storage had been cleared last week, freshly painted in pale blue for their coming child. Beatrice barely showed, yet theyd already ordered a designer crib.
Beatrice needs the space for the nursery, Oliver explained. Shes been under strain.
I wasnt suggesting I move in permanently, Oliver. Just until I find somewhere.
Beatrice finally looked at me, her hazel eyes frosty. Margaret, I think youre missing the point. This is about boundaries.
Boundaries? I echoed. And what would be appropriate for a woman whose husband of thirty years left her for his assistant?
Mum, dont
Oliver, help me understand. Your unborn child needs that room more than your homeless mother needs a proper bed. Is that right?
He paled. Youre not homeless. You have options. Dad offered you the flat in Cornwall.
Your father offered me a one-bed flat three hundred miles away, provided I surrendered half our assets. How generous.
The blender roared to life as Beatrice made her smoothie, drowning out Olivers reply. When it stopped, the silence was suffocating.
If you wanted comfort, Oliver said finally, his voice barely audible, you shouldve stayed married to Dad.
The words struck like a slap. I stared at my sonthis man Id carried, nursed, loved without conditionand saw a stranger. I see, I said, placing my mug in the sink. Thank you for clarifying my place.
That afternoon, I scoured rental listings on my mobile, tallying my dwindling savings. Six hundred quid in my account. At sixty-two, jobless and credit-strapped, it might as well have been six pence.
That evening, I walked to the corner shop. At the till, my gaze snagged on the lottery display. The jackpot stood at two hundred million. Before I could think, I heard myself say, One lucky dip, please.
Mr. Khan printed the ticket12, 19, 27, 34, 41. Bonus ball 8.
Best of luck, he said, handing me my change. A fiver. All I had left.
The flat was empty when I returned. A note on the counter explained Oliver and Beatrice had gone to dinner at her mothers. Naturally. I sank onto the sofa and switched on the telly. At precisely 11:15, the numbers flashed across the screen.
12, 19, 27, 34, 41. Bonus ball 8.
My hands shook as I fumbled for the ticket. Every digit matched. The slip fluttered from my fingers as I slumped back. Two hundred million. After taxes, enough to never sleep on another souls sofa. Enough to tell my son exactly what I thought of his tough love.
The question wasnt what Id do with the money. It was what Id do with the power.
I didnt sleep. The ticket lay on the coffee table like a loaded gun. At half-five, Olivers alarm blared. I stayed still, playing the part of the broken woman they expected.
Morning, I said softly as he entered the kitchen, just to watch him startle.
Christ, Mum. Didnt realise you were up. He fumbled with the kettle. About last night
You meant every word, I said, sitting up. Dont insult us both by pretending otherwise.
Beatrice appeared, her silk dressing gown immaculate. Good morning, Margaret. Sleep well?
Like a baby, I smiled, and something in my expression made her hesitate.
Ill start flat-hunting today, I continued, standing. Might even have good news by tonight.
Good news? Beatrices tone was wary.
A woman my age hasnt many options, but Im resourceful. Youd be surprised.
After they left, I rang the National Lottery office. I walked out a multi-millionaire, though nothing outwardly changed. Instead of returning to the flat, I took the Tube to the British Library and spent the day researching properties. By evening, Id narrowed it down to three. The one that quickened my pulse was a thirty-acre estate in the Cotswoldsan old farmhouse sold by heirs desperate to settle a debt.
Oliver was home when I returned. Any luck flat-hunting? he asked without looking up.
Quite, I said, setting down my handbag. I may have found something.
Oh? Beatrices voice was cautiously hopeful.
Consulting work. A firm needs someone with my expertise to assess investments. I took a sip of tepid tea, savouring the lie. The role includes accommodation.
I studied their faces. Relief warred with suspicion.
Mum, thats brilliant, Oliver said.
That night, I lay on the sofa for the last time. Tomorrow, Id view the farmhouse. By weeks end, it would be mine. But change wasnt enough. Justice demanded reckoning. As I drifted off, I pictured the groundskeepers cottage in the listing photos. Small, basic, the bare minimum. Ideal for housing those suddenly in need of shelter.
Three weeks later, I stood in my own kitchen, watching dawn gild the windows of my home. The farms transformation had been swift. Contractors had repaired the stables, updated the cottage plumbing, erected new fencing. The main house received only essential fixes.
Hartwell Farm had its first residents: three retired racehorses, a pair of goats, and a rotation of rescue animals from the local shelter. Id hired Emily, a veterinary student, to assist. She lived in the cottages smaller room in exchange for work and a modest wage.
I hadnt spoken to Oliver in six weeks. Through mutual friends, I learned Beatrices pregnancy progressed smoothly. They were content, settled, secure in their choices.
That made what came next all the sweeter.
The first sign of trouble was Olivers LinkedIn post: *Exploring new career avenues* Corporate code for *sacked*. Two months after vanishing from his sofa, Oliver finally tracked me down. I was in the south pasture when his familiar Mercedes struggled up the gravel drive.
Mum, his voice carried across the field, smaller than I remembered. I didnt turn. Mum, I know you can hear me.
At last, I looked up. He stood at the fence, still in his work attire. Hello, Oliver.
