**Diary Entry**
At sixty-nine, Ive realised the most frightening lie is when children say, “We love you,” when all they truly love is your pension and your flat.
“Mum, weve been thinking,” began my son, Oliver, hesitantly as he barely stepped through the door. Behind him, his wife, Emily, nodded eagerly, as if confirming the wisdom in every word he spoke. She brought with her the scent of expensive perfumeand a sickening whiff of worry.
“This wont end well,” I muttered, shutting the door. “Whenever the two of you start thinking, it always ends in disaster.”
Oliver pretended not to hear. He wandered into the sitting room, eyeing each piece of furniture like an estate agent sizing up a sale. Emily fussed with a sofa cushionthe one shed just rearranged on purposebefore smoothing it back into place.
“Were worried about you,” she said with feigned concern. “Youre all alone. And at your age anything could happen.”
I sank into my favourite armchair, fingers tracing the worn 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 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 he were handing me a ticket to paradise. Emilys eyes sparkled with false sincerity. She was a decent actress.
I watched themtheir rehearsed expressions, their practised gestures. In their eyes, I saw the gleam of estate agents scenting the deal of a lifetime. No warmth. No honesty.
And then, it all made sense. The cruelest lie isnt strangers deceitits when your own children say, “We love you,” but all they love is your pension and your flat.
What I felt wasnt sadness. It was clarity.
“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 glare.
“To spare you the paperwork, Mum,” he added hastily. “Well handle everything. All the legal bits.”
I nodded slowly, rose, and walked to the window. Outside, people hurried past, wrapped in their own worries. 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 sigh of relief came from behind me. They thought theyd won.
“Of course, Mum, take your time,” Emily cooed.
“Though Ill think about it here. In my flat,” I replied, facing them. “You should go now. Im sure youve got plenty to do. Loans to calculate. House plans to study.”
I held their gaze, and their smiles faltered. They understood: this wasnt over. It was only beginning.
From that day, the campaign began. Daily calls, meticulously staged.
In the morning, Oliverdry, methodical:
“Mum, Ive found the perfect plot! Pines everywhere, a stream nearby! Imagine the grandchildren playing in the fresh air!”
By afternoon, Emilys honeyed voice:
“Well give you your own room, Mum! With a garden view. Your own en suite! Well bring your armchair and your ficus. Just as you like them!”
They pressed every button: grandchildren, 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 I was at her kitchen table, reviewing every option.
“Agnes, never sign over ownership,” she warned. “Theyll toss you out without a second thought. A lifetime lease, perhaps. But they wont want that. They want it all. Now.”
Her words hardened my resolve. I wasnt a victim. I was a survivor. And I wouldnt surrender.
The grand finale came on a Saturday. The doorbell rang. Oliver and Emily stood therewith a man in a suit, clutching a folder.
“Mum, this is Edward, the estate agent,” Oliver said lightly. “Hes just here to value our property.”
The man stepped in, scanning my flat like a vulture. Walls, ceiling, floorboards. He didnt see a home. He saw square footage. A sale.
Something in me snapped.
“Value what?” My voice turned sharp.
“The flat, Mum. To see our starting point,” Oliver said, already opening my bedroom door. “Go on, Edward.”
The agent took a step, but I blocked his path.
“Out,” I said softly. So softly they 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 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 before fleeing.
Oliver glared at me, the mask of the devoted son gone.
“Youve lost your mind, you daft 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, oozing remorse.
“Agnes, forgive us, we were stupid. Lets meet for coffee. Like old times. No talk of the flat. Just family.”
I knew it was a trap. But I went.
They waited at a corner table. A slice of cake sat untouched in the middle. Oliver looked weary; Emily held his hand.
“Mum, forgive me,” he muttered. “I was wrong. Lets 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 son Oliver and his wife Emily have attempted, through words and actions, to coerce me into selling my only home. Due to lost trust and concerns for my future, I have decided”
I paused. Olivers gaze 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 willing to wait while I move into a cottage in the countryside. Just for me.”
Shock. Disbelief. Rageit all flashed across their faces.
“And the money?” Emily demanded.
“Dont worry,” I smiled. “Some in savings, earning interest. The rest? Ill spend it. Trips, maybe a cruise. After all, you just want me to be happy, dont you?”
Olivers jaw clenched.
“You you wouldnt,” he breathed.
“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 didnt feel triumph. Just emptiness. Where a mothers love had 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 brought 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 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, as I watered the garden flowers, 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 bench by the door. He was silent for a long time, staring at his hands.
“Emily and I we split. After what happened, everything fell apart. She said I was weak. That I hadnt pushed you hard enough.”
He said it flatly, without self-pity.
“I
