My son, James, got married ten years ago. He, his wife Charlotte, and their daughter have been squeezing into a cramped one-bed flat in Manchester ever since. Seven years ago, James bought a plot of land and started building his dream house. The first year, nothing happened. The next, they put up a fence and laid the foundations. Then silence again—money ran dry. Still, saving every penny, my boy never lost hope.
Over the years, they’ve only managed to finish the ground floor. But their dream was always a big two-storey home, with room for everyone—including me. James has always been family-minded, wanting us all together. The ground floor only happened because Charlotte convinced him to downsize from their two-bed flat, putting the difference into the build. Now, though, even that feels cramped.
Whenever they come round, all they talk about is the house. They debate wallpaper, wiring, insulation—never asking after my health or how I’m keeping. I don’t complain, just listen, but a worry gnaws at me.
I’ve had a feeling for ages they’d ask me to sell my two-bed flat to finish the build. Once, James slipped: *”We’ll all be together in the big house, Mum—one roof over our heads!”* I couldn’t hold back: *”So you want me to sell my place?”*
They lit up, nodding, painting a picture of cozy family life. But one look at Charlotte told me I couldn’t live under the same roof as her. She’s never warmed to me, and I’m tired of pretending not to notice. The cold stares, the sharp remarks—they say it all.
Still, I ache for James. He’s working so hard, but at this rate, the build will drag on another decade. I want to help him, give his daughter a proper home. But then I asked the question burning inside me: *”Where would I live?”* I can’t move into their shoebox flat or a half-built shell without proper plumbing.
Charlotte, quick as ever, chirped: *”Mum, you’d love the cottage!”* Yes, we’ve got a little holiday place on the outskirts—but it’s a draughty old shed, fit only for summer weekends. Flowers, fresh air, lovely for a few days. But winter? Chopping wood, hauling water, trekking to an outhouse in the freezing cold? My health’s not what it was—I couldn’t manage it.
*”People manage in the countryside!”* Charlotte scoffed. True, but village life isn’t roughing it. Proper heating, running water—their cottage has none of that. Just four walls and a leaky roof. But they need the money, and I feel the pressure to sacrifice.
Lately, I’ve been visiting my neighbour, Edward, more often. He’s on his own, like me. We have tea, talk, sometimes I bring him biscuits. Then the other day, I overheard Charlotte on the phone to her mother: *”We could just move her in with Edward and sell her flat.”*
It hit me like a punch. What next? I always knew their *”big family home”* wouldn’t have space for me. But to plan tossing me aside so brazenly? My chest aches. Part of me still wants to help James—he’s my boy, after all. But the fear won’t leave: will I end up old and homeless, cast aside with nowhere to call my own?
