My son, James, got married ten years ago. He, his wife Claire, and their daughter have been crammed into a tiny one-bedroom flat in Manchester ever since. Seven years ago, James bought a plot of land and started building his dream home. The first year, nothing happened. The next, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then—silence again. Money was tight. Still, penny by penny, my son never gave up hope.
Over the years, they managed to put up just the ground floor. But their dream was a big two-storey house, with room for everyone—including me. James has always been family-minded, wanting us all under one roof. The ground floor only happened because Claire convinced him to downsize their two-bed flat, using the extra money for the build. Now, though, even that space feels too small.
Whenever James and his family visit, the talk is always about the house. They argue over wallpaper, wiring, insulation—never asking how I am, how I’ve been. I listen quietly, but unease grows in my chest.
I’ve long suspected they want me to sell my two-bed flat to finish the build. Once, James said, *“We’ll all live together in the big house, Mum—one happy family!”* I couldn’t hold back: *“So you want me to sell my home?”*
They lit up, nodding, painting a picture of cozy evenings together. But I looked at Claire—and knew 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. Her icy stares, sly remarks—they say it all.
Still, my heart aches for James. He’s trying so hard, but at this rate, the build will drag on another decade. I want to help him, to give his daughter a proper home. But then I asked the question gnawing at me: *“Where will* I *live?”* I can’t squeeze into their shoebox flat or a half-built house with no proper heating.
Claire, of course, had an answer: *“You’d love our cottage, Mum!”* Yes, we have a little holiday place outside Manchester—an old, unheated shack, barely fit for summer weekends. In July, it’s lovely: roses, fresh air, a night or two away. But winter? Chopping wood, washing in a basin, trekking to an outhouse in the freezing cold? My health’s not what it was—I’d never manage.
*“People live like that all the time in the countryside!”* Claire said airily. True, but village life isn’t *this* rough—they have plumbing, heating, proper homes. Their “cottage” is barely more than a shed. Still, the money’s needed, and I feel the pressure to give in.
Lately, I’ve been visiting my neighbour, Edward, more often. He’s alone, like me. We share tea, talk, sometimes I bring him biscuits. Then, the other day, I overheard Claire on the phone: *“We could just move her in with Edward and sell her flat.”*
I was stunned. Was there no limit to her schemes? I always knew there’d be no real place for me in their “big family home.” But to plan my eviction so brazenly? My chest aches. Part of me still wants to help James—he’s my boy, after all. But fear grips me: will I end up old and homeless, cast aside like rubbish under a bridge?
Sometimes, love blinds us to the cost—but self-respect should never be the price we pay.
