My son, Thomas, got married ten years ago. He, his wife Gemma, and their little girl have been crammed into a tiny one-bed flat in Manchester ever since. Seven years back, Tom bought a plot of land and started building his dream home. The first year, nothing moved—just an empty lot. The next, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then silence again—money was tight. But my boy never gave up, saving every penny where he could.
Over the years, they’ve only managed to finish the ground floor. Their dream? A proper two-storey house with room for everyone, me included. Tom’s always been family-minded, wanting us all under one roof. The ground floor only happened because Gemma talked him into swapping their two-bed flat for a smaller one, putting the difference into the build. Now even that feels cramped.
Whenever they visit, it’s all about the house—wallpaper choices, wiring, insulation. No one asks how I’m doing, how my week’s been. I don’t complain; I listen, but there’s a knot in my chest.
I’d had a feeling for ages—Tom and Gemma wanted me to sell my two-bed flat to finish the build. Once, Tom slipped up: “We’ll all be together in the big house, Mum, one happy family!” I couldn’t hold back: “So you’re saying I should sell my place?”
They lit up, nodding, babbling about how cozy it’d be. But I caught Gemma’s look and realised—I don’t want to live with her. She’s never warmed to me, and I’m tired of pretending not to notice. The icy stares, the little digs—it says it all.
Still, my heart aches for Tom. He’s trying so hard, but at this rate, the house won’t be done for another decade. I want to help him, give his little girl a proper home. But then I had to ask: “Where would *I* live?” I can’t move into their shoebox flat or a half-built house with no proper heating.
Gemma had an answer ready: “Mum, you’d *love* the cottage!” They’ve got a little holiday place outside Manchester. But it’s just a draughty shack—no heating, barely fit for summer weekends. Fine for flowers and fresh air, but winter? Chopping wood, bathing in a basin, trekking to an outhouse in the freezing cold? My health’s not what it was—I couldn’t manage.
“People manage in the countryside!” Gemma scoffed. Sure, but they’ve got proper homes—heating, plumbing, real walls. Their “cottage” is a glorified shed. But the money’s needed, and I feel the push to sacrifice.
Lately, I’ve been visiting my neighbour, Arthur, more—lonely, same as me. We have tea, chat, sometimes I bring him biscuits. Then the other day, I overheard Gemma on the phone to her mum: “We could just move her in with Arthur and sell her flat.”
I was stunned. What next? I always knew their “big family home” wouldn’t have space for me—but to plan dumping me so coldly? It breaks my heart. Part of me still wants to help Tom—he’s my boy, after all. But the fear gnaws: will I end up old and homeless, left with nothing, just another pensioner under a bridge?
