It so happened that in my twilight years, I found myself alone—not by choice, nor by cruel fate, but because my daughter-in-law, the very one I once welcomed into my home, cast me out like an unwanted relic. Now I live in a sagging, dilapidated cottage in a remote village. No running water, just a wood stove I must feed each morning, an outhouse, and buckets hauled from the well. Everything I once had now belongs to her.
My name is Margaret Whitmore. I come from York. My son, Oliver, is thirty-two. He married five years ago—blinded, it seemed to me. He brought home a woman named Mara, a girl from the south with no home, no trade, and not a shred of decency. My son was infatuated; I was wary from the start. But I held my tongue, hoping it would pass.
After the wedding, we lived together in my two-bedroom flat. I gave them the larger room and moved into the cramped second bedroom, barely space to turn around. Within months, Mara announced she was pregnant—already well along. But here’s the rub: Oliver had only known her a month before the supposed conception. I did the maths. It didn’t add up.
“She came early,” she declared.
“Early? A healthy weight, no complications, not a trace of prematurity?”
I said nothing. My son believed her. I didn’t. I knew then—that child wasn’t his. But how could I prove it when Oliver refused to see?
At first, she pretended to keep house—mopped floors, cooked meals. Then she stopped. I carried the weight alone. Then came the final blow. Mara demanded I hand over my pension for their “shared budget.” No shame, no subtlety. Straight to the point.
“And what’s your contribution, Mara?” I asked. “Not a day’s work before or after the wedding!”
Oliver defended her. He demanded I account for every penny spent on myself. Clearly, Mara had been whispering in his ear. She knew every allowance, every benefit. I couldn’t even buy medicine without a lecture.
Eventually, I’d had enough. I bought a fridge and kept it in my room. Stopped chipping in for food, split the bills. I wasn’t obliged to feed a layabout and her child. End of story.
That’s when Mara realised she’d have to force me out. While I was away, she rifled through my papers and found the deeds to the flat. Here’s the twist: after divorcing my first husband, I bought his share but put it in Oliver’s name. Back then, it seemed right—he was my only son, after all…
Mara was thrilled. She threatened me:
“Clear out! You’ve no rights here! Complain to Oliver, and I’ll divorce him and take half. Then you’ll both be on the street!”
What could I say? I knew my son was caught between a rock and a hard place. I didn’t want to tear him apart. So I packed my things and left for my parents’ old cottage in the countryside—a place my ex-husband and I bought but never finished. Now I live in this forgotten corner, where winters are bitter, and the lone summer chimney smoke is the only sign I exist.
I told Oliver I craved peace, quiet, and nature. He never suspected. Mara was glad to be rid of me. At first, he visited a few times. Now, nothing. No word. And I know—she won’t let him.
My only regret? Not keeping the flat in my name. Believing in my son’s love, in his wife’s decency. Now, I’m alone—no roof, no family, no hope. Old age, meant for comfort, has become mere survival.
So it goes: one stranger, welcomed into my home, stripped me of everything. My flat. My son. My dignity. Now, every night, I pray he wakes up. Sees what he’s chosen. But I fear—it will be too late.
The lesson? Trust, but never surrender your safety to another’s kindness, for even love can be outmanoeuvred by cunning.
