Oh, it’s such a mess, honestly. My son, James, got married ten years ago. Him, his wife Charlotte, and their little girl are all squeezed into a tiny one-bed flat in Manchester. Seven years back, James bought a plot and started building his dream home. First year? Nothing happened. Next year, they got a fence up and laid the foundation. Then—silence again. Money just wasn’t there. But he kept saving bit by bit, never gave up hope.
Over the years, they only managed to finish the ground floor. But their dream? A proper two-story house with room for everyone, including me. James has always been family-minded, wanted us all under one roof. The ground floor only happened because Charlotte talked him into swapping their two-bed flat for a smaller one and putting the difference into the build. But now even *they’re* cramped.
Whenever they visit, it’s all about the house. They’re always gushing over wallpaper samples, wiring plans, insulation—never a word about how *I’m* doing, how my week’s been. I don’t complain; I listen. But there’s this knot in my chest, you know?
I’ve had a feeling for ages they want me to sell my two-bed flat to finish the build. Once, James let it slip: *We’ll all be together in that big house, Mum, one happy family!* I couldn’t hold back—*So you want me to sell my place, then?* They lit up, nodding away, going on about how cosy it’ll be. But I caught Charlotte’s look, and—well, I *know* she’s never warmed to me. The sharp remarks, the icy glances? It’s obvious.
Still, my heart aches for James. He’s trying so hard, but at this rate, the build’ll take another decade. I want to help him, give his little girl a proper home. But then I asked the question gnawing at me: *Where do I live?* I can’t move into their shoebox flat or a half-built house with no proper loo!
Charlotte had an answer ready, of course: *Mum, you’d love our holiday cottage!* Yeah, we’ve got this little place in the Lake District. Lovely in summer—flowers, fresh air, great for a weekend. But winter? Chopping wood, freezing your nose off, washing up in a basin, trekking to an outhouse in the snow? My health’s not what it was; I couldn’t hack it.
*People manage in the countryside!* Charlotte said, all snippy. Sure, but proper village homes have heating, plumbing—not some draughty shed! Still, the money’s needed, and I can feel the pressure—like they’re nudging me toward martyrdom.
Lately, I’ve been popping round to see my neighbour, Edward. He’s on his own, like me. We have tea, chat, sometimes I bring him biscuits. Then the other day, I overheard Charlotte on the phone to her mum: *We could just move her in with Edward and sell her flat.*
I was gobsmacked. What next? I always knew their *big happy house* wouldn’t have space for me, but to *plan* shoving me out? It proper stung. Part of me still wants to help James—he’s my boy, after all. But the fear won’t leave: am I really going to end up old and homeless, tossed aside like some bag lady under a bridge?
