I don’t want to end up alone and unwanted in my old age.
My son got married ten years ago. Since then, he, his wife, and their little girl have been crammed into a tiny one-bedroom flat. Seven years ago, George bought a plot of land and slowly began building a house. At first, there was silence—nothing happened for a year. Then they put up a fence and poured the foundations. After that, silence again—no money left. And so it went all these years: slow, gruelling, but he kept saving for materials, refusing to give up.
All this time, they’ve only managed to build the ground floor. But they dream of a two-storey house, with room for them—and for me. My son has a good heart, always saying, *”Mum, you’ll live with us too, you’ll have your own room.”* To afford the build, they even downsized from a two-bed flat to a one-bed, putting the difference into the house. But now they’re squeezed in, especially with the child.
Every time they visit, the conversation turns to the building work. They talk about where the bathroom will go, how they’ll insulate the walls, the wiring. I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, never asking if I’m all right—just walls, pipes, attics.
And then, one day, I finally asked them outright—
*”So, should I sell my flat?”*
They lit up, immediately chattering excitedly about how we’d all live together. But I looked at my daughter-in-law and knew—I couldn’t bear sharing a roof with her. She can’t stand me, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying something sharp.
Yet my heart aches for my son. He’s trying so hard. Without help, it’ll take him another ten years to finish that house. I do want to make things easier for him. But I had to ask the real question—
*”Where would I live?”*
The answer came fast. My daughter-in-law, full of *brilliant* ideas as always, blurted out—
*”You’ve still got the cottage, haven’t you? You could stay there. Quiet, peaceful, out of everyone’s way.”*
Oh, the cottage. A forty-year-old wooden hut with no heating. Fine for a summer afternoon, picking apples, breathing in the country air. But *living* there? In *winter*? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs aren’t what they were. My blood pressure races. I’m scared to go there alone, and they want me to *winter* there?!
I tried to explain—
*”It’s freezing, the loo’s outside, no heating, no proper facilities.”*
And in reply—
*”People manage in villages all the time. They don’t drop dead, do they?”*
That was it. Not once did they offer for me to stay with them while the house was finished. No talk of making space. Just—*”Sell your flat—we need the money for the build!”*
And then, the other day, I overheard my daughter-in-law on the phone with her mother—
*”We could move her in with the neighbour, let them keep each other company. Then we’d sell her flat quicker before she changes her mind.”*
My legs nearly gave way. So that’s the plan. They’ve already decided my future. And here I was, thinking there’d be a room for me in their home. Instead, it’s *”move in with the neighbour”*—and hand over the keys.
I do visit Archie, the neighbour. He’s a widower, living alone. We talk, drink tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? Like some forced arrangement? It’s humiliating.
So now I sit here, turning it over—maybe I *should* sell the flat? Put the money into the house, help my son. Maybe he really *will* give me a corner when it’s done. Maybe he’ll be kind.
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, remember her words—and fear closes in. What if they push me out later? What if they dump me back at the cottage with a *”cheers”* and a pat on the back?
I’m nearly seventy. I don’t want to end up on the streets. I don’t want to be a helpless old woman, shoved from place to place. I don’t want to die in that icy cottage, buried under blankets while rats scurry past. And I *won’t* be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want to grow old in peace. In my own home. In my own bed. Where everything is where I left it. Where I’m not afraid to close my eyes.
Yes, I’m his mother. But I’m still a person.
