**Diary Entry**
I don’t want to end up alone and unwanted in my old age.
My son married ten years ago. Ever since, he, his wife, and their daughter have been crammed into a tiny one-bedroom flat. Seven years ago, Gregory bought a plot of land and slowly began building a house. At first, nothing happened. A year later, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then silence again—no money left. And so it’s gone all this time: painstakingly slow, but he’s saved every penny for materials, never giving up.
All these years, they’ve only managed to finish the ground floor. Yet they dream of a two-storey home—space for them and a room for me. My son’s always been kind, always said, *”Mum, you’ll live with us, you’ll have your own space.”* To fund the build, they even swapped their two-bedroom flat for a smaller one and put the extra money into the house. But now they’re squeezed, especially with the little one growing.
Every visit from them turns into talk of the house—where the bathroom will go, how they’ll insulate the walls, where the wiring will run. I listen, but my stomach twists. Not a word about my health, no care for how I’m coping—just walls, pipes, lofts.
Finally, I worked up the nerve to ask outright:
*”So, should I sell my flat then?”*
They lit up. Fussed over me, painting grand pictures of us all living together. But as I watched my daughter-in-law, I knew—I couldn’t bear sharing a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue to keep from snapping back.
Still, my heart aches for my son. He’s trying so hard. It’ll take him another decade to finish that house without help. And I do want to ease his burden. But I asked the real question:
*”Where would I live?”*
The answer came quick. My daughter-in-law, ever the brilliant strategist, announced:
*”You’ve got that cottage—you could stay there. Peaceful, quiet, no one to bother you.”*
I *do* have a cottage. But it’s a forty-year-old wooden shack with no heating. Fine for a summer afternoon—fresh air, picking apples. But *winter?* Chopping wood? Trudging through snow to the outside loo? My legs barely hold me these days, my blood pressure’s a nightmare. I’m scared to go there alone, and they want me to *winter* there?!
I tried to explain:
*”It’s freezing. No plumbing, no proper facilities.”*
Her reply?
*”People manage in villages all the time. They don’t drop dead.”*
There it was. No offer to stay with them until the house was done, no promise they’d be nearby. Just: *”Sell your flat—the build’s stalled!”*
Then, the other day, I overheard her on the phone with her mother:
*”We could move her in with the neighbour down the lane—let them keep each other company. Sell the flat quick before she changes her mind.”*
My knees buckled. So that’s it. They’ve decided my fate already. I’d hoped for a room in their home, but no—shoved onto the neighbour, keys handed over.
I *do* visit Archibald, the neighbour. A widower, living alone. We chat, drink tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? Against my will? It’s humiliating.
I sit here wondering—should I sell? Give the money to my son, help him finish. Maybe he *will* keep his word. Maybe he’ll be kind.
But then I look at his wife, remember her words… and fear creeps in. What if they turn me out later? What if it’s back to the cottage with a *”thanks for the cash”?*
I’ll be seventy soon. I don’t want to end up homeless. Don’t want to be some helpless old woman shuffled from corner to corner. I won’t die in a freezing shack, rats under my blanket. And I *won’t* be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want peace in my old age. In *my* home. In *my* bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I’m not afraid to close my eyes.
Yes, I’m a mother. But I’m still a person.
