The thought of ending up alone and unwanted in my old age haunts me.
My son James married ten years ago. Since then, he, his wife Emily, and their little girl have been crammed into a tiny one-bed flat. Seven years ago, James bought a plot of land and slowly began building a house—first silence for months, then a fence went up, then the foundation. Then nothing again—money ran dry. Year after year, inch by painful inch, he scraped together enough for materials, never giving up.
All this time, they’ve only managed the ground floor. Their dream? A proper two-storey home—space for them, space for me. He’s a good lad, my son. Always promised, “Mum, you’ll live with us. You’ll have your own room.” They even downgraded from a two-bed flat to a studio, pouring the difference into bricks and beams. But now? It’s suffocating, especially with the little one.
Every visit became a blueprint lecture—where the bath would go, how they’d insulate, which walls would hide the wiring. I listened, smiling—while my chest ached. Not a word about my health. No “How are you, Mum?” Just plaster and pipes.
So one day, I steeled myself. “Should I sell my flat, then?”
The excitement was instant. They buzzed—visions of family dinners, shared lawns. But Emily’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. I knew then—living under the same roof as her would be misery. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue raw to keep peace.
But my heart breaks for James. He’s striving, struggling. Another decade at this pace—unless I help. Maybe I should—but I had to ask: “Where do I live in the meantime?”
Emily didn’t hesitate. “You’ve got the cottage, haven’t you? Quiet, peaceful—out of everyone’s way.”
The cottage. A creaking wooden thing, forty years standing. No heating. Lovely in summer—apple trees, fresh air. But winter? Chopping logs? Trudging through snow to the outdoor loo? My knees buckle on stairs; my blood pressure spikes. The thought of wintering there alone—
I tried reason. “It’s freezing. No proper facilities.”
Her scoff: “People manage in villages, don’t they?”
Not once did they offer their couch. No “Stay close until it’s done.” Just: *Sell. The house needs it.*
Then last week, I overheard Emily on the phone: “We could move her in next door with Alfred. Get the flat sold before she changes her mind.”
My legs gave way. So that’s it—my fate decided. I’d pictured a room of my own. They’d pictured me dumped with the neighbour.
Alfred’s a widower. We chat, drink tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? By their *order*? Humiliation curdles in my throat.
Now I sit, torn. Sell the flat? Help James. Pray he carves out a corner for me. But then Emily’s words slither back—what if they push me out? “Thanks, now off to the cottage”?
I’m nearly seventy. I won’t be homeless. Won’t be a burden, shuffled between grudging roofs. Won’t die alone in that damp shack, rats skittering over my blanket.
I just want peace. My own walls. My own bed—knowing where everything is. Closing my eyes without fear.
I’m a mother. But I’m still a person.
