I don’t want to end up alone and unwanted in my old age.
My son got married ten years ago. Ever since, he, his wife, and their daughter have been squeezed into a tiny one-bedroom flat. Seven years ago, Gregory bought a plot of land and slowly started building a house. At first, there was a long silence. A year later, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then silence again—no money. And so it went, year after year: slow, gruelling, but he saved up for materials, never gave up.
All these years later, they’ve only managed to finish the ground floor. Their dream is a two-storey house with room for them—and for me. My son’s got a good heart, always saying, *”Mum, you’ll live with us too, you’ll have your own room.”* To fund the build, they even downsized from a two-bed flat to a one-bed, putting the difference into the house. But now they’re cramped, especially with a child.
Every time they visit, it’s all about the house. They go on 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, no interest in how I’m doing—just walls, pipes, attics.
Then one day, I plucked up the courage to ask outright:
*”So, should I sell my flat?”*
They were over the moon. Bustling about, painting rosy pictures of us all living together. But as I watched my daughter-in-law, I knew—I didn’t want to share a roof with her. She can’t stand me, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying too much.
Still, my heart aches for my son. He’s trying so hard, slogging away. If I don’t help, it’ll take him another ten years to finish. I do want to make things easier for him. But I had to ask the big question:
*”Where would I live?”*
The answer came fast. My daughter-in-law, ever the font of *brilliant* ideas, chirped:
*”You’ve got that cottage, haven’t you? You could stay there. Quiet, peaceful, out of everyone’s way.”*
Oh, the cottage exists, all right. A wooden shack, forty years old. No heating. Fine for a summer day—fresh air, pick an apple. But *winter*? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs aren’t what they were, my blood pressure’s all over the place. I’m scared to go there alone, and they want me to *hibernate* there?
I tried to explain:
*”It’s freezing, there’s no proper loo, no heating, no comforts.”*
And the reply?
*”People manage in villages, don’t they? They’re not dropping dead.”*
There you have it. Not even an offer to stay with them till the house is done, no *”We’ll be close by.”* Just: *”Sell your flat—the build’s stalled!”*
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 faster, before she changes her mind.”*
My legs nearly gave way. So that’s their plan. My future, settled without me. And here I was, thinking I’d get a room. Instead, it’s off to the neighbour’s, keys handed over in a flash.
I do visit Archie, the neighbour. He’s a widower, lives alone. We chat, have tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? Not by choice? It’s humiliating.
I sit here wondering—maybe I *should* sell the flat? Put the money into the house, help my son. What if he *does* give me a corner? What if he’s kind?
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, remember her words… And the fear creeps in: what if they kick me out later? What if they shove me back to the cottage with a *”Thanks ever so”?*
I’ll be seventy soon. I don’t want to end up on the street. Don’t want to be a helpless old woman, shuffled from place to place. I don’t want to die in a freezing cottage under a blanket, listening to scuttling rats. And I *certainly* don’t want to be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want to grow old in peace. 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 a person too.
