**Diary Entry**
For years, I lived alone in a cosy two-bedroom flat in an old part of **Cheltenham**. The house was warm, the neighbours kind, and everything around me familiar down to the smallest detail. As I grew older, I stayed in more, strolling through the courtyard where everyone knew me—young and old. I’d been widowed early, but I never complained. I raised my daughter **Emily**, put her through university, and even helped her with a flat when she married.
Emily and her husband did well enough, raising their son **Oliver**, but I mostly saw them at birthdays and holidays. I never resented it—young people have their own lives. But everything changed when Emily’s husband left her for another woman, abandoning her with Oliver and a mountain of unpaid bills.
At first, she held herself together. Then, she fell apart. Money vanished, Oliver needed school supplies, and Emily still wanted to look presentable—new clothes, the occasional treat. A friend suggested: *Why not sell Mum’s flat and have her move in?* A clever thought, really—she’d have company, and you’d have help. It didn’t take long for Emily to convince me. *What’s there to divide? We’re family. Oliver will have someone to watch him, and the money from the sale can go towards his schooling. Everyone wins.*
Against my better judgement, I agreed. I sold the flat, gave Emily the money, packed my things, and moved in. At first, it was just as we’d hoped—I cooked, cleaned, picked Oliver up from school. I even took walks in the garden, telling the neighbours how lucky I was, how my family had *taken me in*. The other women listened, and I won’t lie—some were envious. Who doesn’t want to feel needed in their old age?
But within months, the joy turned to tears.
After the divorce, Emily became bitter. And I bore the brunt of it—as if *I* were to blame for her husband’s betrayal. First came the little jabs: *Why did you make shepherd’s pie when I wanted roast? You’ve tidied so much, I can’t find anything!* Then the silence, the shouting, the closed doors. *Stay in your room when I have friends over.* That was the moment I realised—I wasn’t a mother or even a guest in this house. I was in the way.
Oliver, taking his cue from his mum, grew colder. He snapped, mocked, then stopped saying hello altogether, as if her resentment were contagious.
And I’d thought he’d be the light of my life. That we’d read together, walk in the park, talk about his lessons. Instead—nothing. Just a lump in my throat every evening.
I cried quietly. Never complained. Only sometimes, sitting on a bench in the courtyard, would I confide in the old neighbours, whispering what choked me inside. Over and over, I said the same thing: *Ladies, don’t make my mistake. Better alone in your own home than unwanted under someone else’s roof.*
Now, I live as a lodger—no say, no voice. Everything I once offered has been used up. The money from the flat is gone, my help now worthless. All that’s left is my little room and the quilt I bought before moving in.
I don’t boast or smile anymore. I just stare out the window, remembering when Emily and I used to make pancakes together, listening to her laugh, kissing Oliver’s forehead when he was small. Back then, we were family. Now? Just walls and strangers’ eyes.
What went wrong? I don’t know. Maybe something broke in Emily. Or maybe the old saying’s true—*absence makes the heart grow fonder*. When we lived apart, there was warmth. Under one roof, it disappeared.
Every day, I ask myself: Is this my reward for a life of love and sacrifice? Or did I just fool myself into believing I’d ever really be wanted?
A bitter story. Quiet. No shouting. Just pain that cuts deeper than any scream.
