**Diary Entry**
Margaret Elizabeth had spent decades living alone in her cosy two-bedroom flat in the quiet, leafy part of Canterbury. The house was warm, the neighbours kind—everything familiar down to the smallest detail. As the years passed, she kept more to herself, strolling around the garden square where everyone knew her—young and old alike. She’d been widowed early, but never complained. She raised her daughter, Emily, put her through university, even helped her buy a flat when she married.
Emily and her husband did well enough, raising their son, Alfie, while Margaret saw them mostly on birthdays and holidays. She didn’t mind—the young have their own lives. But everything changed when Emily’s husband left her—ran off with a younger woman, leaving her with Alfie and a pile of unpaid bills.
At first, Emily held her ground, but eventually, she cracked. Money grew tight, Alfie needed school fees, and she still wanted to look presentable—new clothes, the occasional hair appointment. A friend then suggested the obvious: *Why not sell your mum’s flat and have her move in?* Smart idea, they said—she won’t be lonely, and you’ll have help. Emily didn’t dwell on it long. She convinced her mother—*What’s there to divide? We’re family. Alfie will have supervision, the flat money can cover his education. Everyone wins.*
Against her instincts, Margaret agreed. She sold the flat, handed Emily the proceeds, packed her things, and moved in. For a while, it was just as she’d hoped—she cooked, cleaned, met Alfie from school, even took walks in the square, telling neighbours how blessed she was to be with family. The other elderly women listened, and though they’d never admit it, some were jealous—who wouldn’t want to feel needed in their twilight years?
But within months, the joy faded, replaced by tears.
After the divorce, Emily grew sharp-edged. Margaret became her target—as if *she* were to blame for the husband’s betrayal. First came the little jabs: *”Why make a roast when I asked for fish and chips?” “You’ve tidied so much I can’t find a thing!”* Then silence, shouting, closed doors. *”Stay in your room when I have friends over,”* Emily snapped one evening. And just like that, Margaret understood—she was no longer a mother here, nor even a guest. She was in the way.
Alfie, taking cues from his mum, turned cold. He mouthed off, ignored her, then stopped saying hello altogether—infected by the same dismissiveness.
She’d thought her grandson would be her joy. That they’d read together, stroll in the park, talk about school. Instead—emptiness. A lump in her throat every night.
She cried quietly. Never complained. Only sometimes, sitting on the bench in the square, would she confide in old acquaintances, the weight in her chest spilling out. And each time, she said the same: *”Ladies, don’t make my mistake. Better alone in your own home than unwanted under someone else’s roof.”*
Now, Margaret lives like a lodger—no voice, no vote. Her usefulness long spent. The flat money vanished. Her help—unappreciated. All that remains is her little room with the floral quilt she bought before the move.
She doesn’t smile or boast anymore. Just stares out the window, remembering when she and Emily used to make pancakes, how she’d kiss Alfie’s forehead as a baby. Back then, they were a family. Now—just walls and distant glances.
What happened? She doesn’t know. Maybe something in Emily broke. Or maybe the old saying’s true—*”Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”* Living apart, there was warmth. Under one roof, it all dissolved.
Every day, she asks herself the same question: *Is this the thanks for a lifetime of love, help, sacrifice? Or was it her fault for believing she’d ever truly belonged?*
A bitter lesson, this. Quiet. No scenes. Just a hurt that aches louder than any shout.
