No Room Left at Home
On her way back from visiting her daughter, Alice popped into the supermarket for groceries. As she neared the crossing, she spotted Anne—older now, shoulders slumped. At first, Alice thought she must be mistaken, but a second glance confirmed it was definitely her.
“Anne!” she called out to the woman shuffling along with heavy steps. A thought flashed through her mind: *She doesn’t look well…*
Anne lifted her head and offered a weary smile. “Alice, love! I’d know you anywhere, even after all these years.”
They’d once worked together, even been friends, though Anne was five years older. When Alice retired, Anne had already been drawing her pension but kept working.
“Oh, I can’t *wait* to retire—not a single day more of work!” Alice used to say, while her colleague eyed her with envy.
“Easy for you to say. I’ll be working till I drop—helping the kids, paying off loans.”
After Alice left, they lost touch.
“Anne! Blimey, it’s been *ages*,” Alice beamed.
“Time flies, doesn’t it? I’m seventy now. Just came from the chemist’s—I live round here these days.”
“*Round here?*” Alice frowned. She’d known Anne lived in her own cottage. “Did you sell the house?”
“I’m at my sister’s now, in her two-bed flat. We moved Mum in too—she’s ninety-two, needs looking after. The cottage was lovely, but…” Anne trailed off. “I can’t get used to flats. Stuffy little boxes. I spent my whole life with proper floors under my feet, not concrete.”
“So… why’d you leave?” They settled on a bench—neither was in a hurry.
Back in the day, Alice and Anne had been close, visiting each other often. Anne had always been warm, her smile like a magnet. And what a homemaker! Spotless floors, tables groaning with homegrown veg, berries from the garden. A proper hostess, back when she still had her husband. Not that he was much help—too fond of the bottle and a row. Didn’t last long, though. Left Anne with two kids, but she’d counted it a blessing. Hard, yes, raising a son and daughter alone, but at least the house was peaceful. No more waiting up, braced for chaos.
Years rolled by. The kids grew up. The son married first, renting with his wife. Then, when she fell pregnant:
“Mum, we’re moving in with you. You’ll help with the baby, yeah?” No discussion—just an announcement.
“Well, if that’s your plan, love…” Anne agreed, hiding her hurt.
Her daughter still lived at home too—space hadn’t been an issue. Until the grandson arrived. Colic kept the house awake nights. Anne dragged herself to work groggy but shrugged it off. Babies *do* cry.
She babysat weekends, giving the daughter-in-law a break. Sometimes the couple dumped the little one on her entire weekends—off to the pub or mates’ fishing trips.
“Why don’t they take him?” Alice once asked.
“Oh, they *need* a proper rest. Pub, barbecues, spa days—it’s exhausting, apparently.”
“And *you* don’t get tired? Working all week?”
Time ticked on. Then the daughter dropped a bombshell:
“Mum, I’m getting married. You’ll cover the wedding, obviously.”
Anne blinked. “Or… we could skip the fuss?”
“*What?* Brother got a proper do! I want my white dress!”
“I’d need a loan—”
“Fine, *I’ll* take one. You’ll help pay it. Oh, and we’re moving in. Can’t afford rent *and* repayments.”
Anne swallowed a sigh. Of course they’d squeeze in. Kids *needed* help. The son and his wife scowled but stayed put—free childcare was handy.
The wedding was a modest affair at a local hall. The son-in-law seemed decent—quiet, polite. They all crammed into the cottage, Anne silently braced for rows. Oddly, none came.
Then the son declared:
“Mum, we’re extending—separate entrance for us. Taking a loan. You’ll chip in. Later, we’ll add a second floor. Sis is fine with it—her lot aren’t leaving either. Oh, and she’s pregnant. So… you in?”
Anne stared. He always decided *first*, informed her *after*.
“Suppose I’ll help,” she said, thinking, *How many more years of this?*
Three years later, the extension was done. A glossy kitchen, lounge, even a staircase to the new upper floor. The son’s family sprawled across it—two kids now, each with their own room (though the toddler still bunked with his brother). Not once did they invite Anne up.
“Paid off *their* loan—not so much as a *cheers*,” she’d mutter.
Then the daughter demanded a makeover:
“Mum, we want our half done proper—like Brother’s. We’ll need a loan. You’ll help, yeah?”
“Love, I’m *retired* now—”
“*Typical!* His turn, no problem. *My* turn, suddenly it’s—”
“Alright, take the loan,” Anne sighed. Arguing was pointless.
They carved up Anne’s *own* room for their new lounge.
“Mum, you’ll take the sofa now. That old bed’s an eyesore.”
The son-in-law hogged the telly till midnight, beers in hand. Anne lay stiff on the couch, praying for morning.
At sixty-nine, she cleared the final payment.
“Darling, I’m done working. Health’s gone patchy.”
“And *do* what all day? Get underfoot?” the daughter scoffed.
Anne walked out before the tears fell. At her sister’s flat, the offer came:
“Move in with me. Fetch Mum from Norfolk too—she’s frail, and that lazy sister-in-law won’t lift a finger.”
Back home, Anne packed.
“*Mum?* Where’re you off to?” The daughter eyed the suitcases, barely masking her delight.
“Your aunt’s. We’re bringing Granny home.”
“Brilliant. Probably for the best.”
The son barely nodded. Useless pensioner now, wasn’t she?
So it went: a lifetime of loans, sacrifices—and not a corner left for Anne in her *own* home.
“That’s the long and short of it, Alice. Sis and I nurse Mum now. The kids? Phone calls on birthdays. Grandkids don’t need me—too grown.”
As they parted, Alice reeled. Anne—once so bright—now moved like a ghost, eyes dull, steps dragging. Seventy wasn’t *old* these days. Plenty of spry ladies her age. But not Anne. Not anymore.
