My son, William, got married ten years ago. Together with his wife, Eleanor, and their daughter, they’ve been squeezed into a cramped one-bed flat in Manchester. Seven years back, Will bought a plot of land and started building his dream home. The first year, nothing moved. The next, they put up a fence and laid the foundation. Then silence again—money ran short. Still, saving bit by bit, my boy never lost hope.
Over the years, they’ve only managed to put up the ground floor. But their dream is a big two-storey house with room for everyone, including me. Will’s always been family-minded, wanting us all under one roof. The ground floor only happened because Eleanor talked him into swapping their two-bed flat for a smaller one, putting the difference into the build. Now even that feels too tight.
When they visit, every conversation’s about the house. They’re all over paint swatches, wiring plans, and insulation. No one asks after my health or how I’m managing. I don’t complain, just listen, but a worry gnaws at me.
I’ve long suspected they’d ask to sell my two-bed flat to finish the build. Once, Will let slip, “We’ll all be together in the big house, Mum—one happy family!” I couldn’t hold back: “So you want me to sell my place?”
They lit up, nodding, painting this cosy picture of us all under one roof. But one look at Eleanor’s face told me everything. She’s never warmed to me, and I’m tired of pretending not to notice. Those icy glances, the sharp little remarks—they speak louder than words.
Still, my heart aches for Will. He’s trying so hard, but at this rate, the build will drag on another decade. I want to help him, give his little girl a proper home. But then I asked the question that haunts me: “Where would I live?” I can’t squeeze into their tiny flat or a half-built house with no proper facilities.
Eleanor had an answer ready: “Mum, you’d love the cottage!” Yes, we’ve got a little holiday place out near the Peaks. But it’s an old shack—no heating, just a summer bolt-hole. Lovely in July: roses, fresh air, a weekend escape. But winter? Chopping wood, hauling water, washing in a basin, trekking to an outhouse in the frost? My health’s not what it was—I couldn’t manage it.
“People manage in the countryside!” Eleanor said, with a smirk. Sure, but village life isn’t some survival challenge. They’ve got boilers, proper plumbing. That cottage is barely a shed. Still, the build needs money, and I feel the pressure to sacrifice.
Lately, I’ve been visiting my neighbour, George. He’s on his own, like me. We share tea, chat about old times, sometimes I bring him a batch of scones. Then the other day, I overheard Eleanor on the phone to her mother: “We could always move her in with George and sell her flat.”
It knocked the wind out of me. What else should I expect? Deep down, I always knew their “family home” had no room for me. But to plan it so coldly? The hurt’s like a weight on my chest. Part of me still wants to help Will—he’s my boy, after all. But the fear won’t let go: will I end up in my dotage without a home of my own, left to fend for myself under a railway bridge?
