13November2025
I sit at the kitchen table, the rain drumming on the panes, and try to make sense of the storm that has been my life these past weeks. My name is Susan Anderson, and this is my diary, the only place I can speak my thoughts aloud.
The argument began just after dinner. David, my only son, had been hovering over the old cottage that has been in our family for generations. Sell it, Mum, he said, his voice flat. We could move to a onebedroom flat in York, use the money to start a new life. Ive even spoken to a developertheres a plan to build a small retirement village on the land.
What? Sell the house? I snapped, my hands shaking as I stared at the chipped porcelain mug. Where will I live? In the hallway? At the railway station? Are you trying to turn our home into a care home for the elderly?
David sighed. Mum, why are you getting so worked up
Im not losing my mind, David! I cried, my voice rising. Are you offering me a washingmachine box? Have you gone mad, son?
He lowered his voice. Im just asking us to consider the options
Whats there to consider? A house isnt a piece of furniture you can toss when times are hard, I snapped, pushing my chair back hard. I was born here, you were raised here, and now you want to put it on the market!
At that moment the front door opened without a knock. Our neighbour, Mrs. Lydia Barnes, stepped in, her coat dripping from the downpour.
Susan! What are you doing, staring at the wall as if you were rooted to the spot? You promised this year youd plant the garden beds. Last winter you nearly froze! Where are your plans for the plot?
My dear Lydia, Ive tried I whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. The seedlings have just sprouted, and I cant bring myself to tear them up
Lydia laughed. Dont be so hard on yourself! I gave you a number a month agoIgor, the farmer from Littleton. He could plough the whole field for you, make it proper. Youd have carrots and beans, not just roses to admire in your old age.
David said his friends might come over in summerbarbecue, a fire pit. And I have lilacs, roses
The roses! Lydia scoffed. Your son has only visited three times in the last five years, and each time with a sixpack, not a grill. He works too much, he says.
And you remember that winter when the snow cut us off? No food, no medicine! Im glad you stopped by. Where was your hardworking son then? You couldnt even get on the phone!
He always comes when I call
Susan, youre like a naive girl, hoping and waiting while time slips away. You need to use your head, not just your heart. You need garden beds now, not rose bushes.
Perhaps Ill finally tend the beds where the lilacs have taken over
Yes, thats right. And what about your daughter?
My daughter Emily is the same as always. She calls once a yearbirthday, New Yearnothing more.
Your visits grow less frequent, David. Soon things will quiet down even more.
I was born in the little village of Hollybrook, near the rolling hills of Yorkshire. My husband died on a motorway accident twenty years ago, leaving me alone with my children. Emily, the firstborn, was sensible, learned to wash and cook early. David arrived much later, when I was already over forty; he was my comfort. Fifteen years separate us, and our upbringings could not have been more different.
Emily left first.
Mother, Im getting married, she said one crisp autumn morning.
To whom? That Tom from the village? He has no trade, no education, no culture!
This is my life, Mum. Im eighteen now.
Did you see his shortcomings? Hes all flesh, no soul!
Its not about looks, Mother. Hes kind, clever, and a city firm offered him a job.
And youll leave with him? And Ill be here alone?
Ill study, Ill live my own life.
I wept, begged, but Emily packed a bag and vanished through the window, leaving no letters, no phone callsonly occasional rumors through acquaintances.
David stayed with me longer. He built a little gardenroom: a wooden gazebo, a swing, a barbecue, a tidy lawn, a few flower beds. No vegetable patches, no potatoes.
Mum, why do you need garden beds? The new shop in Hollybrook sells everythingpotatoes, courgettes, greens. No need to bend your back.
Well, its tradition to grow your own
That was tradition once! Were in the twentyfirst century now.
I acquiesced. I lived modestly, but comfortably. David brought groceries, medicine, took me to doctors. Then he met a girl named Marina, married her, and I welcomed her into our homethough she never quite fit. She looked down on rural life, especially on me.
During one of his regular visits, David sat beside me, laid out a basket of produce, and said, Mum, I want to talk. I have an ideavery profitable.
More business talk? I asked warily.
Land in Hollybrook is being bought up! A developer wants to build a small cottage estate. If we sell the house with the plot, we could buy a nice onebedroom flat in York, and Id have some startup capital.
Wait what about me? Where will I live?
Dont start that. We could think about a retirement home, or rent a flat, not on the main road where every dog barks. Its not a house we grew up in, Mum.
A flat? In a courtyard where every brick is foreign? This is our family home!
Its just a house, old and inconvenient. As long as the price holds, we should sell.
Never! I clenched my fists. As long as I breathe, this house stays. I wont name it in my will!
David grabbed the keys, stormed out without a word.
I stepped into the garden, where a halfbloomed rose bush stood in the middle of the flowerbed. In one hand I held a spade, in the other an axe. I tried to dig the bed up, to turn it into a vegetable patch, but the roots held fast.
Still stuck? Lydia called from over the fence.
No strength. Neither in my hands nor in my heart.
Its too late! The season is wasted. And David may never return.
What would you advise?
Think clearly. Do everything by the bookyoull have a onebedroom flat in York, a clinic nearby, a shop, warm rooms, decent neighbours. Civilization.
I lay awake all night, turning the words over. At dawn I boarded a bus to York, intending to meet David and discuss calmly. I climbed the thirdfloor flat, paused at the door, and heard a muffled voice from inside:
Its Vera, she wont sell! Stubborn as a bulldozer!
Then youll be a porter! How am I supposed to keep a business? Were on the brink, and youre whining! Let it rot in Hollybrook!
I stood frozen, then pounded the door in fury.
Mum? David opened, his eyes wide.
Thank you, son, for already burying me! My voice trembled. I came to talk, to make peace. But know this: I will not sell! Never! Id rather bury myself in the earth than hand it over to your schemes!
Mum
Get out of here with your devil! Let her parents sell their apartments! My house is not yours to take!
I turned and left, spending the night at the train station. In the morning I returned home, lay in bed for three days, then gathered the axe, but I could not bring myself to swing at the rose bush.
The next morning someone knocked at the garden gate.
Whos there?
Its me, Mum. Emily.
Emily? My daughter
Mum, how are you?
Im, my voice cracked.
David called. He says youve gone mad, you dont want to sell the house. I told him to go away. He thought youd already given up, but I realised its time to return.
My dear we?
When was the last time we spoke? I have three children now, and I understand you perfectly!
Children?
Yes, two daughters and a son. And Roman is slim, into sport, working in IT.
And you?
Well be coming over this weekend. Ill bring food, everything you need. Were close now, Mum.
What about the garden beds?
You dont need them any more. You have grandchildren now.
Tears fell as I hugged Emily, feeling the weight of years lift, if only a little. The house still stands, the roses still bloom, and perhaps, for the first time in a long while, I can breathe.
