Lydia Wilson stood by the window, watching unfamiliar children play in the courtyard. A little girl with plaits reminded her of her granddaughter Emily, whom she hadn’t seen in six months. She could have seen her every day.
“Lydia, why so glum?” Her neighbor Margaret approached with a cup of tea. “Thinking about the grandchildren again?”
“Oh, just letting my mind wander,” Lydia sighed. “Seeing those children makes me think I could be reading fairy tales to Emily right now.”
“Now, don’t torture yourself. You made your choice—now live with it.”
Margaret was right, of course. There had been a choice, and Lydia had made it. Only, the consequences weren’t at all what she’d imagined.
It had all started when her husband fell ill. Seriously ill—doctors said he needed constant care. Lydia gave up her job and became his full-time carer. For eighteen months, she barely left his side—fed him with a spoon, turned him, washed him, read the paper aloud.
In all that time, her son James visited no more than three times—always too busy with work. But her younger son Robert came often, helping with medicine, groceries, slipping her the odd bit of cash. His wife Sarah was kind too—bringing homemade pies, doing the odd bit of laundry.
“Mum, why not put Dad in a care home?” James suggested during one of his rare visits. “They’d look after him properly, and you could rest.”
“A care home?” Lydia was appalled. “He’d be lost without me. Forty years together, and now I’m meant to abandon him?”
“Not abandon—arrange proper care.”
“Proper care is at home, with family.”
James shrugged and left. Robert kept helping—even brought his wife and daughter so his father could see his grandchild.
When her husband passed, Lydia was left completely alone. The flat felt enormous and empty, every corner a reminder, every object an ache.
“Mum, come live with us,” Robert said after the funeral. “No sense staying here by yourself.”
“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly. “This place is home.”
“Mum, we’re cramped enough as it is,” James cut in. “Rob’s place is bigger—they’ve more room.”
“We’ll manage,” Robert said firmly. “The important thing is Mum not being alone.”
Lydia looked between her sons. James was successful—a three-bedroom flat in a nice part of London. Robert lived more modestly—a small terrace house in Croydon, smaller salary. But his heart was in the right place—that much was certain.
“I’ll think about it,” she said at the time.
She thought long and hard. James visited rarely but always brought expensive groceries, foreign medicines, spoke of how nice it’d be in his area—good clinic nearby, nice shops, parks for walks.
“Mum, I’m the eldest,” he’d say. “Traditionally, parents live with their firstborn.”
Robert just came and helped—fixed the lamps, brought groceries, sat and talked. Sarah baked cakes; Emily drew her pictures.
“Granny, when are you coming to live with us?” Emily would ask, hugging her neck. “I’ll show you my room—I’ve got a dollhouse. We can play together.”
“Soon, darling, soon,” Lydia would say, never quite finding the courage to decide.
The decision came unexpectedly. James arrived one day—not alone, but with his wife Charlotte. They sat at the kitchen table, and Charlotte began explaining how wonderful it would be, living together.
“Lydia, you must see that James can provide better for you,” she said with a tight smile. “We’ll give you your own room, proper meals. Robert barely makes ends meet—how could they manage?”
“We manage fine,” Lydia countered. “Their home’s very cosy.”
“Oh, come now. Lovely people, of course. But resources matter. Look—” Charlotte pulled out a leaflet. “I’ve already found you a top cardiologist. Private, the best. James can afford it.”
Lydia took the paper—a doctor’s name, a phone number.
“Robert could never cover that on his wages,” Charlotte pressed. “Twelve hundred pounds a session.”
“That much?”
“Naturally. Quality care isn’t cheap. And think ahead—what if something happens? James has the means to help.”
James nodded silently beside her.
“Besides,” Charlotte added, “we’re family. I know you and Sarah get on, but… who’s to say they won’t argue? Divorce happens. James and I have been married twenty years—solid as a rock.”
After they left, Lydia sat at the kitchen table, staring at the leaflet. Twelve hundred pounds a session. Her pension was fourteen hundred. A good doctor cost nearly a month’s income.
Charlotte had a point. James could afford it—his own business, a nice car, a central flat. Robert worked at a factory, earned pennies. If she fell seriously ill, how could he help?
That evening, Robert arrived with Sarah and Emily.
“Well, Mum, decided yet?” he asked, settling Emily on the sofa. “When are we moving you?”
“Rob, I’ve been thinking…” She hesitated.
“Thinking what?”
“Perhaps it’s better if I go to James’s.”
Silence. Robert slowly straightened; Sarah flushed. Emily looked between the adults, confused.
“Right,” Robert said quietly. “Mind telling me why?”
Lydia felt guilty, but the words were out now.
“His place… it’s better. Nicer area, more space.”
“Ah. Nicer.” Robert’s voice was flat. “And the year and a half we helped you care for Dad—that doesn’t count as ‘better’?”
“Rob, don’t start.”
“Oh, I’ll start. Where was James when Dad was dying? Where was he when you collapsed from stress?”
“He was working—”
“So was I!” Robert raised his voice. “But I made time!”
Sarah touched his arm. “Rob, calm down. Lydia, it’s your choice.”
“Of course it is,” Robert spat. “Choose the richer one.”
“That’s not fair,” Lydia said, wounded. “It’s not about money—”
“Then what? Love?”
Robert stood, scooped up Emily.
“Come on, Em. Let’s go.”
“But Granny promised to finish my princess story!”
“Another time,” Robert said stiffly.
After they left, Lydia wept—but didn’t change her mind. The next day, she called James and agreed to move.
James was delighted, arrived with movers. They took only essentials—after forty years, there was much to leave behind.
“We’ll sort the rest later,” James said. “Might buy a country place—could use it there.”
Lydia nodded, though he’d spoken of a country home for years with nothing to show.
The new life wasn’t what she’d imagined. The room was large, bright—but foreign. The furniture stylish but uncomfortable—the bed too soft, the chair too low.
Charlotte was polite but set rules from day one.
“Breakfast at seven, Lydia. If you miss it, there’ll be leftovers to heat. Watch TV in your room—we like different programmes. And quiet after nine, please.”
Lydia nodded, tried to adapt. Rose at seven though she’d woken at eight all her life. Used headphones for the telly. Offers to help were refused—”You’re retired, rest now.”
“James, what of that doctor Charlotte mentioned?” she asked after a week.
“What doctor?”
“The cardiologist. Twelve hundred a visit.”
“Oh, him. Charlotte said he’s on leave. We’ll book later.”
Later never came. James was always busy—work demanded all his time. He came home late, tired, never free to talk.
Charlotte was busy too—bank job, endless calls, meetings. Asked after Lydia’s health but never really listened.
Worst of all, Lydia felt like a guest. In her own home, she’d been the heart of the household. Here, she was an accessory, expected to fit their rhythm.
“James, maybe I should go back,” she ventured one evening.
“Back? Why? Aren’t you happy?”
“I am, but… it’s lonely. I miss my home.”
“Mum, you chose this. Changed your mind already?”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, give it time. You’ll adjust.”
But adjusting grew harder—especially when complaints began.
“Could you brew weaker tea, Lydia? The kitchen reeks.”
“Your TV’s audible. Could you lower it?”
“Please don’t leave cups in the sink. We wash straight away.”
Each request was polite, but irritation lurked beneath. Lydia knew she disrupted their lives but felt powerless to fix it.
Then came the final straw—chest pains, an ambulance called. The young doctor gave her pills but said, “See a cardiologist.”
“James, perhaps now we book that doctor?” she asked next day.
“Mum, tight month—loan repayments, taxes. Twelve hundred’s steep.”
“But you said—”
“And I meant it. Didn’t realise it was seriousLydia returned to her old home with a humble heart, and though the road to mending fences with Robert’s family was long, she learned that love, not comfort, is what truly makes a home.
