Margaret carefully reached for the ripe apples on the branch. Her back ached with the familiar pain, but she ignored it—this year’s crop was too plentiful to leave untouched. The Cox’s Pippins were perfect: large, fragrant, with just the right tang. Ideal for the jam her son-in-law, Edward, loved. And her granddaughter, Emily, would be thrilled with an apple pie when she visited for the weekend.
“Mum, are you up that ladder again?” Her daughter’s voice made Margaret start. “How many times have I told you? Call me or Ed, and we’ll do it!”
Louise stood on the garden path, hands on her hips. In her crisp white blouse and neatly styled hair, she looked out of place among the apple trees and herb beds.
“Don’t fuss, Lou, I’m being careful,” Margaret murmured, climbing down with a guilty smile. “No need to trouble you—you’ve enough on your plate.”
“Exactly,” Louise said, taking the basket of apples. “Ed’s been swamped with paperwork for days, I’m run off my feet with clients, and here you are scaling ladders. What if you fall? I haven’t time to ferry you to hospital, Mum!”
Margaret stayed silent. What could she say? The children had their own lives now, their own worries. Louise and Edward ran a small home decor business—always on the phone, always in meetings. No time for her.
“Mum, we need to talk,” Louise said, setting the basket on the patio before returning. “Come, sit down.”
Margaret’s heart tightened. She knew that tone—her daughter had made up her mind about something unpleasant.
They sat on the old bench under the cherry tree, the green paint Margaret had applied years ago now peeling in places. She’d meant to touch it up, but never got round to it. Now, it seemed, she never would.
“Mum, remember when Ed and I mentioned expanding the business?” Louise began, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the orchard.
“Of course,” Margaret nodded. “You wanted a second shop across town.”
“Right. Well, it’s happening. The loan’s approved, we’ve found a premises. But we need extra funds for renovations and stock.”
Margaret tensed. She had modest savings, tucked away for a rainy day, but she’d have handed them over without hesitation if Louise asked.
“Lou, if you need money—”
“No, Mum, it’s not that,” Louise cut in. “We’ve decided to sell the cottage.”
“What?” Margaret stared. “Which cottage?”
“This one, Mum.” Louise gestured at the land around them. “Old Thompson next door has wanted to extend his plot for years. He’s offered a fair price, and we need the money urgently.”
Margaret’s head spun. Sell the cottage? Their family haven? Her husband, George, had built this place with his own hands, planted every tree. Louise had grown up here, learned to garden on these very beds. Thirty summers they’d spent here, and after George’s passing, she’d moved in full-time from spring till late autumn.
“But… where will I go?” she whispered.
“Mum, at your age, it’s too much to manage alone,” Louise said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “The roof leaks, the garden’s overgrown. Ed and I can’t keep running repairs. You’ve got your flat in town—warm, clean. It’s not like we’re tossing you out.”
“I don’t want a flat,” Margaret said, tears rising. “This is my home, Lou. My flowers, my veg patch, the neighbours I’ve known for years. How can you—?”
“Mum, it’s decided,” Louise said firmly. “Thompson’s paying well, and we’ve shaken on it. The paperwork’s underway. You’ve a fortnight to pack. Take what you want—we’ll deal with the rest.”
“A fortnight?” Margaret couldn’t believe her ears.
“Better quick than drawn out.” Louise stood. “And Mum… the deed’s in mine and Ed’s name. You and Dad transferred it a decade ago, remember? To ‘avoid inheritance hassle.’”
She remembered. George had insisted—”Better sort it now, while we’re fit.” How could she have imagined her own daughter would evict her from the home they’d built?
“Don’t look at me like that,” Louise said. “This isn’t greed—it’s survival. The business sinks or swims. And the cottage? Just land, draining money. You’ve said yourself your back aches from weeding.”
“I said it fondly,” Margaret murmured.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. She lay in the bedroom George had panelled himself, staring at the ceiling, picturing all she’d leave behind. The apple trees planted when Louise was five. The strawberry patch neighbourhood children raided, though she pretended not to notice. The arbour where she and her friends drank tea on summer evenings.
In the morning, Edward arrived with boxes and bin bags.
“Margaret, let me help you pack,” he offered, avoiding her gaze. “What’s coming to town? What stays?”
“Stays? For whom? Thompson? He’ll bulldoze the place for his extension.”
“Some things might go to the skip,” he muttered. “The furniture’s old, the appliances… Lou says you’ll buy new for the flat.”
With what? Her pension barely covered food and medicine. The cottage had been a lifeline—growing her own veg, bartering with neighbours.
“Ed,” she said, meeting his eyes, “is there another way? Must you sell?”
He looked away.
“We’ve thought it through. At your age, you’ll be better near shops, hospitals. Here? Miles from the bus stop. Snowed in come winter.”
“I don’t stay over winter,” she protested, but Edward was already emptying drawers.
The week passed in a daze. She packed, yet couldn’t believe she’d really go. Each morning, she wandered the garden, touching the apple trees like a farewell. When neighbour Mrs. Whittaker heard the news, she shook her head.
“Margaret, love, how can they do this?”
“They know best, I suppose,” Margaret said, wiping her eyes.
“Stand your ground! Refuse to sign!”
“No good—it’s not in my name.”
Mrs. Whittaker sighed. “Aye, well.”
That evening, Louise arrived with Emily, who dashed straight to the swing George had built. Louise, meanwhile, inspected the fridge.
“Mum, why’ve you stocked up? We’re leaving in a week.”
“Still need to eat, dear. And feed Emily.”
Louise sat at the table. “You’re still angry. But this is our future, the business—”
“Lou,” Margaret interrupted, “remember when Dad and I scrimped for your first car? Penny by penny. Never asked repayment. You’re our daughter—your happiness was ours.”
Louise flushed. “That’s different! If you’d said, ‘Take the money, but owe me forever’—”
“Did I ever?” Margaret shook her head. “I just want to stay, Lou. This is my home. Your father and I built it, every nail—”
“Not this again!” Louise slammed the table. “It’s decided! Don’t guilt-trip me!”
Emily burst in. “Granny, the apples are falling! So many!”
“I’ll gather them, love.”
“I’ll help!”
“No, you won’t,” Louise snapped. “That blouse’s new.”
Emily pouted but slunk off to where Edward packed books.
That night, Margaret lay awake, wondering her options. Refuse to sign? But her signature wasn’t needed—the deed was theirs. Helpless tears came.
At dawn, she steeled herself to speak to Thompson. Mrs. Whittaker said he was tinkering with his tractor.
Margaret tucked her grey hair under a scarf and crossed to his land.
Thompson, a burly man in his sixties, glanced up from the engine. “Alright, Margaret?”
“Could be better,” she sighed. “Hear you’re buying my cottage?”
“Aye,” he wiped his hands. “Your lass offered. We shook on it.”
“And you know she’s evicting me?”
Thompson frowned. “Come again?”
“The deed’s in her name. They sell, I’ve nowhere.”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Where’d you go?”
“Some flat in town. But what’s there for me? Just walls and pavements. I’ve always had my garden…”
Thompson scratched his chin. “Right… Tell you what. I’ll have a word with Edward. Maybe there’s another way.”
She didn’t hear their talk. Edward and Thompson huddled on the patio, voices low. Then Edward called Louise, who arrived within the hour. More hushed discussions—”…could work…”, “…if Margaret agrees…”, “…better all round…”
That evening, Louise summoned her.
“Mum, new plan. Thompson’ll buy only half the plot—the rear bit with the bramble patch. The cottage andThe house and orchard stay with you,” Louise said, and Margaret clutched the edge of the table, the weight lifting just a little as she whispered, “Thank you,” though she knew things between them would never quite be the same again.
