Margaret Harper carefully reached for the ripe apples on the branch. Her back ached, but she ignored it—this year’s harvest was too good to waste. The Bramley apples were perfect: large, fragrant, with just the right tang. Ideal for jam, which her son-in-law Philip loved. And her granddaughter Emily would be thrilled with an apple pie when she visited for the weekend.
“Mum, are you on that stepladder again?” Her daughter Catherine’s voice made Margaret startle. “How many times have I told you? Call me or Phil—we’ll do it!”
Catherine 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 rows of parsley.
“Oh, don’t fuss, love,” Margaret said, climbing down with a guilty smile. “You’ve enough on your plates as it is.”
“Exactly,” Catherine replied, taking the basket of apples. “Phil’s been buried in paperwork for days, I’m run ragged with clients, and here you are scaling heights. What if you fell? I haven’t got time to ferry you to hospital, Mum!”
Margaret said nothing. What was there to say? Her children had their own lives now. Catherine and Philip ran a small home furnishings business—always on the phone, always in meetings. No time for their mother.
“Mum, we need to talk,” Catherine said, setting the basket on the patio. “Come sit with me.”
Margaret’s heart sank. That tone meant something serious—and unpleasant.
They settled on the weathered bench beneath the cherry tree. Margaret had painted it green years ago. The paint was peeling now, but she’d never got round to touching it up. Probably never would.
“Mum, remember we talked about expanding the business?” Catherine began, her gaze drifting past the orchard.
“Of course,” Margaret nodded. “You wanted a second shop across town.”
“Right. And it’s all falling into place. Loan approved, location sorted. But we need extra funds for renovations and stock.”
Margaret stiffened. She had modest savings, tucked away for emergencies, but she’d hand them over in a heartbeat if Catherine asked.
“Love, if you need money—”
“No, Mum, it’s not that,” Catherine interrupted. “We’ve decided to sell the cottage.”
“What?” Margaret barely trusted her ears. “Which cottage?”
“This one, Mum.” Catherine gestured across the plot. “Mr. Thompson next door’s wanted to expand for ages—he’s offered a fair price. We need the money now.”
Margaret’s head spun. Sell the cottage? Their family haven? Her late husband, Geoffrey, had built this place with his own hands, planted the garden. Catherine had grown up here, learned to tend the soil on these very beds. Thirty summers they’d spent here, and after Geoffrey passed, Margaret had moved in full-time from spring till autumn.
“But what about me?” she whispered. “Where will I go?”
“Mum, be realistic—you can’t manage alone at your age,” Catherine said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “The roof leaks, the garden’s gone wild. Phil and I can’t keep fixing everything. You’ve got your flat in town—warm, tidy. We’re not throwing you out.”
“I don’t want the flat,” Margaret murmured, tears welling. “This is my home, Cathy. My flowers, my vegetable patch, the neighbours I’ve known for years. How can you do this?”
“Mum, it’s decided,” Catherine said firmly. “Mr. Thompson’s paying well, and we’ve shaken on it. You’ve got a fortnight to pack. Take what you want—we’ll sort the rest.”
“Two weeks?” Margaret’s voice cracked.
“Quick is better than drawn out,” Catherine replied. “And Mum… the cottage is in mine and Phil’s names. You remember?”
Margaret did. Geoffrey had insisted: “Let’s sort it now, while we’re fit. Save the hassle later.” And she’d agreed. How could she have known her own daughter would cast her out of the home they’d built?
“Mum, don’t look at me like that,” Catherine stood. “We’re doing this because we must. The business could sink or soar—there’s no middle ground. The cottage is just land sucking time and money. You’ve said yourself your back hurts from weeding.”
“I said it fondly,” Margaret whispered.
That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling Geoffrey had paneled himself. She thought of all she’d leave behind—the apple trees planted when Catherine was five, the strawberry patch the local children raided (she’d pretended not to notice), the arbor where she and her friends sipped tea on summer evenings.
The next morning, Philip arrived with boxes and bin bags.
“Margaret, let me help you pack,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “What’ll you take? What stays?”
“Stays?” she echoed. “For whom? Mr. Thompson? He’ll raze the place for his extension.”
“Some things might need binning,” Philip hedged. “Old furniture, appliances… Cathy said you’d buy new for the flat.”
“With what?” Margaret almost asked, but stayed silent. Her pension barely covered meds and food. That’s why she preferred the cottage—growing her own veg, trading favors with neighbors for staples.
“Phil,” she met his gaze, “isn’t there another way? Must you sell?”
He looked away.
“Margaret, we’ve thought it through. It’s best. At your age, you should be near shops, hospitals. Out here, it’s miles to the bus stop—impossible in snow.”
“I don’t stay winters,” she protested, but Philip was already emptying drawers.
The week passed in a blur. Margaret packed mechanically, still disbelieving she’d really leave. Each morning, she wandered the garden, touching the apple trees like a farewell. Their neighbor, Mrs. Whitmore, shook her head:
“Love, how’ll you manage without the cottage?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret wiped her eyes. “The children know best.”
“Tell them no! Refuse to sign the papers!”
“They’re not in my name,” Margaret sighed. “We transferred the deed years ago.”
Philip and Mr. Thompson spoke at length on the patio. Later, Catherine arrived, and they talked in hushed tones: “…if Margaret agrees…” “…better for everyone…”
That evening, Catherine made her pitch:
“Mum, Mr. Thompson will buy just half the plot. He only needs the land behind the house—where the raspberries are. The cottage and orchard stay yours.”
Margaret blinked. “How?”
“Easy,” Philip cut in. “We’ll split the deed. He’ll pay less, but—”
“It’s enough to start,” Catherine said. “He’s offering more than we’d hoped. Says he’d rather have you next door than strangers.”
Margaret could scarcely believe it.
“So I can stay? In the cottage?”
“Yes, Mum,” Catherine nodded. “Just the land goes.”
“Oh, bless you!” Margaret cried. “Six acres were too much anyway. The trees and my little patch are all I need!”
Days later, a surveyor divided the plot. Mr. Thompson erected a new fence but left a gate.
“Pop over anytime,” he said. “Try my plums.”
Margaret smiled, still dazed by her luck. The cottage was hers! The orchard, the cherry tree bench, the arbor where she’d host her friends—all remained.
Catherine and Philip left with their share of the money. At the door, Catherine hugged her.
“Don’t be cross, Mum. We were desperate.”
“I’m not, love,” Margaret said truthfully. “It’s worked out.”
That evening, she sat on the patio with homemade apple jam and tea. Mrs. Whitmore rang:
“Well, you showed them, eh?”
“I suppose,” Margaret chuckled. “Found the right neighbor, more like.”
“Aye, that’s the way,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “Never give up!”
Margaret didn’t explain that Mr. Thompson had swayed Philip. Why had he stepped in? Pity? Or genuine fondness for a longtime neighbor? Either way, one truth lingered: her own daughter would’ve turned her out without a second thought, while a near-stranger had ensured she kept her home.
She bore no grudge—Catherine was doing what she thought right. But from now on, Margaret would see her differently. She’d still make Philip’s jam, of course. But the warmth behind it? That, she feared, was gone for good.
