Lydia Wilson stood by the window, watching unfamiliar children play in the yard. A little girl with pigtails 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?” asked her neighbor Margaret, balancing a cup of tea in her hand. “Thinking about the grandchildren again?”
“Oh, just wandering thoughts,” Lydia sighed. “Seeing those children makes me realise I could be out there with Emily right now, reading her fairy tales.”
“Why 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. But the consequences were nothing like she’d imagined.
It all began when her husband fell ill. Seriously ill. The doctors insisted he needed constant care. Lydia quit her job and became his full-time carer. For eighteen months, she never left his side—feeding him, turning him, washing him, reading the newspaper aloud.
During that time, her eldest son, James, visited maybe three times. Always too busy with work. But her younger son, David, came regularly—helping with prescriptions, groceries, slipping her a bit of money now and then. His wife, Sophie, was kind too—bringing homemade soup or doing the laundry.
“Mum, why don’t we put Dad in a care home?” James suggested during one of his rare visits. “They’d look after him properly. You could rest.”
“A care home?” Lydia was appalled. “He’d be lost without me. We’ve been together forty years. How could I abandon him now?”
“Not abandon. Just arrange proper care.”
“Proper care is at home, with family.”
James just shrugged and left. David kept helping, even bringing Sophie and Emily so his father could see his granddaughter.
When Edward passed, Lydia was left completely alone. The flat felt vast and hollow. Every corner whispered memories; every object ached with absence.
“Mum, come live with us,” David offered after the funeral. “No sense being alone.”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “This place is home.”
“Mum, we’ve barely got space,” James interrupted. “David’s got a bigger place. It’s easier for them.”
“We’ll make it work,” David said firmly. “Mum shouldn’t be on her own.”
Lydia studied her sons. James was successful—three-bedroom flat in a posh part of town. David lived modestly—a two-bed on the outskirts, a smaller salary. But his heart was warm. That much was certain.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
She thought long and hard. James visited rarely but always brought expensive groceries, fancy imported medicines. He boasted about how nice his neighbourhood was—good doctors, upscale shops, a lovely park.
“Mum, I’m the eldest,” he’d say. “It’s tradition—parents live with the firstborn.”
David just came and helped. Fixed the lights, brought groceries, sat and talked. Sophie baked scones; Emily drew her pictures.
“Granny, when are you coming to live with us?” Emily would ask, wrapping her arms around Lydia’s neck. “I’ll show you my room. I’ve got a dollhouse—we can play together!”
“Soon, love, soon,” Lydia would reply, never quite ready to decide.
The choice came unexpectedly. James arrived one day—not alone, but with his wife, Victoria. They sat at the kitchen table, and Victoria began explaining how wonderful it would be, all living together.
“Lydia, you know James can afford the best care for you,” she said, her smile tight. “You’ll have your own room, proper meals. What can David offer? Squeezing into that tiny flat?”
“We’re not squeezed,” Lydia protested. “They’re very cosy.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. They’re lovely people, of course. But resources matter. Look.” Victoria pulled out a leaflet. “I’ve found you a top cardiologist. Private. The best in London. James will cover it.”
Lydia took the paper—a doctor’s name and number.
“David could never afford this,” Victoria pressed. “Five hundred pounds per visit.”
“That much?” Lydia blinked.
“Good care isn’t cheap. And think ahead. If something happens, James has the means. Always.”
James nodded silently.
“And,” Victoria added, “we’re family. I know you and Sophie get on, but honestly—what if they divorce? Then where would you be? James and I? Twenty years strong.”
After they left, Lydia sat at the table, staring at the leaflet. Five hundred pounds. Her pension was seven hundred. One appointment would swallow most of it.
But Victoria was right. James could afford it. His own business, a nice car, a central flat. David worked at a factory—barely made ends meet. If she fell seriously ill, what could he do?
That evening, David arrived with Sophie and Emily.
“Well, Mum? Decided yet?” he asked, settling Emily on the sofa. “When’s the move?”
“David, I’ve been thinking…” she hesitated.
“What about?”
“Maybe I should live with James instead.”
Silence. David straightened slowly; Sophie’s face flushed. Emily just looked confused.
“Right,” David said quietly. “Mind telling me why?”
Lydia felt guilty, but the words were out.
“Well… his place is nicer. Bigger flat, better area.”
“Ah. Nicer,” David echoed. “And the eighteen months we spent helping you while Dad was ill? That doesn’t count?”
“David, 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!” David raised his voice. “But I made time!”
Sophie touched his shoulder.
“David, calm down. Lydia, if that’s your choice, it’s yours to make.”
“Of course it is,” David snapped. “Choosing whoever’s richer.”
“That’s unfair,” Lydia said. “It’s not about money—”
“Then what? Love?”
He stood, scooped up Emily.
“Come on, love. Time to go.”
“But Granny promised to finish my princess story!” Emily whined.
“Next time,” David said flatly.
After they left, Lydia cried. But she didn’t change her mind. Next day, she called James and agreed to move.
James was thrilled—arrived with movers. They packed quickly—forty years in one flat meant clutter, but they took only essentials.
“We’ll sort the rest later,” James said. “Might buy a country place—it’ll come in handy.”
Lydia nodded, though he’d talked about that cottage for years with nothing to show.
The new life wasn’t what she’d pictured. The room was indeed spacious and bright. But it felt foreign. The furniture was stylish but uncomfortable—the bed too soft, the chair too low.
Victoria was polite but set rules from day one.
“Lydia, breakfast at seven. If you miss it, there’s something on the stove. Watch TV in your room—we like different shows. And we prefer quiet after nine.”
Lydia nodded, adapting. Woke at seven though she’d risen at eight all her life. Used headphones for the telly. Wasn’t allowed to help—”You’re retired. Rest.”
“James, what about that doctor Victoria mentioned?” she asked after a week.
“What doctor?”
“The cardiologist. Five hundred pounds.”
“Oh, right. Victoria said he’s on holiday. We’ll book later.”
Later never came. James was always busy—late nights, too tired to talk.
Victoria was swamped too—bank job, endless calls. Asked after Lydia’s health but never really listened.
Worst was the loneliness. In her flat, she’d been the centre. Here, she was a guest—fitting into their rhythm.
“James, maybe I should go back home,” she ventured one evening.
“Home? Why? Not happy here?”
“Not unhappy. Just… out of place. Miss my own space.”
“Mum, you chose this. Changed your mind already?”
“I don’t know…”
“Look—give it time. You’ll adjust.”
But adjusting got harder. Especially when the complaints started.
“Lydia, could you brew weaker tea? The kitchen reeks.”
“Lydia, the TV’s a bit loud. Lower, please?”
“Lydia, don’t leave cups in the sink. We wash up straight away.”
Each request was polite, but the irritation beneath was clear. Lydia knew she disrupted their routine—but what could she do?
Then came the breaking point. Lydia’s chest tightened—she called an ambulance. The young doctor gave her pills.
“No need for hospital,” she said. “But see a cardiologist.”
“James, can we book that private doctor now?” Lydia asked next day.
“Mum, cash is tight right now. Taxes, loan repayments. Five hundred’s a lot.”
“But you said—”
“I did. But IShe smiled as Emily ran towards her the next morning, arms wide open, knowing she’d finally chosen wisely.
