**Why Should I Give You My Flat?**
Margaret Whitmores seventieth birthday had arrived, and she had been bustling about the kitchen since dawn, determined to make everything perfect. Cooking for a crowd was no small featmenu planned weeks in advance, trips to the farmers’ market in the countryside for organic vegetables, artisanal cheese, fresh meat, and fish. Supermarket fare simply wouldnt do. She wanted the whole family gathered around her dining table, her children and granddaughter well-fed and content. And the cakeoh, it had to be her famous honey cake, the very one shed baked for Sophie and little Nicholas on their birthdays.
Nostalgia tugged at her as she remembered the past, when they had all lived together under one roofher husband, Professor Charles Whitmore of physics, the twins Sophie and Nicky, and herself, a music teacher. Charles had been awarded the grand four-bedroom flat in Kensington for his contributions to science and his connections. Margaret had furnished it with elegancea crystal chandelier in the sitting room, mahogany bookshelves, a fine Wedgwood dinner service, and vintage silver cutlery. She took pride in the linen tablecloths, the perfect napkin folds, the soup tureennever serving from the pot, always with grace. Friends often remarked that her home resembled a museum or a grand Edwardian salon, and the flattery pleased her. She knew how to host, to play the piano for guests, to charm with refined conversation. The flat was her fortress, her domain. And her cookingoh, her cooking had spoiled Charles and the children rotten.
“Mummy,” little Nicky had once asked, “will my wife cook as well as you?”
“I should hope so, darling. But its rare to find someone who does.”
“Then Ill just live with you forever!”
“Oh no, dear. Children must grow up and leave the nest. It wouldnt do to cling to your parents till youre grey. You must make your own way.”
She had always preferred being a Sunday grandmotherpopping in for visits, not living elbow-to-elbow with children and grandchildren.
Then, suddenly, the happy life ended. Charles passed away one quiet morning before the ambulance could arrive. His heart. Hed taken his pills, seen the doctors, butwell, life is fragile.
Margaret grieved, then carried on. The children flew the nest, just as shed said they should. Sophie studied economics, married Simon, and moved into a cramped rental in a dismal part of Croydonthe best they could afford. Their daughter, little Emily, was born in the local hospital. Nicky, meanwhile, got together with a girl named Alexandra, took a room in a shared house, and left too.
Once, early in her marriage, Sophie had tentatively asked, “Mum could we stay with you for a bit? Just until Simon finds a proper job?”
“No, Sophie. Youre married nowstart your own life. Do you think your father and I had help? We lived in dreadful bedsits, freezing flats with no hot water. But we managed. And lookwe built something. Now its your turn.”
She told Nicky the same: *Youre a man. Provide for your family. Youve taken on responsibilitynow fulfill it.* The children resented it, but none argued. You couldnt very well force your way into your mothers home.
Margaret believed distance made the heart grow fonder. She called regularly, sent gifts, invited them for tea and Victoria sponge, took them to her pupils recitals where she accompanied on the pianoalways trying to craft that picture-perfect family idyll.
Today was no exception. The table was set, the air rich with spices, the silver gleaming. She had styled her hair, applied subtle makeup, and donned her concert dress with diamond earringsCharles last gift.
The family arrived. First came Nicky and Alexandra, bearing roses and a delicate bone china tea set.
“Oh, how exquisite! You know just what I like.” Margaret embraced them.
Alexandras flowing dress caught her eye. “What a lovely frock. And your faceso rosy. Like a doll.”
Nicky hesitated. “Mum, we actually wanted to tell you”
“Later, later! Sophie and Simon are nearly heretheir wretched car broke down again. Theyre on the Tube, but theyll make it.”
Half an hour later, Sophie arrived with Simon and Emily, presenting tulips and a velvet boxa gold pendant with sapphires.
“How they sparkle! Not diamonds, but still lovely. Wont match these earrings, but theyll go with my ring.”
Sophie sighed. “We couldnt stretch to diamonds, Mum. The cars a money pit, rents gone up, Emilys ballet lessonswere stretched thin.”
“Oh, darling, must we dwell on such dreary matters? Everyone has troubles. Noweveryone, sit!”
They did, complimenting the food, making stilted conversation about work and the weather.
“How lovely this is Only wish your father were here. He always brought me jewellery, and Id cook his favourites.” Margaret sighed. “But no matter. After dinner, Ill play, and well all sing.”
Nicky raised his glass. “Mum, weve another gift. A surprisefor us too.”
“Oh?” She perked up. Diamonds at last?
“Youre going to be a grandmother again. Alex is expecting.”
Margaret gasped. “Goodness! What wonderful news!” She hugged them, though privately irked the spotlight had shifted.
Sophie congratulated Nicky. Simon clapped Alex on the back. Emily fidgeted, eager for cake.
“Now, nowsuch a fuss,” Margaret chided gently. “Whod like seconds?”
Nicky slid a brochure across the table. “Mum, what do you think of this?”
She glanced at the glossy pages of a new cottage development. “Charming. Are you buying?”
“No, Mum. Its for you.”
*”For* me? A gift?”
“No. Lookweve lived in that wretched shared house for years. One bathroom, a filthy kitchen. Youve seen it.”
“Dreadful. But whats that to do with me?”
“We cant raise a child there. Were asking you to sell this flat, help us buy our own place.”
Sophie and Simon stared. Margaret was stunned.
“Darling, why on earth should I hand over *my* home? Your father and I built this life. Now you want me to pack up and move to some godforsaken cul-de-sac? The sheer audacity!”
“You live alone in four bedrooms! A guest room, a studya *balcony*. And were in a shoebox. Dont you feel guilty?”
“*Guilty*? Ive given you everythinggifts, concert tickets! My pension isnt limitless. How *dare* you count my rooms?”
“When I queue for the shower at dawn, I count them! Parents should help their children!”
“Times are always hard! A child is *your* choiceprovide for it. Sophie, dont just sit there!”
Sophies voice was sharp. “So *they* get help? What about us? Eight years in that damp flat, scraping for rentwe couldve had a mortgage if youd just *loaned* us the deposit!”
“You wanted to move in after the wedding. I said no. Children must stand on their own feet.”
Nicky scoffed. “Stand? Were drowning! Do you even *care* that Emilys always ill because the heatings broken? Noyouve got your china and your piano. Youre hoarding this place like a miser!”
“I help where I can. But I wont beggar myself because you cant manage. Youre adultsact like it. Im not selling.”
Silence. The clock ticked. Margaret calmly sliced her steak, savouring the silverso rarely used now.
The children fumed. Emily squirmed. “Grandmama, is it cake time?”
“Honey cake, darling. Just like Mummy loved.”
Sophie stood abruptly. “Emily, well have cake at a café. Simon, were leaving. Thank you, Mum. Everything was *lovely*.”
“Your choice, darling. Nicky, staying?”
“I think well go too.”
“Work comes first. Thats how one succeeds.”
In the hall, she caught their whispers: *”Why bring it up? The flatll be ours eventually.” “When? In fifty years? Shed rather rot here than help us!”*
Margaret smiled. *Waiting for my death, are they? Too tired of struggling. Too eager for an easy life. But havent I earned my comfort?*
They left in a huff. She finished her meal, cleared the table, brewed coffee, and cut a slice of cake. Perfect, as always. She sipped, watching telly, musing: *When did living for oneself become a crime? Have I missed my chance to truly live?*
Months passed without a word
