“You go to the cottage all the timemight as well live there!” Her daughter laughed while handing over the rental agreement.
“Mum, do you remember where my blue hoodie is?” shouted Emily from her bedroom. “The one with the big pockets?”
Margaret set aside the pile of old photographs she’d been sorting through and listened. Emily was rummaging in the wardrobe, hangers clattering.
“Probably in the wash, love,” she called back. “Check the airing cupboard.”
“Got it!” came the reply a moment later.
Margaret returned to the photos. There was little Emily, perched on her late husband Georges lap in front of their first car. Then school-age Emily, clutching a bouquet on her first day. And then her prom
“Mum, whats all that?” Emily emerged, tugging on the blue hoodie.
“Just found some old pictures in the dresser. Deciding what to keep.”
Emily leaned in, peering at the box. “Oh! Thats us at the cottage!” She plucked out a photo of the three of them standing by the freshly built summerhouse. “Dad was still you know.”
“Eight years,” Margaret said softly. “Itll be eight years in August.”
“Time flies,” Emily sighed, putting it back. “Mum, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
Something in her tone made Margaret tense. Thirty years of motherhood had fine-tuned her radar for these things. That careful voice usually meant an awkward conversation.
“What about, love?”
Emily wandered into the kitchen and sat down. Margaret followed.
“Right, soIve got this amazing work opportunity,” Emily began, fiddling with a teaspoon. “A client wants me to build an online shop, sort their website. Big project.”
“Thats wonderful!” Margaret brightened. “Youre brilliant at that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, but theres a catch.” The teaspoon twirled. “Theyll pay really well, but only if I work remotely. From home. And here, in the flat, its just impossible to focus.”
“Why? I dont bother you.”
“Mum, come on. The telly, your phone calls, the neighbours blasting music through the walls. I need quiet.”
Margaret nodded. The thin walls of their council flat werent exactly soundproof, and the students next door treated silence like a personal insult.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I was thinking” Emily hesitated. “Maybe I could rent a place? Somewhere quiet, nice area. The pay would cover it.”
“Rent a place? This one not good enough?”
“Mum, dont take it like that. Of course its home. But I need space to work. Just for a year or so.”
Margaret stared. They’d always lived togethereven when Emily was married, her husband had moved in here. That marriage fizzled out quick enough, but Emily stayed.
“And Id just live here alone?”
“Youre always at the cottage!” Emily brightened. “Youre basically there from May to October anyway. Just move there properly!”
“Properly?”
“Yeah! Youd stay there, Id rent this place out. Split the income, fair and square.”
A lump rose in Margarets throat. “So youre evicting me?”
“God, no!” Emily waved her hands. “Its just practical. You love it there, the flat sits empty half the year anyway”
“And what about winter? The cottage is freezing.”
“Light the wood burner! Or well get an electric heater.”
“Emily,” Margaret said quietly, “are you seriously suggesting a sixty-year-old woman winters in a cottage?”
“Youre fifty-nine! And loads of retirees live in the countryside year-round. Fresh air, peace and quiet”
“And no one around if something happens.”
“There are neighbours! The Wilsons, the Harrisonsthey stay all winter!”
Margaret fell silent, absorbing it all. Emily pressed on:
“Think about it. Why keep a two-bed in London when we could make money off it? Rentals are mad right now, especially in our postcode.”
“What if this job falls through?”
“It wont. This is long-term. And even if it does, Ill find something else.”
Margaret stood and walked to the window. Kids played in the courtyard below; a dog barked. The usual London hum shed known for decades.
The cottage was different. A patch of land in Kent, an hours train ride away. The little house she and George had built themselves, garden bursting with roses and veg. A retreat.
But live there full-time?
“Em, have you considered what happens if I get ill? If I need an ambulance?”
“Youve got your mobile. And the car.”
“I havent driven since I passed my test! You know Im terrified of the M25.”
“Youll get used to it. Or take the train.”
Margaret turned. “Youve already decided, havent you?”
Emily flushed. “No! Im just suggesting. No rush.”
“When do you need an answer?”
“Well the project starts on the first. So, three weeks?”
Margaret picked up a photoher and George, grinning outside this very flat as newlyweds. Twenty-two and full of plans.
“Remember how we got this place?”
“Youve told me a hundred times.”
“Your dad waited eight years on the council list. Worked overtime, did all those community meetings. All for these two rooms.”
“Mum, that was then. Things are different now.”
“Aye. In my day, kids moved in with their parents. Not shipped them off to the sticks.”
“Dont be dramatic. Im not dumping you. Its mutual benefit!”
Margaret snorted. Mutual benefit? Shivering in a draughty cottage while her daughter turned a profit?
“Fine,” she said. “Ill think about it.”
“Brilliant!” Emily kissed her cheek. “Youll seeitll work out. Half the rentll be a nice top-up to your pension.”
She grabbed her bag and left, the flat suddenly too quiet.
That evening, Margaret sipped tea at the kitchen table, untangling her thoughts.
On one hand, Emily wasnt wrong. The cottage was lovelyfresh air, no noisy neighbours, her books and garden.
On the other visits were one thing. Winter there alone?
What stung most was how easily Emily rearranged their lives. As if her mother were an inconvenient piece of furniture.
She remembered eight years ago, when George died. Emily had begged her not to stay alone.
*”Mum, dont be daft. Move in with meIll be lonely too.”*
Now the same girl was packing her off. Nicely, of course. Wrapped in concern and pound signs.
—
Next morning, Emily lingered over coffee. “Thought any more about you know?”
“Still thinking.”
“Right. Only, the clients waiting.”
“What if I say no?”
Emily faltered. “Then Id have to turn it down. Such a shamethe moneys insane.”
“So its an ultimatum.”
“No! Just explaining.”
After she left, Margaret took the train to Kent. To see the cottage with new eyes.
The house was cold but cheerful, smelling of apples and firewood. Two rooms, a tiny kitchen, the sunroom George added. The wood burner worked fine. Livable.
Outside, her neighbour Mr. Wilson waved from his veg patch. “Staying long, Margie?”
“Might be moving in properly.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What about your flat?”
“Emily wants to rent it out. Says Im here most the time anyway.”
“Each to their own,” he shrugged. “Bit rough in January, though. Specially solo.”
That night, listening to owls instead of sirens, Margaret faced the truth: her daughter was politely ejecting her.
—
By weeks end, a young couple signed the lease. Nice enough, with a well-behaved toddler.
“Move-in date?” the husband asked.
“A week,” Margaret said. “I need to pack.”
After they left, Emily sighed. “They seemed decent.”
“Aye. Hope they dont scratch the floors.”
“Mum you sure about the cottage? Last chance.”
“Im sure. But on my terms.”
“Which are?”
“We rent the flat. But I keep all the income. Compensation for inconvenience.”
Emily gaped. “Thats not fair! Half is mine!”
“Your half was a birthday gift. Consider it returned.”
“Youre joking! I need money for my own place!”
“Youll manage. Youre the high-earner now.”
They settled on 80/20.
—
Moving day came too soon. As Emily loaded the last box into the taxi, she hugged Margaret tight.
“Youre not really mad, are you?”
“Not mad. Disappointed.”
“I just this opportunity might not come again.”
“Too late now.”
The train rattled toward Kent. Margaret watched London blur into fields.
