She cant live hereshes not family. Thats what I overheard my late husbands daughter, Eleanor, saying to her brother, insisting I be turned out of the house Id called home for the last fifteen years.
“Wait, Eleanor. Its not that simple. Wheres Aunt Margaret supposed to go?” replied Edward, my husbands son, the one Id always thought more decent than his sister. In those fifteen years shared with my husband, Id learned a thing or two about people.
My husband had passed not long ago. His children from his first marriage arrived swiftly, eager to divide his estate. It wasnt smalla countryside house, a garden, a garage, and a car.
I made no claims, but in truth, I hadnt expected to be shown the door so soon.
John and I met later in life, both of us carrying the weight of failed marriages and grown children. I had two daughters; he had a son and a daughter.
Id just turned fifty, my eldest daughter newly wed and bringing her husband home, while the younger one remained unmarried. Our flat was cramped, and I couldnt fathom how wed manage.
Then, almost at once, I met John. He was five years my senior and had lived alone for years. His children were settled, married, and well provided forhed held good positions in his time and earned comfortably.
To put it simply, John didnt hesitate. He asked me to move in with him straightaway. I considered it carefully and thoughtwhy not? He was kind, a good man, and treated me well.
So I went to live with him in his country house. We managed wellhe kept a vegetable plot, chickens, rabbits, and for a time, even a cow and a pig.
Our children visited often, mine and his, and we always welcomed them warmly, never letting them leave empty-handed, always sending them off with bags full of homegrown goods.
John and I never married. We spoke of it early on, but in time, we decided a stamp in a passport mattered little at our age.
Those fifteen years were wonderful, and I regret none of it.
In that time, my younger daughter married too. She and her sister nearly came to blows over who should have the flat. The eldest, already settled there, refused to share or let her sister and husband move in. In the end, they paid the younger one off, and that, it seemed, was that.
But a year ago, my youngest divorced and returned home with her child. The eldest wasnt pleased, and now the quarrels had begun anew.
Id hoped she might reconcile with her husband, but it hadnt happened.
Now, with John gone, I must return to the flat. Yet I know its crowded even without me.
“Aunt Margaret, you may stay here until we find buyers,” Edward offered the next morning.
I was glad of his kindnessuntil Eleanor stepped in, clarifying the terms. I could stay, but only if I kept up the house and garden alone.
So now I was to be their unpaid labour, all for the privilege of not paying rent?
I didnt care for the idea. The countryside demands hard worktending gardens and livestockand Im no longer young. Im sixty-five.
Now Im torn. Stay here as a servant to children wholl cast me out the moment they sell, or return to my own daughters, to a flat thats still legally mine? Yet I fear Im unwanted there too.
What should I do? Perhaps an outsider sees clearer.
