**A Mothers Fear of Being Cast Aside**
Its been ten years since my son married. Since then, he, his wife, and their daughter have squeezed into a cramped one-bedroom flat. Seven years ago, Oliver bought a plot of land and began, bit by bit, to build a house. At first, there was silence. A year later, the walls went up, and the foundation was laid. Then, silence againmoney ran short. Year after year, they pressed on, slowly, scraping together funds for materials, never giving up.
So far, theyve only managed to finish the ground floor. They dream of a two-storey home with space for them and for me. My son is kind; he always says, “Mum, youll live with usyoull have your own room.” To fund the build, they even downsized from a two-bedroom flat to a smaller one, using the difference for construction. But now theyre cramped, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into talk of the housewhere the bathroom will go, how the walls will be insulated, the wiring I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no concern for my well-beingjust bricks, pipes, loft spaces.
One day, I asked outright:
“So, you want me to sell my house?”
Their faces lit up. They chattered excitedly about us all living together. But I watched my daughter-in-law and knewI couldnt share a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue.
Yet my heart aches for Oliver. He works so hard. Itll take another decade to finish the house without my help. And I do want to ease his burden, truly. But I had to ask:
“Where will I live?”
The answer came swiftly. My daughter-in-law, ever the quick thinker, said, “Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Peaceful, quiet, no bother to anyone.”
The cottage exists, yes. But its a forty-year-old wooden shed with no heating. In summer, its bearablefresh air, a day in the sun. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs arent what they were; my blood pressure spikes. Alone there, in the cold?
I tried to explain: “Its freezing, the loos outsideits not fit.”
Her reply? “Plenty of villagers live like that. They manage.”
There it was. No offer to stay with them until the house was ready, no promise theyd be nearby. Just, “Sell your housethe builds stalled!”
Later, I overheard her on the phone to her mother: “We could move her in with the neighbour. Theyd keep each other company. Then wed sell the flat quick, before she changes her mind.”
My hands shook. So thats it. Theyve decided my fate. And here I thought Id at least have a room in their home. But her plan is to shove me onto poor old Arthur next door and prise the keys from my grasp
I visited Arthura widower, living alone. We chatted over tea, reminiscing. But live with him? Forced into it? A humiliation.
I sit and wonder: should I sell? Give the money to Oliver, help him finish. Maybe hell spare me a corner. Maybe hell be kind.
But then I look at her, remember her words Fear grips me: what if they cast me out later? What if they say, “Off to the cottage with you, and thanks for the cash”?
Im nearly seventy. I wont end up homeless. I wont be shoved aside, helpless. I wont die in that icy shed, under a blanket, with the rats. And I wont be a burden.
I just want peace in my old age. In my home. In my bed. Where everything is familiar. Where I can close my eyes unafraid.
Im a mother, yes. But Im still a person.
