Ten years ago, my son got married. Since then, hes lived with his wife and daughter, crammed into a tiny one-bedroom flat in London. Seven years back, Oliver bought a plot of land and slowly began building a house. At first, there was silence for a long while. After a year, the walls went up, and the foundation was laid. Then silence againmoney ran short. Year after year, they inched forward, scraping together enough for materials, never giving up.
By now, theyve only managed to finish the ground floor. They dream of a two-storey home with space for them and me. My sons kind-hearted; hes always said, Mum, youll live with usyoull have your own room. To fund the build, they even swapped their two-bed flat for a smaller one, using the difference for construction. But now theyre squeezed, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into talk about the housewhere the bathroom will go, how theyll insulate the walls, the wiring. I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no concern for my well-beingjust bricks, pipes, loft space.
One day, I asked outright:
So, you want me to sell my house?
They lit up, buzzing with excitement, chattering about us all living together. But I looked at my daughter-in-law and knewI couldnt bear sharing a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue.
It breaks my heart for Oliver. Hes working so hard. Itll take another ten years to finish if I dont help. And part of me wants to ease his burden. But I had to ask:
Where will I live?
The answer came quick. My daughter-in-law, full of brilliant ideas, blurted:
Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Peaceful, quiet, out of the way.
The cottage exists, yes. But its a forty-year-old wooden shack. No heating. In summer, its bearablefresh air, a day in the garden. But winter? Chopping wood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs ache, my blood pressure spikes. The thought of being alone there terrifies me.
I tried to explain:
Its freezing, the bathrooms outsideits not fit.
The reply?
Plenty of village folk live like that. They manage.
There it was. No offer to stay with them while the house was finished, no promise theyd be nearby. Just: Sell your housethe builds stalled!
Then, the other day, I overheard my daughter-in-law talking 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 legs trembled. So thats it. Theyve decided my fate. I thought Id at least have a room in their home, but her plan is to shove me onto old Mr. Thompson next door and snatch the keys from my hands.
I went to see Arthur, the neighbour. Hes a widower, lives alone. We chat, drink tea, reminisce. But live with him? Forced into it? A humiliation.
I sit and wonder: maybe I should sell my house? Give them the money, help my son. What if he does give me a corner someday? What if hes kind?
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, remember her words and fear grips me. What if they push me out later? What if they say, Thanks, now off to the cottage with you?
Im nearly seventy. I wont end up on the streets. I wont be some helpless old woman, passed around like a burden. I wont die in that icy shack, under a blanket, listening to rats scratch. And I refuse to be a weight around my son and his wifes necks.
I just want a quiet old age. In my own home. In my own bed. Where everythings where it should be. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Im a mother, yes. But Im still a person.
