**I Dont Want to Be Left Out in the Cold**
Ten years ago, my son got married. Since then, he, his wife, and their daughter have been squeezing into a cramped one-bedroom flat. Seven years back, Oliver bought a plot of land and slowly, bit by bit, started building a house. At first, there was a long silence. After a year, the walls went up, and the foundations were laid. Thensilence again. Money ran short. Year after year, they pressed on: slowly, painfully, but he saved up for materials, never giving up.
All this time, theyve only managed to finish the ground floor. They dream of a two-storey home with space for themand for me. My sons kind-hearted; hes always said, *”Mum, youll live with us tooyoull have your own room.”* To fund the build, they even downsized from a two-bed flat to a smaller one, putting the difference into bricks and mortar. But now theyre living on top of each other, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into a rundown of the house plans. They talk about where the bathroom will go, how theyll insulate the walls, the wiring I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no interest in how Im copingjust walls, pipes, loft space. *”Take your vitamins,”* they say.
One day, I finally asked outright: *”So, you want me to sell my house?”*
They lit up. There was excited chatter about how wonderful it would be, all living together. But I glanced at my daughter-in-law and knewI couldnt share a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue to keep the peace.
Still, my heart aches for Oliver. Hes trying so hard. Itll take another decade to finish that house if I dont help. And part of me wants to ease his burden, truly. But I had to ask: *”Where would I live?”*
The answer came fast. My daughter-in-law, ever the problem-solver, chirped, *”Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Peaceful, quiet, no bother.”*
Oh, the cottage exists, alright. A forty-year-old wooden shack. No central heating. In summer, its lovelyfresh air, ripe blackberries. But winter? Chopping logs? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My knees wobble, my blood pressures unpredictable. And they want me to spend *winter* there alone?
I tried explaining: *”Its freezing, the bathrooms outside, its not safe.”*
Her 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 her on the phone to her mother: *”We could move her in with old Mr. Thompson next door. Sell the flat quick, before she changes her mind.”*
My legs went weak. So thats the plan. Theyve decided my future. And here I was, thinking Id at least have a room in their home. Instead, she wants to shuffle me off to the neighbour and snatch the keys from my hand.
I went to see Arthur Thompson. A widower, living alone. We had tea, reminisced about the old days. But *live* with him? And not even by choice? What a humiliation.
I sat and wonderedmaybe I *should* sell? Give them the money, help my son. What if hes good to me? What if I get my little corner?
Then I look at my daughter-in-law, replay her words and dread creeps in. What if they push me out later? What if the cottage becomes permanent, with a cheerful *”Ta very much”*?
Im nearly seventy. I dont want to end up homeless. I dont want to be shunted around like unwanted furniture. I dont want to die in that icy shack, under a thin blanket, listening to mice scuttle. And I *wont* be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want a quiet old age. In *my* house. In *my* bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Yes, Im a mother. But Im still a person.
