“You’re no longer needed,” said the son, taking the keys from his mother.
“Mum, stop making a scene! We agreed to talk this through calmly!” Andrew drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, avoiding her gaze.
Margaret Elizabeth sat across from him in her small, immaculate kitchen, where everything had its place, where the scent of fresh biscuits and tea lingered. Her hands trembled slightly, but her voice was steady.
“What scene? Im only asking why you and Emily decided to sell the cottage without consulting me.”
“Because its in my name. You signed it over to me five years ago, remember?”
“I remember. But I thought I believed it was just a formalityto make paperwork easier for you.”
Andrew stood, pacing the kitchen. He was forty-two, but today he looked olderstreaks of grey at his temples, tired eyes.
“Mum, listen. We need the money. Emilys business failed, debts are piling up. Charlottes starting university, and we have to pay for her halls.”
“I can help with money. Ive got savings…”
“Your savings are pennies, Mum. Sorry, but a pension of four hundred pounds a month wont fix our problems.”
Margaret rose and walked to the window. Outside, the first snow of winter was falling in thick flakes.
“Your father planted every tree in that garden. Remember the apple tree by the summerhouse? You helped him when you were seven.”
“I remember,” Andrew said quietly.
“The greenhousewe built it together when you were fifteen. You said youd bring your children there one day, your own family.”
“Plans change, Mum.”
“Plans” She turned to him. “And what of memories? Every corner of that place is our history. Your childhood, your youth.”
The doorbell rang. Andrew answered it. His wife, Emily, stood theretall, polished, wrapped in an expensive coat.
“Well? Have you talked?” she asked, stepping past her mother-in-law without a greeting.
“Hello, Emily,” Margaret said.
“Oh, hello,” Emily replied dismissively. “Andrew, we have to go. The estate agents waiting.”
“Estate agent?” Margaret frowned.
“The one selling the cottage. He already has buyers lined up.”
“But my things are still there! Your fathers tools, our photo albums”
“Collect them,” Emily cut in. “Youve got a week.”
“A week? How am I supposed to move everything alone?”
“Well help,” Andrew said weakly.
“Help?” Emily scoffed. “When? Youre working two jobs!”
“Ill figure something out.”
Margaret sank onto a chair, legs giving way.
“Andrew, love maybe dont sell it? What if you rented it out instead? I wont visit, I promise.”
“Mum, rentings not worth it. The cottage is old, needs repairs. Selling gets us a lump sum.”
“Two hundred thousand,” Emily added. “Just enough to clear the debts.”
“Two hundred thousand for your fathers cottage,” Margaret whispered.
“Its a fair price,” Andrew said. “Big plot, good location.”
“Good for whom? For someone to tear it down and build a mansion?”
“What does it matter?” Emily shrugged. “The moneys what counts.”
Margaret stood, took Andrews hands.
“Andrew, please. Dont sell. Its all we have left of your father.”
“Hes been gone ten years, Mum.”
“For youten years. For me, it feels like yesterday. I go there and still feel him in every plank he hammered, every flowerbed he dug.”
“Margaret,” Emily interrupted. “You must see its just sentimentality. You cant live in the past.”
“And the future? Where will Charlotte spend her summers?”
“Spain. Or Italy. Like normal people.”
“Normal people”
Andrews phone rang. He checked the screen.
“Its the estate agent. Mum, I really have to go.”
“Wait.” Margaret went to her room, returned with a folder. “Look at this.”
Andrew opened it. Inside were photographsthe cottage over the years. Him as a boy on his fathers shoulders picking apples. Him as a teenager digging flowerbeds. His weddingtables set in the garden, guests laughing, the newlyweds dancing.
“Mum…”
“And heres Charlotte taking her first steps. Remember? Along the path between the flowerbeds.”
Emily snatched the folder, snapping it shut.
“Enough guilt-tripping! Andrew, lets go!”
“Im not guilt-tripping,” Margaret said softly. “Im just asking you to keep what matters.”
“What matters?” Emily laughed. “You know what matters to me? A life without debt. Charlottes education. A decent car, not that rust bucket Andrew drives.”
“Emily, dont,” Andrew muttered.
“Dont what? Tell the truth? Your mother clings to the past while we suffer for it!”
“Im not asking you to suffer. Just to keep the cottage.”
“And Im asking you to stay out of our business!” Emily raised her voice.
“Our business? This is my familys cottageyour fathers, my sons.”
“Was your husbands. Now its Andrews. And hes selling it. Thats final.”
Margaret looked at her son.
“Is this your final decision?”
Andrew looked away.
“Yes, Mum. Im sorry.”
“Well then.” She sat, folding her hands. “Theres only one thing left for me to do.”
“What?” Emily tensed.
“Im moving there. Permanently.”
“What?” Andrew stared. “Mum, have you lost your mind? Its nearly winter!”
“Theres a fireplace. Firewood left from last year.”
“But theres no proper plumbing, no heating!”
“I grew up in the countryside, Andrew. Ill manage.”
“This is blackmail!” Emily snapped. “Youre saying this to make him change his mind!”
“Im saying what I mean. If the cottage is sold, Ive nowhere to go. This flat suffocates me.”
“A flat we pay for,” Emily pointed out.
Margaret flinched.
“I never asked you to.”
“On your pension? Dont be ridiculous.”
“Ill find work.”
“Doing what? Youre seventy!”
“Cleaning. Night watchman.”
Andrew stood, gripping her shoulders.
“Mum, stop. Youre not moving, and youre not working. Well sell, clear the debts, and things will get better.”
“Whose things? Yours?”
“Yours too.”
“My life wont get better without that cottage.”
“Youre being dramatic.”
Margaret walked to the hook, took down a set of keys.
“Here. The cottage keys. Take them.”
“Mum…”
“Take them. Do what you want. Sell it, tear it down, build something new. Just leave me out of it.”
She handed them over. Andrew turned them in his palm.
“And the flat key,” Emily said suddenly.
“What?” Both turned to her.
“The flat key. We pay for itwe have the right.”
“Emily, whats gotten into you?”
“If were selling against your mothers wishes, then frankly, trust is gone who knows what she might do in her state.”
“What could I possibly do?” Margaret asked wearily.
“Anything! Leave the gas on, start a fire”
“Emily!” Andrew barked. “Enough!”
“No, shes right.” Margaret unclipped the flat key. “Here. Take it.”
“Mum, dont”
“Take it.” She pressed it into his hand. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Your signature on the sale papers.”
“Why? The cottage is in Andrews name.”
“But youre registered there. Your consent is required.”
Margaret nodded.
“Fine. When?”
“Tomorrow. Ten at the solicitors.”
“Ill be there.”
Emily smirked, tugging Andrews arm.
“Lets go. The estate agents waiting.”
Andrew hesitated, something flickering in his eyes.
“Mum, are you sure youre alright?”
“Perfectly, love. Go on.”
They left. Margaret stood alone in the kitchen. Then slowly sank into a chair. She picked up the phone, dialed.
“Hello, Sarah? Its Aunt Maggie. Yes, fine, thank you. Listenremember you mentioned needing a porter at the halls? Yes, Ill take it. When do I start? Tomorrow? Perfect. Yes, with lodging. Thank you, dear.”
She hung up, glancing around. The rented flat held littleclothes, dishes, a few photos. All would fit in two suitcases.
That evening, Andrew called.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine. Packing.”
“Packing? Where to?”
“Moving. Found a job with lodging.”
“Doing what?”
“Porter at the student halls. Tiny room, but mine. And they pay three hundred a week.”
“Mum, why?”
“Why? I have to live on something. Youre not paying for the flat anymore.”
“We are! Mum, dont be daft.”
“Andrew, you took my keys today. You saidwell, not you, but stillthat I wasnt needed anymore.”
“I never said that!”
“But Emily did. And you didnt stop her.”
“Mum…”
“Its alright, love. I understand. You have your life, your troubles. Ill manage.”
“Mum, let me come over. Well talk.”
“No need. Ill see you at the solicitors tomorrow.”
She hung up. Andrew didnt call back.
The next morning, Margaret arrived at the solicitors. Andrew and Emily were waiting. Her son looked disheveled, as if he hadnt slept.
“Mum, lets talk.”
“About what? Where are the papers?”
The solicitor, a plump woman in glasses, peered over her documents.
“Margaret, you consent to the sale of the cottage?”
“I do.”
“You understand that after the sale, you forfeit any right to reside there?”
“I understand.”
“Sign here and here.”
Margaret took the pen, signed. Her hand didnt shake.
“All done? May I go?”
“Yes, youre free to leave.”
She stood, heading for the door.
“Mum, wait!” Andrew caught her in the corridor. “Where are you going?”
“To the halls. My shift starts at two.”
“Mum, dont be ridiculous! Lets go home and talk.”
“Home?” She smiled sadly. “I dont have one, Andrew. You took my keys, remember?”
“Emily went too far! I spoke to her.”
“And what did she say?”
Andrew hesitated.
“Well she thinks she was right.”
“There you are. And you agree, since you didnt argue.”
“I dont agree! Its just complicated.”
“I know, love. Go on. Emilys waiting.”
Margaret stepped outside. Snow fell thickly, blanketing the street. She tilted her face up, letting the flakes settle on her skin.
“Forgive me, William,” she whispered. “I couldnt save our cottage. But I tried.”
A month later, Andrew visited the halls. He knocked on the porters door.
“Mum? Its me.”
“Come in.”
The room was tinya bed, a desk, a cupboard. Photos on the wall: William, a young Andrew, granddaughter Charlotte.
“How are you managing?”
“Fine. The students are kind. Helpful.”
“Mum, the cottage sold.”
“I know. Emily called to boast.”
“She wasnt boasting, just letting you know.”
“If you say so.”
Andrew sat on the lone chair.
“Mum, I brought money.”
“I dont want it.”
“Dont be like that. From the sale. Your share.”
“The cottage was yours. I have no share.”
“But morally”
“Morally?” She smiled sadly. “If you cared about morals, the cottage would still be ours.”
“Mum, we had no choice!”
“Theres always a choice, love. You couldve taken extra work. Emily couldve found a job instead of sitting at home.”
“She was raising Charlotte!”
“Charlottes nineteen. What raising?”
Andrew fell silent. Then pulled out an envelope, set it on the desk.
“Ten thousand. Take it.”
“Buying my forgiveness?”
“Dont say that. Just help.”
“I dont need help. Ive a roof, food, work. What more do I need?”
“What about us? Your family?”
Margaret looked at him a long moment.
“Andrew, you said I wasnt needed anymore.”
“I never said that!”
“No? Who took my keys? Who sold the cottage against my wishes?”
“We had to!”
“Perhaps. But after that, I understoodI was a burden. An old woman clinging to the past.”
“Mum, dont say that!”
“Its the truth. But Im not angry. Life goes on.”
Andrew stood, knelt before her, pressing his face into her hands.
“Mum, forgive me. Ive been a fool.”
“No fool. Just lost.”
“Come home.”
“Home? What home? A rented flat where I was a guest?”
“Well find another. Bigger. Your own room.”
“No need. Im happy here.”
“In this box?”
“In this box, Im the one with the keys. No one can take them away.”
Andrew wept. A grown man, sobbing like a child.
“Forgive me, Mum. Please.”
She stroked his hair as she had when he was small.
“Its alright, love. Its alright.”
Six months later, Andrew divorced Emily. The cottage money hadnt gone to debtsshed bought a new car and taken a holiday in Thailand.
He came to Margaret, ashamed.
“Now I see what an idiot I was.”
“Dont punish yourself. We all make mistakes.”
“Mum, come home. Ive got a two-bed flat. Well live together.”
She shook her head.
“Thank you, love. But Im staying.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my world now. Small, but mine. The girlstheyre like granddaughters. They look after me.”
“But Im your son!”
“Yes. And I love you. But trust trust broke with those keys you took.”
“Ill earn it back! However long it takes!”
“Maybe. Time will tell.”
Andrew visited weekly after thatbringing groceries, medicine, just sitting and talking. Charlotte moved in with him but visited Margaret even more.
And Margaret lived quietly. Helping students study, teaching them to bake, listening to their troubles.
One day, the universitys dean inspected the halls. He saw Margaret tutoring struggling students.
“Are you a teacher?” he asked.
“Once. Forty years in a school.”
“Would you consider running prep courses? The pays modest, but extra income.”
“Gladly! Thank you!”
So at seventy, Margaret returned to teaching. And was content.
The cottage was demolished. A mansion stood in its place. Andrew drove past once, stopped, stared. Then went to his mother.
“Mum, I went there. Where the cottage was.”
“And?”
“Nothing left. Even the apple trees gone.”
“A shame. Your father loved that tree.”
“Forgive me, Mum.”
“I have, love. Long ago.”
“But you havent forgotten.”
“No. Some things cant be forgotten. Only accepted.”
Andrew hugged her.
“Youre strong.”
“No. Just old. Age changes your sight.”
“I love you, Mum.”
“And I love you, son. Always have.”
They sat embraced in the tiny porters room. Snow fell outside, students hurried to lectures, life went on.
And Margaret knewwhatever came, shed endure. Because shed found the one thing that mattered: the freedom to be herself. In a small room, on a small wage, but without fear that someone would ever again say, “Youre no longer needed,” and take her keys away.
