**Diary Entry**
At seventy, I realised the most terrifying thing isnt an empty flat, but a house full of people who dont need you.
“You bought the wrong bread *again*,” my daughter-in-law, Katy, croaked sharply as I unpacked the shopping in the kitchen. “I specifically asked for sourdough. This is the fifth time.”
She snatched the loaf Id brought and turned it over in her hands as if it were some poisonous creature.
“Katy, love, I forgot. Im sorry. Its been a whirlwind,” I murmured.
“Youre *always* in a whirlwind, Margaret. And now we have to eat this. Alfie might have an allergy.”
She tossed the bread onto the counter like she was doing me a favour by not binning it outright.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. My grandson, Alfie, was sixhed never had an allergy to plain bread in his life.
My son, Oliver, appeared in the doorway.
“Mum, have you seen my blue jumper?”
“Yes, love. Its in the washI did it yesterday”
“Why?” He didnt let me finish. “I was going to wear it *today*! Honestly, Mum!”
He vanished, leaving me with that exasperated “*Honestly, Mum!*” which lately stung more than a slap. Id washed his things. Id taken care. And still, I was the one at fault.
I shuffled towards my bedroom, past the sitting room where Katy was already on the phone, loudly telling her friend how “Mother-in-laws lost the plot again.” The laughter on the other end was as sharp as her words.
My room was the only safe place left in this big, once-cosy house. Now, it hummed like a beehiveconstant chatter, children shrieking, the telly blaring, doors slamming. Noisy. Crowded. And achingly lonely.
I sat on the edge of my bed. All my life, Id feared being alone. Feared the day my children grew up and flew the nest, leaving me in silent rooms. What a fool Id been.
It wasnt until my mid-fifties that I understoodthe real terror wasnt an empty house, but one full of people who didnt need you.
You were just an unpaid add-on. A malfunctioning appliance*fetch this, do that*, but only exactly as instructed. Step out of line, and suddenly youre *in the way*.
That evening, I tried again. Oliver was hunched over his laptop, scowling.
“Ollie, could we talk?”
“Mum, Im *working*. Cant you see?” He didnt even look up.
“I just wanted”
“Later, yeah?”
*Later* never came. He and Katy had their own lives, their own plans, their own conversations. I was background noise. Like an old sofa or a tired lampshade. Present, but unseen.
A knock at the door. Alfie stood there, clutching a book.
“Gran, read to me?”
My heart leapt. There he wasmy little light. The only one who
“Alfie!” Katy appeared instantly. “I *told* you not to bother Gran. Tablet time, now.”
She took the book and steered him away.
I sat there, staring at the closed door. And in that moment, I knewI couldnt just be scenery anymore. Something had to change. Or Id vanish into these walls like a ghost.
The decision didnt come at once. It simmered for days as I mechanically washed dishes, did the shopping, and endured their little jabs.
It hardened when I found my shepherds pie in the bin*”Too rich, were on a diet.”*
I started small. With my own space.
On Saturday morning, while the house slept, I dragged down boxes of my late husbands thingshis books, tools, old photographs. I spread them across the sitting room table, planning to create a little memorial corner, maybe hang his portrait.
Katy was the first downstairs. She froze in the doorway as if shed spotted vermin.
“Whats *this*?”
“Good morning, Katy. Just sorting through some things.”
“I can see that. Couldnt you do this in *your* room? Youve cluttered the whole sitting room. Weve got guests coming, by the way.”
“This is *my* sitting room too,” I said quietly, surprising myself with my own steadiness. “And these were your father-in-laws things. Olivers dad.”
She snorted and stomped to the kitchen, slamming the kettle down. Ten minutes later, Oliver appeared, drawn by the coffee and Mums *rebellion*.
“Mum, whats all this? Katy says youve trashed the place.”
“I wanted to hang your fathers portrait. Right here.” I pointed to the wall.
“*There?*” He glanced at the wall, then at me. “Have you lost it? Weve got a modern aesthetic here, not some dusty old photo! Katys picked out a designer mirror for that spot.”
Ah. A *designer mirror*. More important than his fathers memory.
“Oliver, this is *my* house.”
“Oh, here we go,” he rolled his eyes. “Always with the *my house*. *We* live here too, you know! *We* paid for the decor!”
The *decor* was one garish lime-green feature wall in the kitchen. That was it.
“I want this house to *stay* a home. Not some trendy showroom.”
The real conversation came that evening. They approached me together, rehearsed solemnity on their faces.
“Mum, weve been thinking,” Oliver began carefully. “This place is too big for all of us. The bills are mad, its a nightmare to clean.”
Katy jumped in, all wide-eyed concern:
“We *worry* about you, Margaret. Itll be too much once we move out.”
A chill crept down my spine.
“Move out? Where to?”
“Were selling the house,” Oliver blurted. “Buying a new-build flat for usand a cosy little one-bedder for you. Your own space!”
I stared between them. They werent joking. Theyd already decided. Already divided the money from *my* house in their heads. My fortress. My life.
“Sell *my* home?”
“Whys it always *yours*?” Katy smirked. “We live here too, you know. Or do you expect us to wait on you hand and foot forever?”
I stood. My legs felt like lead, but I straightened.
“No.”
“What dyou mean, *no*?” Oliver frowned. “Mum, this benefits *everyone*.”
“I said no. This house isnt for sale. *Ever.*”
I looked him dead in the eye. There was no love therejust irritation and cold calculation. The loving-family act had slipped. I wasnt just a burden. I was an *obstacle* to their bright future. And theyd sweep me aside. At any cost.
My *no* hung in the air. Oliver flushed. Katy paled, lips pressed thin.
“You dont understand,” he hissed. “This isnt a request. Weve already called an estate agent.”
“Uncall them,” I said calmly. Inside, I trembledbut I knew: falter now, and theyd swallow me whole.
“Youll *love* your little flat!” Katy shrieked. “Stop ruining our lives with your nonsense!”
“Katy” Oliver warned, then turned to me. “Mum, how can you do this to *family*? To your *grandson*?”
A cheap shot. But it didnt land.
“Alfie will visit his gran *here*. In *this* house. Not some soulless new-build bought over his grandfathers memory.”
“Oh, *I see*!” Katy leapt up. “So *we* mean nothing? Weve slaved for you, and nowwhat? *Piss off*?”
I looked at her. For the first time in years, I didnt feel like a frightened shadow. I felt like the mistress of my own home.
“You said it, Katy. Not me.”
The next few days were hell. They didnt just ignore methey erased me. Dead silence at meals. Doors slammed in my face. Meals cooked for *two*. They were trying to freeze me out.
But theyd miscalculated. I no longer feared emptiness. I *craved* it.
On Friday, I made my move. As they sat glued to some Netflix series, I walked in and placed two plane tickets on the coffee table.
Oliver blinked. “Whats this?”
“Tickets. For you. To Manchester. Next Saturday.”
Katy snatched them. “Youre *throwing us out*
