Ten years have passed since my son married. Since then, he, his wife, and their daughter have crowded into a cramped one-bedroom flat. Seven years ago, Edmund bought a plot of land and began, bit by bit, to build a house. At first, there was a long silence. After a year, the walls went up, and the foundation was laid. Then, silence againmoney ran short. And so it went, year after year: slowly, with effort, but he saved what he could for materials, never giving up.
By now, only the ground floor stands. They dream of a two-storey home with space for them and for me. My son is kind-heartedhe often said, “Mum, youll live with us too, youll have your own room.” To fund the build, they even swapped their two-bedroom flat for a smaller one, putting the difference toward the construction. But now they live squeezed tight, especially with the little one.
Every visit became talk of the housewhere the bathroom would go, how the walls would be insulated, the wiring laid out I listened, but my heart grew heavy. Not a word about my health, no care for my comfortjust bricks, pipes, rafters. I bought vitamins and tonics.
One day, I asked outright:
“So, you want me to sell my house?”
Their faces lit up. They fussed, chattering eagerly about how wed all live together. But I looked at my daughter-in-law and knewI couldnt bear to share a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue to keep the peace.
Yet it pains me to see my son struggle. He works so hard. Itll take another decade to finish that house if I dont help. And truth be told, I want to ease his burden. But I had to ask:
“Where will I live?”
The answer came swift. My daughter-in-law, ever full of “brilliant” ideas, blurted:
“Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Quiet, peaceful, no trouble to anyone.”
The cottage exists, yes. But its a forty-year-old wooden shack. No heating. In summer, you might manage a dayfresh air, a fig tree in the garden. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs falter now; my blood pressure leaps and dives. And theyd have me spend winter there alone?
I tried to explain:
“But its freezing, the loos outside, theres no proper”
The reply cut in:
“Plenty of village folk live like thatthey dont drop dead from it.”
There it was. Not once did they offer to let me stay with them until the house was ready, never said theyd be close by. Just: “Sell your housethe builds stalled!”
Not long after, I overheard her on the phone to her mother:
“We could move her in with old Mr. Wilkinstheyd keep each other company. Then wed sell the flat quick, before she changes her mind.”
My legs trembled. So thats the plan. Theyve settled my fate. And here I was, thinking Id at least have a room in their home. But shed shove me off to the neighbour and pry the keys from my hands
I went to see Arthur Wilkins, the widower next door. We talked, drank tea, reminisced about our youth. But live with him? And by force? A humiliation.
I sit and wonder: maybe I should sell my house? Give the money for the build, help my son. What if he then gives me a corner? What if hes kind to me?
But then I look at her, remember her words and fear grips me: what if they cast me out after? What if they push me back to that cottage with a curt “thanks”?
Im nearly seventy. I wont end up on the streets. I wont be some helpless old woman, shuffled from place to place. I wont die in that icy shack, under a thin blanket, with the rats. And I wont be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want a quiet old age. In my own home. In my own bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Im a mother, yes. But Im a person, too.
