The old woman sat on the bench outside the house that was no longer hers.
Grandma Edith perched on the wooden slats, her gaze fixed on the cottage where she had spent her entire life. Now, it belonged to strangersthough they were kind enough to let her stay. She couldnt fathom how things had come to this. She had lived honestly, never wishing ill on anyone, raising her only son with all the love she had.
But her son had turned out differently than shed hoped.
Tears streaked her weathered cheeks as memories flooded backher wedding to her beloved Henry, the birth of their boy, Thomas. Twins had followed, a boy and a girl, but they were fragile, gone within days. Then Henry himself was taken, a burst appendix the doctors had missed until it was too late.
She had wept until her bones ached, but grief wouldnt bring him back. Life had to go on. Men had offered marriage, but she refused them all, fearing a stepfather might hurt Thomas. So she poured everything into her boy.
Thomas grew, went off to London, built a life of his own. He married, had children, and left Edith behind in the cottage Henry had built for them. He visited sometimeschopped firewood, carried waterbut with each passing year, the chores weighed heavier on her frail shoulders. A goat, a few chickenseven that was too much.
Then one day, Thomas arrived with a stranger.
“Hello, Mum.”
“Hello, my love.”
“This is my friend, Edward,” Thomas said. “Hed like to see the house. You cant stay here alone anymore. Youll come live with us in the city.”
Edith sank onto a stool, stunned.
“Dont worry,” he continued. “Emily wont mind. Youll help with the grandchildrenthey keep asking when Grannys coming.”
And just like that, it was decided. What choice did she have? She couldnt manage alone, but at least shed have her family.
The house sold fast. On her last day, Edith wandered through each room, touching the walls, the hearthevery corner whispering memories. The garden behind the shed was silent now, no goats bleating, no hens scratching. Only emptiness. She scooped a handful of soil, the same earth she had toiled over for decades, and wept as the neighbors bid her tearful goodbyes.
With a final glance at the home shed loved, she climbed into her sons car. What else could she do? Such was the cruelty of old age.
At first, life in London was easy. No wood to chop, no animals to tend. The flat was warm, the children sweet. She played with them, watched telly, and tried to forget the ache in her chest.
Then Thomas spent the house money on a shiny new car.
Edith protestedit wasnt wise to squander it so quicklybut he cut her off mid-sentence. “You dont need to worry about money, Mum,” he snapped. “Youve got a roof over your head. Be grateful.”
The words festered inside her. Worse, his familys warmth vanished overnight. Meals were eaten without her. The grandchildren grew distant. If she spoke, they sighed; if she moved too slowly, they snapped.
She was a burden. A ghost in their home.
If shed known this would happen, shed have starved in her own cottage before leaving it. Better to die in the place she loved than wither away in a strangers houseeven if that stranger was her own son.
One morning, she packed her few belongings.
“I never thought my own child would treat me like this,” she said, trembling. “That money meant more to you than I ever did.”
Thomas didnt look at her. Only when she reached the door did he mutter, “If you get tired of wandering, you can always come back.”
She shut the door behind her, tears spilling as she stumbled down the steps. He hadnt even tried to stop her.
It took her two days to hitchhike back to the village. She slept on a bench at the station, her face streaked with dried tears. But when she saw the cottagefreshly painted, the garden tidyher heart steadied.
It wasnt hers anymore, but she didnt care. She crept into the old pig sheds loft and curled up in the hay. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was home.
She prayed the new owners wouldnt find her. If they threw her out, shed have nowhere left to go.
But they found her the next morning.
The manEdward, the one Thomas had broughtstood below, his voice gentle.
“Come down, Granny Edith. We need to talk.”
Her hands shook as she climbed down.
“Your son called,” Edward said. “He told us you might come back.” He paused. “You cant live in a shed. This was your home. Theres always a place for you here.”
Edith sobbed into her hands. Strangers had shown her more kindness than her own flesh and blood.
As she stepped back into the cottage, the smell of bread and woodsmoke wrapped around her like an embrace. Her heart ached for Thomas, but she whispered a prayer for him all the same.
Perhaps, in the end, she had come home after all.
