Long ago, in a quiet village in the heart of England, there lived a woman named Eleanor Whitmore. She had once been the proud owner of a grand, well-kept house on Elm Lane, known to all her neighbours as a woman of warmth and dignity. But now, in her later years, she wandered from place to place, her belongings packed into a worn suitcase, never certain where the night would find her.
It had all begun when her sons, William and Thomas, persuaded her to sell her home. *”Whats the use, Mother,”* theyd said, *”of wearing yourself out in that big old house? Youre not as young as you used to beno more tending the garden, lighting the hearth, or shovelling snow. Come live with us in turns. Simpler for you, easier for us. And the money from the sale wont go to wastewell share it for the grandchildrens future.”* What could an ageing mother say? Of course, she agreed. She wanted to help. To stay close.
Her old neighbours, the Harrisons, had tried to warn her. *”Dont rush into this, Eleanor. Youll regret it. Youll never buy another house like yours, and in your sons homes, their rules will reign. Youll be a guest, never the mistress. And their flats are so crampedyouve always loved your space.”*
But who listens? The house was sold. The money, divided. And so began Eleanors life of wanderingtoday at Williams cramped London flat, tomorrow at Thomass modest terraced house in the suburbs. Three years had passed this way.
*”At Thomass, its better,”* she once confessed to Mrs. Harrison. *”Theres a little garden, and I can tend the flowers, breathe the air. And Margaret, my daughter-in-law, is kind. Quiet, gentle. The children are well-mannered. Theyve given me a roomsmall, but with my own telly and even a little fridge. I keep to myself, never disturb them. When theyre at work and the little ones at school, I do the washing, tidy up a bit. Then I retreat to my room.”*
She had planned to stay the summer, then move to Williams come autumn. But life there was different. In his home, she was given a mere cornera literal cornerbetween the kitchen and the balcony. A fold-out bed, a nightstand, a bag for her clothes. She cooked in secret, did her laundry when no one was watching. And always, that gnawing feeling of being *in the way*.
*”Clarissa, Williams wife,”* she whispered, *”hardly speaks to me. Not a word. And Ive never managed to connect with my grandson. Im from the old world; he lives in his screens. Im a stranger in their home. Theyve never once invited me to their country cottage. I move like a shadow. At night, I warm my supper on the radiator, careful to avoid the kitchen in case I stumble upon one of them.”*
Not long ago, she fell ill. *”I had a fever, aches all over,”* she recalled. *”I thought: this is it. They called the doctor, gave me pills. I slept for two days. But the worst wasnt the sickness. It was that no one came near. Not a kind word. Stay in bed, get betterjust dont trouble us.”*
The Harrisons asked her then, *”Eleanor, if it gets worse, who will care for you? You havent the strength anymore. And youre always shiftinghere today, gone tomorrow. No roof, no peace.”*
She sighed. *”Whats the use I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I sold my houseand with it, my freedom. I shouldnt have listened to my sons. I wanted to help, to be near them.”*
She gazed out the window, her trembling hands resting on her suitcase, and murmured, *”All I have left are memories and this fearthat Ill end up in some hospital corridor, unseen, like an old thing forgotten.”*
