My heart is torn between sorrow and dread. My daughter-in-law wishes to strip me of the home Ive cherished all my life to fulfil my sons dream. Their plans for a grand family house feel like a sentence, and I, a woman alone in the twilight of my years, fear being left without a roof over my head. This is a tale of filial love, betrayal, and the struggle to hold onto ones place in a world that grows ever more unfamiliar.
I am Edith Whitcombe, and I live in a quiet village in the heart of Sussex. Ten years ago, my son, Thomas, married Beatrice. Since then, theyve crowded into a modest flat with their young daughter. Seven years past, Thomas bought a plot of land and began building a house. The first year, nothing was done. The second, they put up a fence and laid the foundations. Then, work halted once more for lack of funds. Thomas saved patiently for materials, never losing hope. Over the years, they raised the first floor, but they dream of a grand two-storey home where I, too, might be welcomed. My son is a family man, and Ive always been proud of his devotion.
Theyve sacrificed much already for this project. Beatrice persuaded Thomas to sell their three-bedroom flat and move into a smaller one, investing the difference in the house. Now they live cramped, yet undeterred. When they visit, every conversation circles back to their future homewindows, insulation, wiring. My health, my worries, seem of little concern to them. I stay silent, I listen, but a quiet dread grows within me. For a long time, Ive sensed that Beatrice and Thomas mean to sell my flat to finish the build.
One day, Thomas said, “Mother, well all live together in that big houseyou, us, and little Rose.” I dared to ask, “So I must sell my home?” They nodded, speaking eagerly of the joy of sharing one roof. But watching Beatrices cold gaze, I understood one thing: I could never live under her rule. She doesnt hide her dislike, and Im weary of pretending all is well. Her icy stares, her sharp wordsthese are not what Ill endure in my old age.
I wish to help my son. It breaks my heart to see him labour over this never-ending project, which might drag on another ten years. But I voiced the question gnawing at me: “And where would I go?” Move into their tiny flat? Into that unfinished house, with no comforts? Beatrice snapped back at once, “Youd be perfectly happy in the countryside!” We have a little holiday cottagean old, draughty place with no heating, fit only for summer. I love staying there in fair weather, but in winter? Warming myself by the hearth, washing in a basin, stepping out into the frost to use the privy? My rheumatism, my health, wouldnt survive it.
“Country folk live just fine that way,” Beatrice said. Oh, they live, but not like that! I refuse to spend my last years fighting just to survive. Yet money runs short for the build, and I feel my daughter-in-law pushing me toward the edge. Recently, I overheard her speaking to her mother on the telephone. “We must have her move in with the neighbour and sell her flat,” she whispered. My blood ran cold. The neighbour, Harold Green, is a lonely old man like myself. We sometimes take tea together, chatting of days gone by, and I bring him biscuits. But live under his roof? So this is her schemeto be rid of me while claiming my home.
I knew Beatrice didnt wish to live with me, but such deceit… I dont believe their promises of shared happiness beneath one roof. Her words are lies meant to coax me into selling. I love Thomas, and his distress grieves me, but I cannot sacrifice my own home. Its all I have left. Without it, Id be left with nothing, cast aside like an old, unwanted chair. And if their project dragged on for years more, where would I be? Out on the street? Or in that freezing cottage where winter would be a death sentence?
Each night, I lie awake, consumed by thought. To help my son is my duty, but to be left homeless is too high a price. Beatrice sees me only as an obstacle, and her scheming with the neighbour was the final blow. I fear losing not just my home, but my son if I refuse. Yet the terror of ending my days beneath a bridge, robbed of my last refuge, is stronger still. I dont know how to choose without betraying either my child or myself. My soul cries out in anguish, and I pray heaven grants me the strength to choose rightly.
