**I Dont Want to Be Cast Aside in My Old Age**
Ten years ago, my son got married. Since then, he, his wife, and their daughter have been squeezed into a cramped one-bedroom flat. Seven years back, Oliver bought a plot of land and slowly, bit by bit, began building a house. At first, there was a long silence. A year later, the walls went up, and the foundation was laid. Thensilence again. Money was tight. And so it went, year after year: slow, painstaking, but he scraped together enough for materials, never giving up.
All this time, theyve only managed to finish the ground floor. They dream of a two-storey home with space for themand for me. My sons kind-hearted, always saying, *”Mum, youll live with us too, youll have your own room.”* To fund the build, they even downsized from a two-bed flat to a smaller one, putting the difference into the project. But now theyre living on top of each other, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into talk about the house. They describe where the bathroom will go, how theyll insulate the walls, the wiring I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no interest in how Im copingjust walls, pipes, loft conversions.
So one day, I cut to the chase:
*”So, you want me to sell my house?”*
They lit up. Fidgeting with excitement, they launched into how wed all live together. But I looked at my daughter-in-law and knewI couldnt share a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I bite my tongue more than Id like.
Still, my heart aches for Oliver. Hes trying so hard. Itll take another decade to finish the house if I dont help. And truth be told, I *do* want to ease his burden. But I had to ask:
*”Where would I live?”*
The answer came instantly. My daughter-in-law, ever the *”visionary”*, chirped:
*”Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there! Peaceful, quiet, no bother to anyone.”*
Oh, the cottage exists, alright. But its a forty-year-old wooden shack. No heating. In summer, its tolerablefresh air, maybe stew some apples. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outdoor loo? My knees are shaky, my blood pressures all over the place. And they suggest I spend *winter* there?
I tried to explain:
*”But its freezing, the bathrooms outside, its not practical.”*
Her reply?
*”Plenty of village folks live like that. They dont drop dead.”*
There it was. Not once did they offer to take me in *while* the house was finished, or promise to stay close. Just: *”Sell your housethe builds stalled!”*
Then, the other day, I overheard her on the phone to her mum:
*”We could shove her next door with the neighbour. They could live together. Then wed sell the flat quick, before she changes her mind.”*
My legs went weak. So thats the plan. Theyve decided my fate. And here I was, thinking Id at least have a room in their home. But noher grand scheme is to bundle me off to the neighbour and pry the keys from my hands
I went to see Arthur, the neighbour. A lonely widower, nice enough. We chatted over tea, reminiscing about the old days. But *live* with him? And as a last resort? What a humiliation.
I sit and wonder: maybe I *should* sell? Give the money to Oliver, help him out. What if he *does* give me a corner later? What if hes kind to me?
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, replay her words and fear creeps in. What if they push me out later? What if the cottage “solution” comes up again, followed by a cheery *”Ta!”*?
Im nearly seventy. I dont want to end up on the streets. I dont want to be some helpless old woman, shoved from pillar to post. I dont want to die in that freezing shack, under a blanket, with the mice for company. And I *certainly* dont want to be a burden to my son and his wife.
I just want a quiet old age. In *my* house. In *my* bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Yes, Im a mother. But Im a person, too.
