Ten years ago, my son got married. Since then, hes been squeezed into a tiny one-bed flat with his wife and their little girl. Seven years back, Oliver bought a plot of land and slowly started building a house. At first, there was just silence. A year later, the walls went up, and the foundations were laid. Thensilence again. Money was tight. Year after year, they inched forward, scraping 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 room for them and me. My sons kindhes always said, *”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, using the extra money for the house. But now theyre cramped, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into talk about the buildwhere the bathroomll go, how theyll insulate the walls, the wiring I listen, but my heart sinks. No one asks after my health, how Im doingjust bricks, pipes, loft space.
So one day, I asked straight out: *”Dyou want me to sell my house?”*
They lit up. Babbling excitedly about us all living 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.
Still, it breaks my heart for Oliver. Hes trying so hard. Itll take another ten years to finish if I dont help. And I *do* want to ease his burden. But I had to ask: *”Where would I live?”*
No hesitation. My daughter-in-law, full of *brilliant* ideas, blurted: *”Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Peaceful, no bother to anyone.”*
The cottage exists, sure. But its a forty-year-old wooden shed. No heating. In summer? Lovelyfresh air, a day in the garden. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs arent what they were, my blood pressures all over the place. And they want me there *alone* in winter?
I tried explaining: *”Its freezing, the loos outside, its not safe.”*
Her reply? *”Plenty of village folk live like thatthey manage.”*
There it was. No offer to stay with them till the house was done, no *”Well be nearby.”* Just: *”Sell your housethe builds stalled!”*
Then lately, I overheard her on the phone to her mum: *”We could move her in with the neighbour. Theyd keep each other company. Then wed sell the flat quick, before she changes her mind.”*
My legs went weak. So thats the plan. Theyve decided my future. And here I was, thinking Id at least have a room in their home. But noshed shove me off to the neighbour and snatch the keys from my hands.
I went to see Arthur, the neighbour. Hes a widower, lives alone. We chat, have tea, reminisce. But *live* with him? Forced into it? Humiliating.
I sit and wondermaybe I *should* sell? Give them the money, help Oliver. What if hes good to me after? What if I get my little corner?
But then I look at my daughter-in-law, remember her words and dread creeps in. What if they push me out later? What if the *cottage* comes up again, followed by a *”Ta very much”*?
Im nearly seventy. I dont want to end up homeless. Dont want to be some helpless old woman, passed around like a parcel. Dont want to die in that freezing shed, under a 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* house. In *my* bed. Where everythings where I left it. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Im a mother, yes. But Im a person too.
