**Diary Entry**
Its been ten years since my son married. Since then, he, his wife, and their daughter have been crammed into a tiny one-bedroom flat in Manchester. Seven years ago, James bought a plot of land and slowly began building a house. At first, there was silence. A year later, the walls went up, and the foundation was laid. Then, silence againthe money ran out. Year after year, they carried on, saving bit by bit, scraping together enough for materials, never giving up.
Even now, theyve only managed to finish the ground floor. They dream of a two-storey home with space for themand for me. My son is kind, 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, using the difference for construction. But theyre stretched thin, especially with the little one.
Every visit turns into talk of the housewhere the bathroom will go, how theyll insulate the walls, the wiring. I listen, but my heart sinks. Not a word about my health, no concern for my well-beingjust pipes, walls, loft spaces.
One day, I finally asked outright: *”So, you want me to sell my house?”* They lit up, chattering 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 to keep the peace.
Still, it breaks my heart for James. Hes trying so hard. Itll take another ten years to finish if I dont help. And part of me wants to ease his burden. But I had to ask: *”Where will I live?”*
The answer came quick. My daughter-in-law, ever “brilliant,” blurted: *”Youve got that cottage in the countrysideyou could stay there. Peaceful, quiet, no bother.”*
The cottage exists, yes. But its a forty-year-old wooden shed. No heating. In summer, its tolerablefresh air, a day in the sun. But winter? Chopping firewood? Trudging through snow to the outhouse? My legs are weak, my blood pressure unstable. The thought of being alone there terrifies me.
I tried to explain: *”Its freezing, the loos outsideits not fit.”* Her reply? *”Plenty live like that in the villages. They manage.”*
There it was. No offer to stay with them while the house was finished, no promise theyd be nearby. Just: *”Sell your housethe builds stalled!”*
Then, I overheard her on the phone to her mother: *”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 hands shook. So thats it. Theyve decided my fate. And here I was, thinking Id at least have a room in their home. But her plan is to shove me onto old Mr. Wilkins next door and pry the keys from my hands
I went to see Arthur Wilkins. Hes a widower, lives alone. We had tea, talked about the old days. But *live* with him? Forced into it? A humiliation.
I sit and wondershould I sell? Give the money to James, help him finish. Maybe hell make space for me. Maybe hell be kind.
But then I look at her, remember her words and fear grips me. What if they push me out later? What if the cottage becomes *”just for now”* until its *”thank you, but”*?
Im nearly seventy. I wont end up homeless. I wont be some helpless old woman, passed around like a burden. I wont die in that freezing shed, under a blanket, with the mice. And I refuse to be a weight on my son and his wife.
I just want a quiet old age. In my home. In my bed. Where I know where everything is. Where I can close my eyes without fear.
Im a mother, yes. But Im still a person.
