“Off to the cottage again? Might as well live there full-time,” her daughter laughed while sorting rental papers.
“Mum, d’you remember where my blue hoodie is?” shouted Emily from her bedroom. “The one with the zip.”
Margaret paused from sorting through old photos and listened. Her daughter was rummaging through the wardrobe, hangers clattering.
“Probably in the wash,” she called back. “Check the airing cupboard.”
“Found it!” came the reply a minute later.
Margaret returned to the photos. There was little Emily, balanced on her late husband Jamess lap by their first car. Another of her in school uniform, clutching flowers on her first day. Then her graduation…
“Mum, whatve you got there?” Emily walked in, tugging on the blue hoodie.
“Just old photos from the chest of drawers. Deciding what to keep.”
Her daughter leaned in and peered at the box.
“Blimey, thats us at the cottage!” She picked up a shot of the three of them by the newly built garden shed. “Dad was still here. Feels like forever ago.”
“Eight years,” Margaret said quietly. “Itll be eight this August.”
“Time flies,” Emily sighed, putting the photo back. “Mum, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
Something in her tone put Margaret on edge. Thirty-four years of motherhood had tuned her to every shift in Emilys voice. This hesitant pitch usually meant bad news.
“What about, love?”
Emily drifted to the kitchen table. Margaret followed.
“Right, soIve got a cracking work opportunity,” Emily began, fiddling with a teaspoon. “Clients offered me a remote gig. Building an e-commerce site.”
“Thats brilliant!” Margaret brightened. “Right up your street, with your coding skills.”
“Yeah, but theres a catch.” The teaspoon twirled. “Hes paying top dollar, but Id need peace to focus. This flats chaostelly blaring, your phone ringing, the neighbors music through the walls…”
Margaret nodded. Their council flats paper-thin walls were no match for the lads next door and their drum n bass.
“So whatre you thinking?”
“I was wondering…” Emily hesitated. “What if I rented a quiet place? Somewhere proper, just for a year. I can afford it now.”
“Rent out *this* flat? Its your home!”
“Not like that! Its still mine. But I need space to work. Youre always at the cottage anywayMay to October, you barely come back!”
Margaret blinked. “Youre saying I should… live there full-time?”
“Exactly! You adore it there. Wed split the rental income, fair and square.”
A lump rose in Margarets throat. “So youre evicting me?”
“Dont be daft!” Emily flapped her hands. “Its practical. Youre happiest there, and this place sits empty half the year.”
“And winter? That cottages freezing.”
“Get the wood burner going. Well buy a heater.”
“Emily,” Margaret said softly, “youre seriously asking your sixty-year-old mum to winter in a *garden shed*?”
“Youre fifty-nine! And loads of retirees do itfresh air, no noise…”
“No one around if I take a fall.”
“Youve got a mobile! And the Johnsons next door stay year-round.”
Margaret stared out the window at kids playing football below. The cottagea six-hour train ride to Cornwall, that drafty little haven she and James had builtwas for *weekends*. Not icebound February nights.
“Youve made your mind up, havent you?”
Emily flushed. “No! Just putting it out there. No rush.”
“When do you need an answer?”
“Client starts the project first of next month. So… three weeks?”
Margaret picked up a photo of her and James, grinning on moving day. Twenty-two and broke, dreaming of a family in this very flat.
“Remember how we got this place?” she asked.
“Course. Youve told the story a million times.”
“Your dad queued eight years for it. Overtime at the factory, union meetings… all for these two rooms.”
“Mum, that was the *seventies*. Things are different now.”
“Aye. Back then, kids begged parents to move in. Not shoved them out to the sticks.”
“God, youre dramatic! Im not *shoving* you. Its a win-win.”
*Win-win*. Margaret smirked. The only *win* she saw was Emily turning her into a cash cow.
“Fine. Ill think on it.”
“Brilliant!” Emily kissed her cheek. “Youll seeitll work. Half that rentll top up your pension nicely.”
She grabbed her bag. “Off to Louises. Dont wait up.”
The door clicked shut.
That night, over tea, Margaret weighed it all. The cottage *was* peaceful. But winter? And the way Emily had sprung itlike she was a nuisance to be managed…
Next morning, Emily gulped coffee by the fridge. “Decided yet?”
“Still mulling.”
“Only, the clients pushing…”
“And if I say no?”
Emily froze. “Then… Id lose the job. Its life-changing money, Mum.”
“Right. So its decided.”
“No! Justexplaining.”
After Emily left, Margaret took the train to Cornwall. The cottage smelled of damp apples and firewood. She walked the rooms, testing the taps. Livable, yes. But *alone*?
“Margie!” called Mr. Johnson from next door. “Staying long?”
“Dunno. Emily wants to let the flat.”
“Ah. Well, winters here are tough. Specially solo.”
Back in London, Emily burst in grinning. “Signed the contract! Just need the flat sorted. Tenants are viewing *tomorrow*.”
Margarets stomach dropped. “You *listed* it without me agreeing?”
“You *said* you would!”
“I said Id *think*.”
“Christ, its not the bloody Inquisition! Its *practical*.”
“Practical for *you*.”
Emily huffed. “Fine. If youre dead against it, Ill turn it down.”
Margaret folded her arms. “Ill agree. On *my* terms: *I* keep *all* the rent.”
“*What*? Thats robbery!”
“Take it or leave it.”
In the end, Emily took it.
A week later, Margaret boarded the train with two suitcases. Emily waved, promising weekend visits.
As the countryside blurred past, Margaret thought of the cottages silence, the leaky roof, the Johnsons occasional check-ins.
*”Off to the cottage? Might as well live there.”*
Well see who really wins, she thought. If anyone does.
