My son’s name was Edward. Ten years ago, he married, and together with his wife and daughter, they settled into a cramped one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of town. Seven years back, Edward bought a plot of land, dreaming of building a spacious home for the entire family. The first year, the construction stood idle—there simply wasn’t enough money. Later, after much scrimping, they managed to put up a fence and lay the foundation before freezing the project once more.
Year after year, my son saved every penny, cutting corners where he could, buying building materials bit by bit. Only after relentless effort did he raise the first floor. But their dream was grander—a two-storey house where everyone would have their own space. Even I, in my son’s plans, was to have a room of my own. Edward had always been a family man at heart.
The first floor was built only because his wife persuaded him to trade their old two-bedroom flat for something smaller and pour the difference into the construction. Now, in that tiny one-bedroom, they could barely breathe.
Whenever Edward and his family visited, all talk revolved around the house—where the staircase would go, how they’d wire the electricity, what insulation they’d use. No one ever asked much about my health. I listened in silence, not wanting to dampen their enthusiasm.
But deep down, a nagging fear took root—what if they secretly wished to sell my two-bedroom flat to finish their house? One evening, I could bear it no longer and asked outright:
“So, you want me to sell my home?”
At once, their faces brightened, showering me with tales of how wonderful it would be to live together under one roof, in that grand new house. I looked at my daughter-in-law and knew—I could never share a home with her. She had never cared for me, and truth be told, I had tired of pretending warmth where there was none.
Still, my heart ached for my son. I saw the exhaustion in his eyes, heard the hope in his voice as he spoke of the house. How could I not wish to help?
Then I asked the simplest question:
“Where will I live?”
Move into their cramped flat? Or into an unfinished house without heating or proper walls?
My ever-resourceful daughter-in-law had an answer ready:
“You’ve got the cottage! Perfect—fresh air, peace and quiet.”
Yes, we had an old cottage—a tiny thing on a modest plot, no proper heating, no proper plumbing. It was lovely in summer for a weekend, grilling food, tending the garden. But winter? Chopping wood in the cold, hauling water from the well, braving icy winds just to use the outhouse?
I’m not the young woman I once was—the one who could dig in the garden all day. My joints ache, my blood pressure rises. Wintering in that cottage would be a slow death.
When I protested, my daughter-in-law merely shrugged:
“People manage in the countryside all the time.”
Yes, they do—but that’s their way of life, their rhythm. For me, it would be torture.
As I wrestled with this, fate dealt another cruel hand. Not long after, I overheard my daughter-in-law speaking to her mother on the telephone:
“We ought to bundle Gran off to the neighbour’s and sell that flat. That’d fetch a tidy sum!”
The neighbour in question was Mr. Albert Whitaker—an elderly widower. We spoke sometimes; I’d bring him the odd scone, share a cup of tea. Just neighbourly kindness. But live with him? The very thought was shameful.
After that conversation, all doubt left me. There had never been any plan for me to live with them in their new home. They wanted the money from my flat and to be rid of me like an unwanted suitcase.
I sat by the window, watching the first snow drift past the glass, and wondered—was helping them even worth it? My heart bled at the thought that my own son had become a prisoner of another’s ambition and his own weakness before his wife.
Of course, I want Edward to have his home, for his daughter to grow up happy. But I am a person too. I worked my whole life for that flat—my one sanctuary, my final refuge.
I refuse to end my days as some forgotten old woman, wasting away in a damp, ramshackle cottage. I won’t be left to rot beneath some hedgerow, abandoned by all.
So now, when Edward brings up selling my home again, my answer is firm:
“No. I won’t sell. If you want that house—build it yourselves.”
Let my choice inconvenience whomever it may. At least I’ll sleep soundly, knowing I still have a roof over my head and a place to call my own.