Margaret Whitaker sat by the window, her gaze fixed beyond the crooked fence where her daughter-in-law and granddaughter whispered harsh words meant for her ears. The family had turned against her after she refused to sell the house they dismissively called “that old cottage.”
“She’s clinging to that land like it’s gold! Doesn’t care about us at all!” hissed the granddaughter, Sophie.
“Lived her whole life for herself, never lifted a finger for her son—just took and took!” sneered the daughter-in-law, Victoria, loud enough to be heard. “At least she could think of her granddaughter before she goes!”
The words burned, but Sophie’s venom struck deepest. Margaret never imagined such malice from her own blood. *Wolves in sheep’s clothing*, she thought, wiping a tear. If only Arthur were still here—he’d never have allowed this. But he was gone, and she stood alone against kin who had become strangers.
At seventy-two, Margaret still tended the garden, hoed the rows, jarred preserves for winter. The house and land, passed down from her parents, were her whole world. Here, she’d lived her childhood, her youth, her love. Here, she had hoped to grow old.
The village where her house stood had once been fifteen miles from the city. Buses ran sporadically, and city folk called it the “back of beyond.” Margaret never understood why. She loved the rustling trees, the brook, the blackberries and mushrooms. Life here was simple, but full.
Then the city sprawled outward. Fields became estates, land prices soared. Cottages were bought, demolished, replaced by modern villas. The village turned into a suburb—shops, roads, jobs. Convenience came, but Margaret had never complained before. This place was her roots, her soul.
When she married Arthur, there’d been no question of leaving. Her parents’ house was spacious, with room enough for all. His mother had urged them to move to the city, listing the glamours of urban living as if village folk merely existed. But Margaret knew better—crammed into a tiny flat with in-laws, quarrels would fester. Her own mother had laughed.
“Here, we’ve fresh air, homegrown vegetables, berries!”
Her mother-in-law scoffed—why bother when shops sold cucumbers? But with time, even she saw the truth.
She’d been a kind woman. When Margaret and Arthur had James, she took leave to help. At first, Margaret’s mother bristled, but softened—their first grandson, joy all around. James grew up coddled by both grandmothers. The house brimmed with warmth.
Margaret remembered those summers with aching fondness. In August, she, her mother, and her mother-in-law would sit on the veranda, plan the day’s picking, simmer jam, fold dumplings. Laughter rippled through the hours. The men, back from fishing, tinkered on repairs. Evenings around the big table, they talked of everything. Life had felt endless.
But winters brought dread. Margaret hated the cold months, a nameless unease creeping in. Later, she’d realize—it had been foreshadowing.
Her father-in-law went first. Slipped on ice, cracked his skull on the curb. Gone in an instant. At the burial, her mother-in-law’s wails carried real agony, a sound Margaret would never forget. The woman aged overnight, her eyes hollow. Margaret’s mother insisted she move in.
“If I lost my husband, I’d lose my mind,” she said. “We keep each other sane.”
Spring came, and so did her mother-in-law. The city flat only reminded her of loss. She found work at the local poultry farm where Margaret and her mother already labored. They lived in harmony. But from then on, fear gnawed at Margaret—the thought of losing Arthur or James was suffocating.
Next was her father. Shoveling snow, his heart gave out. Without Arthur and her mother-in-law, Margaret would have crumbled. The family’s sole man now was her husband. He took on every burden. The widowed grandmothers leaned on each other, grief dulled but never gone.
James was spoiled rotten. He grew kind but selfish, accustomed to receiving the best. Margaret never noticed when his kindness turned to entitlement. She blamed herself—how could a child bathed in love grow so cold?
When James announced his engagement, he declared he wouldn’t live with his parents. His fiancée, Victoria, deemed it unthinkable. At first glance, she seemed demure, but the way she kept her eyes down, as if ashamed, unsettled Margaret. She remembered her own timid youth, blushing before in-laws, and dismissed her doubts. The newlyweds moved into his grandmother’s city flat. At the wedding, Margaret wept, wishing them joy—but caught Victoria’s smirk as she clutched the keys.
She confided in Arthur, but he brushed it off:
“Parents always imagine slights when their children marry. She was just nervous.”
Margaret vowed to think kindly of Victoria. Then her mother fell ill, and there was no room for pettiness. She nursed her, then her mother-in-law, until age claimed them both. “That’s life,” Arthur said, soothing her grief.
James visited once a month. Margaret prepared—jars of preserves, fresh vegetables. Arthur brought meat from the farm. James accepted it all without thanks, though he helped with chores before hurrying home. She longed for more visits but dared not ask.
When Sophie was born, everything changed. James and Victoria came weekly. Retired, Margaret took the girl for summers, doting on her like a daughter. They barbecued, swam in the brook, but Victoria’s eyes simmered with resentment Margaret couldn’t fathom.
Then Victoria complained their flat was cramped. Margaret offered to have them move in—Victoria rolled her eyes, taking it as mockery. Their ideas of family were worlds apart.
The truth came when Arthur died. Margaret was adrift. She stopped eating, sleeping, listening for his footsteps. James visited often; without him, she’d have drowned in grief.
Then he brought up selling the house—first hints, then outright concern.
“You should move in with us,” he said.
She refused. “My heart’s here.”
James laughed. “You’ll go mad. But if you love it, keep it.”
A week later, Victoria called. No pretense—she wanted to sell Margaret’s land to buy Sophie a flat. A buyer was ready. Margaret refused. Guilt gnawed—she loved Sophie, wanted her secure. But to lose this house was to lose herself.
Victoria pressed. Bargained, swore she’d never abandon Margaret. Then came the insults, the threats. Exhausted, Margaret sought peace, not war. That day, Victoria and Sophie arrived to spew venom. She wept, wondering—was she truly so selfish, clinging to dirt and memories?
“Come, live here. There’s space,” she pleaded. They ignored her.
James stayed silent, as if it weren’t his fight. She waited for him to speak—had he, she might have relented. But he never did.
“So be it,” she whispered.
At dawn, James returned alone. Red-eyed, weary.
“Dad visited me in my dreams. And Grandmother.”
He didn’t describe how Arthur had threatened to take Margaret too soon, how the grandmothers shamed him. He’d woken terrified, realizing he might lose her. Shame gripped him.
Margaret busied herself making pancakes, remembering her mother-in-law’s recipe, her mother’s petty jealousy, Arthur’s laughter as he bound birch brooms for the sauna. Heart heavy, she finally said:
“How much are they offering? Would it help?”
James shut his eyes.
“Nothing, Mum. Don’t sell a thing. I’ve spoken to Victoria and Sophie. It’s over. I came to say something else…” His voice cracked. “Just… live a long time, Mum. All right?”