My daughter-in-law wants to move me into a flat so she can take our house. But I won’t give in so easily.
My name is Margaret Stevens. I’m in my sixties and a widow. My husband, Arthur, passed away just over a year ago. Since then, I’ve felt alone in this house—not just physically, but in my heart.
This isn’t just bricks and mortar. Arthur and I built it with our own hands. Every inch of it holds our sweat, our love, our shared history. He did it all himself—the garden shed where we had our morning tea, the sturdy wooden fence, the cosy summer kitchen. I planted the flowers; he planted the trees. We lived here for nearly forty years. The whole place breathes him—his smile, his hands, his life.
Since Arthur’s been gone, I’ve lived alone. I won’t pretend it’s easy. Sometimes the grief hits me like a wave, especially in the mornings when I pass his old coat in the hall. But I manage. The garden helps, the work keeps me busy. And my son, James, my only child, helps too. He visits almost daily, brings groceries, fixes things around the house. His wife, Emily, comes with him.
Emily… She’s not a bad sort, but there’s always a plan with her. She’s had her eye on this house for a while.
One day, James came over and said, “Mum, Emily thinks it’s too much for you here alone. Maybe you could move into our flat, and we could take the house? There’s more space here, better air for the kids.”
I just smiled. “I reckon that wasn’t just Emily’s idea, was it? And you know my answer’s no. I won’t leave this house, son. It’s not just a roof over my head—it’s memories, it’s life. If it’s too much, I’ll plant less next year, manage on my own. But leaving? No, James. Never.”
He sighed and nodded, but I could tell—this wasn’t his doing.
Six months passed. I thought they’d dropped it, but no. He brought it up again.
“Mum, just think about it. We’ve only got a two-bedder, and with two kids, we need the space. A flat would be easier for you—no garden to tend, no snow to shovel…”
I put down the cloth I’d been using to wipe the windowsill and said plainly, “I’ve already thought. I’d wither away in that flat. There, it’s just walls. Here, it’s my life. If Emily’s that bothered about space, she’ll have to find another way. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you and Dad lived with his parents when you first married. You said it was hard…”
“It was, James. And I’m not forcing myself on you. If the flat’s that bad, move in here. But something tells me Emily wouldn’t want me under the same roof, would she?”
He didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected one.
“Then that’s that. You don’t want to live together? Fine. But don’t you dare try to push me out of my own home.”
After that, James never mentioned it again. I knew he respected my decision, and that was the end of it.
Now, things are as they were. James still comes to help, the grandkids stay with me in the summer—playing in the garden, laughing on the grass. Emily visits too, all smiles, like there’s no bad blood. But I see it. She still wants this house.
But it’s not hers. It’s mine. It’s all I have left of the man I loved my whole life. And I won’t give it up, not even if I have to fight tooth and nail. What happens next? We’ll see. Life’ll show who was right in the end.