She cant live hereshes nothing to us. I hear my husbands daughter, Clarissa, loudly explaining to her brother why I should be thrown out of the house Ive called home for the last 15 years.
«Hold on, Clarissa. Its not that simple. Wheres Aunt Margaret supposed to go?» says Oliver, my husbands sonthe one I always thought was kinder, more decent than his sister. Fifteen years of marriage taught me a thing or two.
My husband passed recently. His children from his first marriage swooped in at once, eager to divide the inheritance. Theres plenty to split: the house, the garden, the garage, the car.
I never laid claim to much, but I didnt expect them to start shoving me out the door so soon.
George and I met later in life, both of us carrying the weight of failed marriages and grown children. I had two daughters; he had a son and a daughter.
Id just turned fifty, my eldest daughter had married, bringing her husband home to our cramped little flat, while the younger one remained unmarried. I couldnt fathom how wed all fit.
Then George walked infive years older, long accustomed to solitude. His children were settled, married, their homes secured thanks to his years in management. He didnt waste time. «Move in with me,» he said. I thought it overwhy not? He was a good man, a good husband.
So I did. His countryside home became ours. We tended the garden, raised chickens, rabbits, even kept a cow and a pig for a time. Our children visited oftenmine, hisand we welcomed them gladly, never letting them leave empty-handed.
We never married. At first, we spoke of it, but in time, we decided a stamp in a passport mattered little at our age.
Fifteen wonderful years. No regrets.
In that time, my younger daughter married too. The flat became a battlegroundwho had the right to it? The eldest, already settled, refused to share. So she and her husband paid off the younger one, and that was that.
Until my youngest divorced, returning with a child in tow. The eldest wasnt pleased. More arguments, more bitterness.
Id hoped theyd reconcile. They didnt.
Now George is gone, and I must return. But I know theres no room for me.
«Aunt Margaret,» Oliver offered the next morning, «you can stay until we find a buyer.»
For a moment, I was relieveduntil Clarissa clarified the terms. I could remain, but only if I kept up the house and garden alone.
So now Im to be their unpaid labourer, in exchange for not paying rent?
Im sixty-five. The work is hardthe garden, the livestock. Im no longer young.
What do I do? Stay, a servant to children wholl cast me out the moment the house sells? Or return to my flat, still mine on paper, where Im just as unwanted?
Whats the answer? Perhaps its clearer from the outside.
