«She cant live hereshes nothing to us,» I overheard my late husbands daughter, Emily, telling her brother, insisting I be thrown out of the house Id called home for the last 15 years.
«Wait, Emily. Its not that simple. Wheres Aunt Margaret supposed to go?» replied James, my husbands son, who Id always thought more decent than his sister. After 15 years of marriage, Id learned a thing or two about them.
My husband, William, had passed recently, and his children from his first marriage wasted no time dividing his estatea sizable country house, a vegetable garden, a garage, and a car. Id never demanded anything, but I hadnt expected to be chased out so quickly.
William and I met later in life, both with failed marriages behind us and grown children. I had two daughters; he had a son and a daughter. Id just turned 50 and had married off my eldest, whod moved back home with her husband while my younger daughter remained single. Our cramped flat in London couldnt hold us all.
Then I met William, five years my senior, who lived alone in the countryside. His children were settled, and having held well-paid managerial roles, hed provided for them comfortably. He didnt hesitatehe asked me to move in with him straightaway. He was kind, dependable, and treated me well, so I agreed.
Life in his cottage was peaceful. We kept chickens, rabbits, and for a while, even a pig and a cow. Both our children visited often, and we never sent them away empty-handedalways with bags of homegrown produce. We never married officially, though wed discussed it early on. Later, we decided a stamp in a passport mattered little at our age.
Those 15 years were the happiest of my life, and Ive no regrets.
In that time, my younger daughter married too, though she and her sister nearly came to blows over whod inherit the flat. The eldest, settled there already, refused to share, so she and her husband paid off the younger one. That seemed the end of ituntil the younger divorced and returned with her child. The eldest wasnt pleased, and the quarrels began anew.
Id hoped theyd reconcile, but then William passed, leaving me with nowhere to go but back to that crowded flat.
«Aunt Margaret, you can stay until we find buyers,» James offered the next morning.
I was relieveduntil his sister clarified the terms: I could remain only if I kept up the house and garden alone. So now Id be unpaid labour in exchange for not paying rent?
The idea didnt sit well. At 65, I wasnt as strong as I once was, and the work was relentless.
Now Im tornstay as a servant to children wholl cast me out the moment the house sells, or return to a home where Im no longer welcome? The flats still legally mine, but Id be an intruder in my daughters lives.
Perhaps the hardest truth is this: in the end, we must choose our battles wiselysometimes walking away is the only way to keep what little dignity remains.
