*»She can’t stay hereshe’s nobody to us,»* I overheard my husbands daughter, Eleanor, declaring loudly to her brother, insisting I be turned out of the house Id called home for the last fifteen years.
*»Wait, Eleanor. Its not so simple. Wheres Aunt Margaret supposed to go now?»* replied George, my husbands son, the more decent of the twoor so Id always thought. After fifteen years of sharing a life with my husband, Id learned a thing or two about his children.
My husband, Arthur, had passed not long ago. His children from his first marriage arrived soon after, quick to lay claim to his estate. And it wasnt insubstantiala country house, a garden plot, a garage, and a car.
I hadnt pressed for anything, but I never imagined theyd be so eager to cast me out.
Arthur and I had 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 newly wed and bringing her husband home, while the younger remained unmarried. Our flat in London was cramped, and I couldnt see how wed manage.
Then, almost at once, I met Arthurfive years my senior, long living alone. His children were settled, married, their homes secured by his earnings from years in management. He hadnt hesitated before asking me to move in with him. I considered it carefullyhe was a good man, kind to meand decided, *Why not?*
So I left London for his countryside home. We tended it wellthere was a vegetable patch, chickens, rabbits, even a cow and a pig for a time. Our children visited often, mine and his, and we always welcomed them warmly, sending them off with baskets of homegrown produce.
Arthur and I never married. At first, we spoke of it, but in time, we decided a stamp in a passport mattered less at our age.
Those fifteen years were wonderful. I regretted nothing.
In that time, my younger daughter also married, though not without strifeshe and her sister nearly came to blows over who should inherit the London flat. The eldest, settled there already, refused to share, so she and her husband paid the younger sister off, and that, it seemed, was that.
Then, a year ago, my youngest divorced, returning home with a child in tow. The eldest was less than pleased, and the old quarrels flared anew. Id hoped for reconciliation, but it never came.
Now Arthur was gone, and I faced returning to Londonthough I knew the flat was crowded without me.
*»Aunt Margaret,»* George offered the next morning, *»if youd like, you can stay until we find a buyer.»*
I was relieveduntil Eleanor clarified the terms: I could remain, but only if I kept up the house and garden alone. So I was to be their unpaid labourer, my only payment being a roof over my head?
I didnt like it. The work was hardthe garden, the livestockand at sixty-five, I wasnt as strong as I once was.
Now Im torn. Should I stay, a servant to children wholl cast me out the moment the house is sold? Or return to London, where my flatstill legally mineis no longer a home?
Im lost. Perhaps an outsider sees clearer. I packed a single suitcase, left the key on the kitchen table, and took the morning train to London. The flat felt smaller, colder, but my youngest daughter met me at the door with tea already brewing and her childs drawing taped to the fridge*Grandmas Home*. I hung my coat beside theirs and thought, not for the first time, how blood may bind, but kindness builds a home.
