Ive been living with my sons family for ten years now, ever since he married. The three of themhim, his wife, and their little girlsqueeze into a tiny oneroom flat. Seven years ago Duarte bought a plot of land and started, bit by bit, to raise a house. At first there was a long silence. After a year the walls went up and the foundation was laid. Then silence fell againthe money ran out. Year after year they pressed on, slowly, scrimping to buy materials, never giving up.
All theyve managed so far is the ground floor. Their dream is a twostorey home that would have room for them and for me. My son is kindhearted; he always says, Mom, youll live with us too, youll have your own bedroom. To fund the building they even swapped a twobedroom flat for a smaller one, using the difference for the construction. Now theyre cramped, especially with the child.
Every visit turns into a discussion about the project: where the bathroom will go, how the walls will be insulated, how the wiring will be done I listen, but my heart tightens. No one asks about my health or my comfortonly walls, pipes, attics.
One day I asked straight out,
So, you want me to sell my house?
They lit up, animatedly describing how wed all live together. Yet I glanced at my daughterinlaw and knew I didnt want to share a roof with her. She barely tolerates me, and I hold back my true feelings.
My heart aches for my son. Hes working hard, fighting. It will take another ten years to finish the house if I dont help. I want to ease his burden, truly. But I had to ask the crucial question:
Where am I supposed to live?
The answer came quickly. My daughterinlaw, ever the genius, blurted out:
You have that yard in the countryside; you can stay there. Quiet, peaceful, without bothering anyone.
The yard does exist, but its a fortyyearold wooden shack with no heating. In summer you might spend a day breathing fresh air and cooking a fig, but in winter? Cutting firewood? Walking through snow to a leaky door? My legs are already weak, my blood pressure swings. Im terrified of being alone there, and they suggest I spend the whole winter inside it.
I tried to explain,
Its cold out there, the bathroom is outside, its not livable.
And they replied,
Some people live like that in villages and they survive.
Thats it. They never even offered me a place with them until the house is finished, never said theyd stay nearby. Just: Sell your housethe work is stalled!
A short time later I overheard my daughterinlaw on the phone with her mother,
We could move her to the neighbours place; theyd live together. Then wed sell the flat quickly before she changes her mind.
My legs tremble. So it is decided. Theyve already chosen my fate, while I had hoped for at least a room in their home. Their plan is to push me into the neighbours house and snatch the keys from my hands
I went to see Artur, the neighbour. Hes an elderly widower who lives alone. We chatted, had tea, reminisced about youth. But to live with him? And be forced to? It feels humiliating.
I sit and wonder: maybe I should really sell my house, hand the money over to the construction, help my son. And perhaps hell give me a little corner later? Maybe hell be kind?
Then I think of my daughterinlaws words Fear floods me: what if they throw me out afterward? What if they suggest the yard again and say thank you?
Im almost seventy. I dont want to end up on the street. I dont want to be a helpless old woman shuffled from place to place. I dont want to die in that cold little shack under a blanket, with rats. I certainly dont want to be a burden to my son and his wife.
All I crave is a peaceful old agein my own house, in my own bed, where I know where everything is, where I can close my eyes without fear.
I am a mother, yes, but I am also a person.
