**Shame in the Family Home**

“Aimee, have you lost your mind?” Edward’s voice shook with outrage. “How could you decide to sell *my* flat without me?”

“*Yours?*” Aimee turned to face him fully, gripping the contract in her hands. “*Your* flat? And who scrubbed it for twenty years? Who scrimped and saved every penny for repairs?”

“But it’s in *my* name!” Edward clutched his temples. “And I wanted to choose the buyers myself!”

“Choose?” Aimee laughed bitterly. “For six months, you promised to handle the sale! Six months! And instead, you vanished with your mates to the pub every night!”

Margaret stood by the window, pretending to tend to her potted geraniums. But every word of this fight cut through her heart like a knife. Her own home—the place she’d lived her whole life—was now a bargaining chip between her son and his wife.

“Mum, say something!” Edward turned to her. “Tell her this isn’t right!”

Margaret turned slowly, her watering can trembling in her hands.

“What can I say?” Her voice was weary. “It’s not my decision anymore.”

“Not yours?” Aimee scoffed. “Margaret, *you* agreed to move into the care home! You said you didn’t need the flat!”

“Not just any home—a *proper* residential home,” Margaret corrected. “And I only agreed because you never stopped pressuring me.”

Aimee’s face flushed.

“We weren’t pressuring. We found you a decent place—meals, nursing care, activities!”

“Oh, I know all about those ‘activities’.” Margaret set the watering can down. “Gwen from down the block moved there last month. Says it’s like a prison. Lights out by eight.”

“Come off it, Mum,” Edward said, trying to soothe her. “This isn’t some cheap facility. It’s expensive. Top-tier!”

“Expensive,” Margaret repeated. “Paid for with *my* money. The money from selling *my* home.”

An uneasy silence settled. Edward shifted on his feet. Aimee flipped through her paperwork.

“Margaret,” Aimee finally said, “you *know* we’re in a bind. Edward lost his job. The car loan’s overdue. Emily’s starting uni—”

“I understand,” Margaret nodded. “What I *don’t* understand is why my home should solve *your* problems.”

“Because we’re *family!*” Edward snapped. “We’re not throwing you out on the street!”

“No,” she agreed. “Just packing me off to die among strangers.”

She moved to the sofa and sank down, hands shaking but her back straight.

“Mum, enough,” Edward sat beside her. “We’ve talked this through. You *said* living alone was too hard.”

“It is,” she admitted. “Especially since you stopped visiting.”

“Stopped?” Aimee frowned. “We’re here every weekend!”

“Yes. Every weekend, you sit here complaining about *your* lives. Money troubles, debts, the housing crisis. Never once asking how *I* am.”

Edward rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Maybe we were wrong. But it’s too late now. Aimee’s already signed.”

“A *preliminary* contract,” Aimee clarified. “The sale’s not final for a week. We can still cancel—if it’s *that* important.”

Margaret blinked, surprised. Was Aimee actually reconsidering?

“But then we’ll be stuck renting some overpriced hole,” Aimee pressed. “Emily won’t have space to study.”

“And I won’t have space to *die*,” Margaret said quietly.

“Mum!” Edward recoiled. “What kind of talk is that?”

“The honest kind. I’m seventy-four, Edward. At my age, you think about death. And I’d like mine to come *here*—in my own bed—not some sterile room.”

Aimee dropped into the armchair opposite.

“Margaret, you *said* you were afraid alone. That you lay awake, worrying something might happen.”

“I *am* afraid,” Margaret admitted. “But more afraid of losing my home.”

“It’s not a *loss*,” Edward countered. “It’s practical. You’ll get proper care, and we’ll sort our housing.”

“*Your* housing,” his mother corrected. “You don’t care about solving *mine*.”

Edward stood and paced. The flat *was* small—just two bedrooms. He’d grown up here. Every corner held memories.

“Listen,” he said, stopping by a framed photo on the wall. “What if we compromise?”

Margaret eyed him warily. “What sort?”

“We sell this place, but buy you a little one-bed nearby. You’d still have independence, but we’d be close.”

Aimee shot up.

“Edward, *think!* We won’t have enough left after buying a three-bed for us!”

“We would, if we look further out.”

“Further *out?*” Aimee gaped. “Move from London to some dismal suburb?”

“What’s the alternative? At least everyone’s happy.”

Margaret listened, an unfamiliar feeling swelling inside—not anger, not hurt. *Shame.* Shame at being a burden to her own son. Shame that her fate was decided without her. Shame that at seventy-four, she was no longer needed.

“Do what you like,” she said, rising.

“Mum, we haven’t decided—”

“You decided *ages* ago.” She cut him off. “I’m just in the way now.”

She walked to her room and shut the door. Edward moved to follow, but Aimee caught his arm.

“Let her calm down,” she whispered. “She’ll see reason.”

“You think?”

“Of course. She’s not unreasonable.”

Edward nodded, but unease gnawed at him. His mother had never been demanding. If she resisted this much, she truly didn’t want to go.

“What if we *do* find her a place?” he offered.

“With *what* money?” Aimee tapped her calculator. “We sell this for £400,000. A three-bed’s £380,000. That leaves £20K. What one-bed buys that?”

“We’d find something.”

“Where? Some crumbling estate? Edward, your mum can barely walk to Tesco! You’d dump her where there’s no buses, no chemists?”

He had no answer. Aimee was right, but guilt still choked him.

“So what do we do?”

“What we *planned.* Sell, buy our place, settle her in a *good* home.”

“And if she refuses?”

“She won’t. She just needs time.”

A noise came from Margaret’s room—drawers opening, shuffling.

“I’ll check on her,” Edward said.

He knocked. “Mum?”

“Come in.”

He opened the door—then froze. His mother stood at the wardrobe, packing a suitcase.

“What are you *doing?*”

“Leaving,” she said simply. “If you’re set on bundling me off, best get on with it.”

“Mum, we’re still talking!”

“What’s to talk about?” She folded a cardigan. “Aimee’s right. You’re struggling. I’m in the way.”

“You’re *not!*”

“I am, love.” She tucked in a stack of handkerchiefs. “Best part ways before we resent each other.”

Edward sat on the bed, watching her. Small, frail, grey hair pinned back. When had she gotten so *old?*

“Mum, remember when I had chickenpox?”

She paused, holding a knitted jumper.

“I do. Three weeks in bed. Fever wouldn’t break.”

“You never left my side. Cool cloth on my forehead all night.”

“And?”

“And now it’s *my* turn to look after *you.*”

Margaret sat beside him.

“Edward,” she said softly, “you’re a good son. But you’ve your own family now. And I’ve had my time.”

“Don’t say that!”

“How else?” She patted his knee. “Children grow. Parents become… excess.”

“You’re not *excess!*”

“I am, love. Best bow out before I’m a nuisance.”

Edward pushed his plate away, appetite gone.

“Mum, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being a rubbish son. For only thinking of myself.”

Margaret cupped his cheek.

“You’re *not* rubbish. Life’s just hard. Everyone does what they must.”

“But this isn’t *right*…”

“What *is* right? Tell me.”

He couldn’t.

The next morning, Edward drove his mother to King’s Cross, carried her case to the platform.

“Call when you arrive,” he said.

“I will.”

“If youMargaret stepped onto the train, her back straight and eyes dry, knowing this was the last time she’d see the city she called home