I’ve just been widowed, so I sold my big house not to feel lonely and visited my son for some time. He was the one who asked me to move in if I needed it.
The grief took over, and all I wanted was to be around family.
I was at their doorstep, suitcases at my feet, ready to take on the role of a live-in mother and grandmother — taking over the kitchen whenever Lucy needed me.
However, not my son but his wife met me and mumbled straightaway that their house was bursting at the seams.
Her: “You’ve got two options. There is the basement, or there’s a nursing home. Your call, grandma.”
WHAT WOULD YOU CHOOSE IN MY PLACE? Because being stricken, I chose…
…neither.
I smiled politely, even though my heart was pounding, and said, “Thank you, Lucy, but I think I’ll manage just fine on my own.”
That same evening, instead of unpacking in a damp basement or checking into a nursing home, I booked myself into a lovely little serviced apartment nearby. It had big windows, fresh air, and — most importantly — no one calling me “grandma” like it was an insult.
Over the next few weeks, I made friends in the building, joined a local garden club, and started hosting Sunday dinners at my place. My son came — alone at first — and saw me laughing, cooking, and surrounded by people who genuinely enjoyed my company.
Funny thing… Lucy’s frosty tone melted when she realized my dinners had become the family gathering spot she no longer controlled.
By the time summer rolled around, I had invitations pouring in — and zero regrets about not choosing either of her “options.” The basement and nursing home? They could keep them.
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