In Winter, Valentina Decided to Sell Her Home and Move to Be with Her Son.

Dear Diary,

Winter found me finally deciding to sell the little cottage Id clung to for years and move in with my son. My daughterinlaw and James had been urging me for ages, but I couldnt bring myself to part with the place Id built my life around. After a stroke, once Id recovered as much as possible, the reality hit me: living alone was getting dangerous, especially since the nearest doctor was miles away in the nearest market town. I sold the house, left most of the contents to the new owner, and packed up for Jamess flat.

When summer rolled around, Jamess family moved from a cramped flat on the ninth floor into a brandnew cottage they had just finished building. It was his own design, a twostorey home with all the modern comforts, a bright kitchen and airy rooms. The bathroom was painted a shade of blue that reminded me of the sea.

Its like having a beach in the house, I joked, and he laughed.

The only oversight was that my bedroom and Lucys playroom were on the top floor. Each night I had to trek down a steep staircase just to reach the loo.

Just dont tumble in the dark, I muttered to myself, gripping the railings a little tighter each time.

I settled into the new family quickly. My relationship with Eleanor has always been good, and Lucy never bothers meshe’s glued to the internet and keeps to herself. I try to stay out of everyones way.

Dont lecture, keep quiet, and see less, I told myself.

Mornings are a bustle of school runs and work departures, leaving me with Rex the dog and Misty the cat. A small turtle named Shelly also shares the house; she likes to perch on the rim of her round aquarium, stretching her neck to watch me while she tries to escape. After feeding the fish and the turtle, I call Rex for tea. Hes a calm, clever chowchow, and he silently watches me from the kitchen doorway with those soulful brown eyes.

Come on, lets have some tea, I say, reaching for a tin of biscuits. The biscuits are his favourite treatno one else ever gives him any. Because chowchows need a particular diet, Ive been buying childrens biscuits for him, feeling a pang of guilt at feeding a dog human sweets, but I cant help it.

Once lunch is done and the house is tidy, I head out to the garden. Ive always liked getting my hands in the soil, and I keep at it even now. While digging in my plot, I barely noticed the neighbours garden at first. A tall fence hides it from view, except for one gap behind the house where James installed a low decorative rail. Id never met the neighbour, though Id often seen an old man in a worn hat working there. He seemed a bit gruff and would slip away into his shed whenever I looked his way.

A few days ago something odd happened that still puzzles me. After Id helped the family settle, I went upstairs to tidy Lucys room. Shes always in a rush and never makes her bed. I pulled back the curtains and was about to open the window when I saw an old man shuffling slowly, head bowed, toward the raspberry bushes. He lifted an old bucket and sat down on it, wearing a faded longsleeved shirt. It was early September, already chilly, and he was coughing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Coughing and out in the cold, I thought, and then realized he was actually weeping.

My heart tightened.

Are you alright? Do you need help? I called out, but a sharp female shout from the window halted me.

Hes not alone, I reasoned, glancing back at the window. He didnt respond to my calls, just sat there, his shoulders hunched, his grey hair fluttering in the wind. The sight of his loneliness struck me hard; it reminded me how cruel isolation can be.

I found myself watching the neighbour more closely while tending my plot. Through the low fence I could see him wandering the garden, sometimes hammering in the outbuilding.

Today I overheard him speaking to someone on the phone.

Ah, poor us, like birds flying free in summer, then the cold comes and were locked up, forgotten, he muttered. Im trapped too. Where can we go? Who needs us when were old?

The melancholy in his voice made my chest ache.

Whats a man to do, talking to chickens? I whispered to myself as I returned inside.

At dinner I asked Eleanor about the neighbour.

It used to be a family there, she explained. The mother passed away, and the father, Peter, stayed with his son. A few years ago his son married and brought his wife over. They didnt cause any trouble while the father worked. When he retired, the arguments started. He never helped out in the garden; he only shuffled to the shops and looked after Lucys school. Now Lucys sixteen and in the same class as our Lucy, so the old mans become unnecessary.

What about his son? I asked.

Hes a quiet, proper sort, never raises his voice. Thats how they were raised, Eleanor said. In todays world that isnt always a good thing.

I confessed that I sometimes envied couples whose husbands would defend their wives fiercely.

Exactly, James, who had been listening, added. A man who wont let anyone look sideways at his wife will also smash any threat to her.

That night I lay awake, the conversation circling my mind like a cold wind. I forbade myself from dwelling on the past, but whenever a memory surged, I took a piece of paper and drew a sturdy iron gate by a lake, its key sunk to the bottom. I told myself no one would ever retrieve that key, and that the door would stay shut forever.

Then a darker recollection rose: my own late husbands threats of burying me under an apple tree if I ever left. The terror was still a living thing inside me. I tied a sheet to the door handle and wedged a heavy iron poker in the bedroom door, just in case he ever tried to force his way in. I wasnt scared for myself but for Lucy, who still lived with me. One night, waking to a creak, I saw him trying to pry the latch with a large knife. I managed to push Lucy out a window and scramble out myself. My heart pounded.

The door is closed, I whispered. The past is past.

Morning was clear and dry. After finishing my chores, I decided to pop to the bakery for a loaf. Its a habit here to buy fresh bread daily from the local shop. As I stepped onto the shops porch, the baker shouted something loud. Inside, a man was arguing with the shop assistant about the freshness of a loaf. I walked over and, noticing the crust was hard, said, Thats yesterdays bread; fresh loaves have a soft crust, not a dried one. The assistant replaced it, and I bought a proper loaf from another counter.

An elderly gentleman standing nearby thanked me for stepping in. His face was thin but not grim, and his smile was warm.

Mind if I walk with you? Were neighbours, after all, I offered.

Yes, you live with James and Eleanor, dont you? he replied. I know the Hendersons; they work the garden often.

Im Margaret, Jamess mother. Ive just moved to this part.

He chuckled, I heard you came from the north, up in Yorkshire.

Yes, I said, alone was getting hard; my health isnt what it used to be.

The bread smells lovely, he said, tearing off a piece. Would you like a bite?

Im on a diet, so Ill leave the fresh loaf for the children, I replied. The older one suits me better.

He asked about the potatoes, and I told him wed start digging on Saturday. He seemed hungry, so I invited him over for tea.

It feels a bit odd, he admitted.

Whats odd about it? Ive got the house, the dog stays home, and Ive just brewed a fresh pot. Come through the garden gate, I said, noticing his wary glance at the windows.

We moved to the sitting room, and I hurried to set the kettle. He perched on the edge of the sofa, taking in the modest but cosy surroundingsembroidered cushions, flowers on the windowsill, knitted throws. He mused, These days everything seems about money. Wealth pushes people aside; theres no room to sit without worrying about breaking something.

We sipped tea with homemade scones. I kept adding more to his plate, wanting to offer a hearty bowl of stew but hesitating not to offend. Rex lay at the door, watching the newcomer calmly. Our dog usually barks at strangers, but this man gave no cause for alarm. When I heard a low growl from Rex later, I knew wandering folk were near, and I shut the garden gate.

Our chat drifted to the harvest, the weather, market prices. I wanted to ask why Peter seemed so downcast, what weighed on him, but I realized Id be admitting I watched him from the upstairs window.

He eventually stood to leave, but the warmth of the room seemed to hold him back. He spoke of a late wife, and his eyes lingered on the garden beyond the low fence, a place hidden from prying eyes. He recalled a recent argument with his daughterinlaw over paperwork for the house.

From that day onward, my life took on a new purpose. Each morning I hurried to prepare breakfast for the children, then headed to the garden. Peter was already out there, waving as I passed the low fence, accepting the small parcels of food I offered. He blushed but took them, understanding the gesture was sincere. The corner behind the house remained out of sight, a quiet spot for our whispered conversations, free from Eleanors sharp remarks.

The night before his family left for a holiday in Cornwall, Peter mentioned his sons plans. I smiled and said, Enjoy the trip. Youll need a break; the cottage is getting chilly for you.

He looked embarrassed, perhaps thinking Id guessed his feelings.

I was jolted awake by the sound of a car. Dawn was breaking, and a taxi pulled up at the gate. Neighbours stepped out, slamming the gate behind them. The driver helped load bags, and the vehicle rolled away.

Did Peter not see them off? I wondered.

Sleep eluded me; thoughts crowded my mind.

Why do children pull away from the parents who raised them? I mused. They get educated, become successful, and then the old folk are left with a miserable existence. I read about a TV presenter whose son never visited her before she died. Peter was once a director of a large factory; he had status, yet his old age is bleak. God, dont let anyone suffer like that.

I rose early, made breakfast, saw the children off, fed Rex and Misty, and stepped into the garden. Peter wasnt there.

Perhaps hes resting, I thought.

I trimmed the onions, and an hour passed in stillness. A lamp flickered on the porch, making me uneasy. I knocked on his door, waited, then pushed it open. Is anyone home? Peter! I called.

Silence answered, then I stepped into the hallway, into the entryway, and gasped. Peter lay on the sofa, his left arm limp, a bottle of nitromint on the floor and white tablets scattered about. Lord have mercy! I whispered, dialing Jamess number. He answered immediately, his voice trembling. I begged him to call an ambulance.

Within fifteen minutes, the siren wailed, and I met the paramedics. The greyhaired doctor checked his pulse, examined his eyes, and prepared a syringe. Relief surged through me: the man Id grown to care for was still alive.

The day unfolded like a waking dream, everything slipping through my fingers.

How could they leave a father like that? I thought. The son saw his father suffering yet fled, leaving him to die alone. It feels like a horror story.

The memory of a Sholokhov character who locked his mother in a summer kitchen resurfaced.

God, dont let anyone have such children, I whispered again.

Peter left the hospital a month later. I visited him daily, bringing him meals. You have to eat to stay alive, I would say, a phrase that had become my mantra.

One afternoon he confided that the house belonged to him, but his daughterinlaw demanded a deed and a power of attorney for his pension. If I give up my pension, Ill starve, he said. I already wrote a will naming my son, but he doesnt know about it. In a divorce, the inheritance doesnt get split, so my son wont be left roofless in his old age.

I reassured him, Well sort it out. My children have a flat; theres nobody living there. Lucys still with her parents. Well look after you, keep you safe. In my day we didnt say I love you to the elderly; we said I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you, and I wish you a good life.