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

Winter rolled around and I finally decided to sell the old cottage and move in with my son. My daughterinlaw and James had been urging me for ages, but I kept clinging to the little nest Id built. It wasnt until I had a stroke, and managed to pull myself together as best as I could, that I realised living alone was getting downright unsafe especially since the nearest doctor was miles away in the village.

So I sold the house, handed most of the belongings over to the new owner, and packed up for Jamess place.

By summer the Harper family had just shifted from their cramped flat on the ninth floor to a brandnew twostorey cottage on the outskirts of Manchester. James designed it himself.

I grew up in a house with a garden, he said, so I wanted a proper home for my kids.

The place was spacious, with a bright kitchen, airy rooms, and a bathroom that reminded me of the blue sea.

Feels like weve stepped onto a beach, I laughed.

The only thing James hadnt thought about was that my bedroom and Olivias would be upstairs. Every night Id have to trudge down the steep stairs just to reach the loo.

Dont fall asleep on the way, I muttered to myself, gripping the railings tight.

I settled in quickly. Claire and I got along famously, and Olivia never bothered me shes glued to the internet anyway. I made a rule: keep my mouth shut, stay out of other peoples business, and try not to stare too much.

Mornings were hectic: everyone off to work or school, and I was left with Rex, my trusty chowchow, and Misty the cat. We also had Shelly the turtle, who loved perching on the edge of its round tank, stretching its neck to watch me as if trying to escape. After feeding the fish and Shelly, Id call Rex over for tea. Hed sit by the kitchen door, his brown, droopy eyes locked onto me.

Come on, lets have a cuppa, Id say, pulling out a tin of biscuits. Those biscuits were his favorite nobody else ever fed him, and a chowchow needs a proper diet. I felt sorry for him, so I bought the childrens biscuits and gave him a handful.

Once lunch was sorted and the house tidied, I headed out to the garden. Old habits die hard; I loved turning the soil. While digging, I barely noticed the neighbours plot. A high fence hid most of it, except for a small gap behind the house where James had put a low decorative rail. Id seen an old man in a worn hat working there, but never spoke to him he always disappeared into the shed as soon as he saw me.

A few days ago, though, I saw something that gave me pause. I was up on the second floor, straightening Olivias room. She always left the bed unmade and was always in a rush. I slid the curtains aside, reached for the window, and spotted an elderly fellow shuffling slowly, head down, towards the raspberry bushes. He lifted an old bucket and sat on it, dressed in a faded shirt with long sleeves. It was September, the mornings were already nippy, and he kept coughing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

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

My heart lurched.

Is everything alright? Do you need help? I rushed to the door, but a sharp female shout from the window stopped me.

So he wasnt alone. Someone must have called him, but he didnt answer, just stayed there, looking utterly despondent. The wind rattled his grey hair, curled his hunched shoulders. I felt a fierce pang of pity I knew how cruel loneliness could be.

I kept watching him from behind the low fence, noticing he spent most of his day out of the house, sometimes in the shed, sometimes tinkering in the garden.

Later I overheard him on the phone:

Ah, were the poor little birds, free while its warm. When the cold comes well be caged and forgotten. Im stuck in a cage too. Where do we go? Who needs us when were old?

His voice sounded so desperate it made my stomach turn.

I asked Claire about the neighbours over dinner.

Before, a family lived there. The wife passed away, and the husband, Arthur Morgan, stayed on with his son. A few years back his son married and brought his wife over. They never caused any trouble while the dad was working. Once he retired, the shouting started. The daughterinlaw never helped with the garden; Arthur did everything himself, even the shopping. Hed often come over for Olivias school runs. Now the girl is sixteen and in the same class as Olivia, so the old mans become a bit of a burden.

What about his son? I asked.

Hes quiet, proper, cant stand up for himself. Thats how they raised the whole family, Claire replied.

Ive always envied couples where the husband would fight anyone who even looked at his wife the wrong way, I said, halfjoking.

My dad wouldve done the same hed tear anyone up if they crossed him, Arthurs son, whod been listening, muttered.

That night I couldnt sleep. The conversation kept echoing in my mind, stirring an old ache. I forced myself not to think about the past. Whenever a memory threatened, Id grab a piece of paper and sketch a heavy iron door on a lakeshore, with the key sunk to the bottom. No one will ever retrieve it, I whispered to myself.

Then a darker memory slipped in my late husband, who used to say hed kill me and bury me under an apple tree so nobody would ever find me. It was a nightmare Id tried to outrun. I tied a blanket to the door handle and stuck a metal poker in the knob, just in case he ever came back. I wasnt scared for myself, but for Olivia. One night I woke to the sound of something scraping the door. He was trying to pry the knob off with a large knife. I shoved Olivia out the window and scrambled out myself, heart hammering.

Doors shut, I told myself. Better that the past stays behind.

The next morning was crisp and clear. After sorting the house, I headed down to the corner shop for a loaf. In our neighbourhood we still buy fresh bread every day from the bakery. As I stepped onto the porch, the shopkeepers voice boomed.

Inside, a gentleman was arguing with the shop assistant about a loaf that looked too stale.

Its yesterdays batch, the crust is hard, I said, pointing at the bread.

Excuse me, but fresh bread still has a little dent in the crumb, this ones dry as a biscuit, the shopkeeper retorted, swapping the loaf and taking the money. I bought a fresh roll from another counter and left.

An elderly man standing outside called out, Thanks for the help, love. Cant stand the cheeky lot sometimes. I turned and saw his face thin, but not sour, with a friendly smile.

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

He looked surprised. You live near Oliver and Kate? I know the parents; theyre always out in the garden.

Im Olivers mum. Moved here a while back, I replied.

He chuckled, I heard you used to live up north, in the Lake District, is that right?

Spent a good chunk of my life alone up there. Healths not what it used to be, I admitted.

He broke off a piece of the fresh loaf, offering it. Want a bite? Im on a diet, so I stick to the old stuff for the kids.

We fell into small talk about the weather, the harvest, and the rising price of potatoes. I invited him over for tea.

Sounds a bit odd, but why not? Ive got a kettle on, and the dogs a good lad he wont bother anyone, I said, waving at Rex, who was curled up at the door.

When he stepped inside, I hurried to the kitchen. The cottage was modest but cosy embroidered cushions, flowers on the windowsills, knitted throws on the chairs. Arthur glanced around, thinking, All this comfort money can make you forget the simple things.

We sipped tea and nibbled on homemade scones. I kept topping his plate, wanting to offer a hearty bowl of soup, but held back so as not to offend. Rex lay at the threshold, eyes fixed on the guest. He never barked at strangers; he only growled if someone truly threatened the yard, which never happened here.

The conversation drifted to crops, the fickle British weather, and market prices. I wanted to ask why Arthur seemed so down, what weighed on him, but Id have to admit Id been watching him from the upstairs window.

Eventually he said he had to go, but lingered a bit longer, as if the warm tea reminded him of a time when his wife was still alive. He seemed to linger, perhaps hoping for a bit of company.

From that day on, my routine changed. Mornings Id hurry to make breakfast for the kids, then head out to the garden. Arthur would already be out there, waving, and Id hand him a fresh roll or a jam jar. Hed blush a little, but take it gladly a simple gesture from the heart. The little patch behind the house stayed hidden from prying eyes, so we could chat without anyone eavesdropping.

One evening, Arthur mentioned that his son and his family were off to a holiday in Spain, leaving him alone. I smiled and said, Enjoy it. Youll get a break, and well keep the cottage warm for you.

He looked a bit embarrassed, like he hadnt expected me to notice.

The next morning a taxi pulled up at the gate. I heard the clatter of luggage as the neighbours hurried out, the driver opening the boot. I wondered if Arthur had finally decided to leave the house for a while.

I lay back down, but sleep wouldnt come. My thoughts raced: why do parents spend their whole lives caring for their children, only to be cast aside in old age? I thought of famous stories where children forget their elders, and felt a sharp pang of injustice.

I got up early, made breakfast, fed Rex and Misty, and stepped out. The garden was quiet; Arthur was nowhere to be seen. I kept pruning the onions, the silence growing heavier. I noticed a dim light on the porch and, feeling a flutter of nerves, knocked on the front door.

Is anyone home? Peter I mean Arthur? I called, halfwhispering.

Silence answered. I pushed the door open a crack and stepped inside. My heart leapt when I saw him slumped on the sofa, his left arm limp, a bottle of nitromints scattered on the floor, and a small bottle of something white beside him.

Lord have mercy! I shouted, fumbling for my phone. I dialed Oliver, my son, who answered straight away. Between sobs I managed to tell him to call an ambulance.

Within fifteen minutes the sirens wailed, and a doctor arrived, checking his pulse and pupils before setting up an IV. I finally felt a wave of relief he was still alive.

The day passed in a blur. I kept asking myself how his own son could have left him to suffer like that. It reminded me of those old tales where the sick are abandoned. I muttered, God, dont let anyone have children like that.

A month later Arthur was discharged. I visited him daily, bringing soup and biscuits. Youve got to eat to keep going, Id say, a phrase that had become my mantra.

During one of those visits, he confessed that his house was legally his, but his daughterinlaw wanted him to sign over the deed and the pension. If I hand over the pension Ill starve, he whispered. I already wrote a will naming my son, but he doesnt know about it. The law says a marriage wont split the inheritance, so I wont be left homeless.

I replied, Thats good then. Well sort it out. My kids have a flat they dont live in. Olivia can stay with us, and well look after you. No need to stress.

He sighed, In old Yorkshire we didnt say I love you; we said I feel for you. So I feel for you, Evelyn, and wish you peace.

And just like that, my life found a new purpose. Each morning Id rush to make breakfast, then head out to the garden, waving at Arthur as he worked his patch. The hidden corner behind the house stayed our little secret, a place for quiet chats away from Claires constant chatter.

Now the days feel fuller, even if the past still lingers like a distant tide.