**Diary Entry**
Seeing my mother as a burden, I checked her into the cheapest care home I could find. «Maiden name?» she was asked. Margaret Whitaker slowly turned her head and looked straight at me. «Dont, David,» she said softly but clearly. «Dont lie. Not now, at least.» Her gaze held no judgmentonly endless maternal painand for a moment, I wanted to bolt from the car and run as far as I could.
Then it hit meI was making the worst mistake of my life, one I might never undo. But the taxi had already turned through the rusted gates of the care home, and there was no going back. The car stopped in front of a shabby red-brick building, its peeling sign barely legible. *Havenwood Retirement Home*the letters were chipped, rust bleeding through. It looked more like a shipwreck than a refuge, a place where lives drifted to their final mooring. I paid the driver, avoiding his eyes, and helped Mum out. Her hand in mine was cold, light as a sparrows claw.
The air here was differentnot city air. It smelled of dampness, rotting leaves, and something faintly sour. Through an open window, I heard the murmur of a television and an old mans wheezing cough. Mum paused, taking in the bleak surroundings. There was no fear on her face, just distant curiosity, like a tourist whod wandered into the wrong place.
«Here we are,» I said, forcing cheer I didnt feel, grabbing her bag. «Come on, theyre expecting us.» Inside, we were met by a dimly lit hallway. The walls, painted in a sickly shade of green, were cracked and stained. The floor, covered in scuffed linoleum, creaked underfoot. The air clung with bleach, overcooked food, and old age. Behind half-open doors, I caught snippets of murmurs, groans, the occasional laugh.
Two elderly women in identical faded dressing gowns sat on a sagging sofa, staring blankly at nothing. One turned her head slowly toward us, her toothless mouth stretching into a ghost of a smile. A shudder ran through me. I wanted to turn around, take Mum anywhere elseback to her old flat, even my own half-finished house. But then I imagined my wifes face, her cold, disapproving eyes. *Youre weak, David. I knew I couldnt rely on you.* So I made myself keep walking.
As a child, Id pictured hell from storybooksrivers of fire, cauldrons of pitch. Now I knew real hell smelled of disinfectant, was painted institutional green, and echoed with the silence of despair. A memory surfaced, sharp as glassme at seven, building a den with my brother, Tom, behind the house. Id cut my finger, blood everywhere, crying in fear. Tom, three years older, had rinsed it under the tap, wrapped it in dock leaves, and said, *Stop crying, little man. Ill always be here to look after you. Always.*
Where are you now, Tom? Why arent you here? The thought was so clear I flinched. I hadnt thought of him in years, pushing his memory away like an inconvenience. His death in service had devastated the familybut privately, Id felt freed. No more comparisons to the smarter, stronger brother Mum had favoured.
«Mr. Whitaker?» A womans voice broke through. A young nurse in a crisp white uniform beckoned us toward the office. «Matrons busy, but I can take your paperwork.» A door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped outtrim, professional, with kind brown eyes. Unlike everything else here, her uniform was spotless.
«Come in,» she said, nodding at Mum before her gaze settled on me. There was no judgment in it, just quiet sorrow. The office was small but unexpectedly warma potted geranium on the sill, a kitten calendar on the wall. A pocket of life in this place of decay. «Im Matron Cole. Ill be overseeing your mothers care.»
Mum sat quietly, hands in her lap. I hovered by the door, feeling like an intruder. I handed over her passport, medical forms, and the council referral. Matron filled in the admission sheetbirth date, blood type, conditions. I answered for Mum, who seemed lost in herself. My replies were clipped, eager to be done with this wretched process.
Then Matron turned to Mum directly, her voice softening. «Dont worry, love. Its not the Ritz, but well look after you.» Mums eyes flickered with something like gratitude. This stranger had reached her in secondssomething Id failed to do all morning.
«Last question,» Matron said, her tone suddenly heavy. «Maiden name? For the records.»
Mum stiffened, fingers twisting the clasp of her handbag. I sighed impatiently. «Mum, come on. What was your name before you married Dad?»
She looked upand for the first time, there was fear in her eyes.
**Lesson:** Regret comes too late when the choice is already made. Some doors, once opened, cant be shut again.
