Seeing his mother as a burden, her son checked her into the cheapest care home he could find. «Maiden name?» he asked briskly, filling out the paperwork.
Margaret Whitmore turned her head slowly and met his eyes. «Don’t, Edward,» she said quietly but clearly. «Dont lie. Not now, at least.» Her gaze held no judgmentonly endless maternal sorrowand for a moment, Edward wished he could bolt from the car and run as far as his legs would carry him.
He suddenly realised he was making the worst mistake of his life. One he might never undo. But the taxi was already turning through rusted iron gates towards a grim, two-storey brick building surrounded by bare trees. A peeling sign read *Maplewood Rest Home* in faded letters, though the place looked more like a shipwreck than any kind of refugea final port for those whose lives had already sunk.
Edward paid the driver without looking at him, then helped his mother out. Her hand in his was cold and light as a sparrows claw. The air here was differentnot city air. It smelled of damp, rotting leaves, and something faintly sour. Through an open window came the muffled sound of a television and an old mans cough. Margaret paused, taking in the bleak surroundings.
Her face showed neither fear nor despair, just detached curiosity, as if she were a tourist in some unpleasant, unfamiliar place. «Well, here we are,» Edward said with forced cheer, picking up her bag. «Come on, theyre expecting us.» Inside, they were met by a dimly lit corridor.
The walls, painted an institutional green, were cracked and peeling. The scuffed linoleum floor creaked underfoot. The air was thick with bleach, overcooked food, and the unmistakable scent of old age. Behind half-open doors came murmurs, groans, the occasional incoherent muttering.
Two elderly women in identical tartan dressing gowns sat on a sagging sofa, staring blankly at nothing. One turned her head slowly towards them, her toothless mouth stretching into a ghastly smile. Edward shuddered. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to turn around and take his mother anywhere elseback to her little flat, even to his own half-finished house.
But then he pictured his wife Fionas cold, disapproving eyes. He could almost hear her voice: *Weak as ever, Edward. I knew I couldnt rely on you.* So he forced himself forward.
As a boy, hed imagined hell from storybooksrivers of fire, cauldrons of boiling pitch. Now he knew the truth. Hell smelled of disinfectant. It had green walls. And its silence was deafening.
A memory surfaced, sharp and unexpected. He was seven. He and his brother Thomas were building a den behind the house. Edward cut his fingerblood dripped, and he cried in pain and fright. Thomas, three years older, examined the wound gravely, rinsed it under the tap, and wrapped it in a dock leaf.
«Stop crying, shrimp,» hed said in his deepening voice. «Ill always be here to look after you. Always.»
*Where are you now, Thomas? Why arent you here?* The thought was so clear Edward flinched. He hadnt thought of his brother in years, pushing the memory aside like an unwanted burden. Thomass death in the army had devastated their family, but Edward, in his darkest moments, had admitted to himself that it also freed himno more comparisons, no more living in the shadow of the cleverer, stronger brother their mother had clearly favoured.
«Administrators expecting you,» a woman called. A young receptionist in a white coat peered over a cluttered desk. «Shes with someone, but you can wait. Or hand the paperwork to Nurse Bennett.»
The next door opened, and a middle-aged woman appearedtired but kind-faced, her short hair neat, her brown eyes alert. Her scrubs, unlike everything else here, were crisp and clean. «Come in,» she said, nodding at Edward and Margaret. Her glance at his mother held professional sympathy, but when she looked at Edward, there was something elsequiet sadness.
The nurses office was small but surprisingly cosy. A geranium sat on the windowsill; a kitten calendar hung on the wall. An island of warmth in this place of decay.
«Sit down,» said Nurse Bennett, gesturing to two chairs. «Im Elizabeth. Ill be your mothers primary carer.» Margaret sat obediently, her handbag on her lap. Edward hovered by the door, feeling like an intruder.
«Documents, please.» He handed over his mothers passport, medical records, and referral. Elizabeth began filling the admission formdate of birth, blood type, chronic conditions. Edward answered for his mother, who seemed lost in thought. He spoke quickly, wanting this humiliating process over with.
Then Elizabeth turned to Margaret directly, her voice softening. «Dont worry, love. Its no holiday resort here, but we take care of our residents. No one will hurt you.»
Margaret looked up, and for the first time, something like gratitude flickered in her eyes. This woman had spoken to her like a person, not a burden. Edward felt a stab of jealousythis stranger had reached his mother in minutes, while he, her own son, couldnt get a word out of her.
«Nearly done,» Elizabeth said, flipping a page. «Just a few more details. Marital statuswidow. Children?» She glanced at Edward.
«Son. Edward James Whitmore.»
«Thats right,» he muttered.
She wrote it down, her pen moving in neat, precise strokes. Edward watched her handswell-kept, capableand thought she seemed out of place here. There was something refined about her, an educated air that didnt belong in this shabby institution.
Elizabeth looked up, her gaze lingering on Margaret with an odd intensitynot just sympathy now, but something like curiosity. Edward dismissed it as professional habitdoctors always saw puzzles where there were none. He couldnt have guessed that her next question would shatter his carefully constructed life, sending the pieces crashing down around him.
«Last thing,» Elizabeth said, her voice oddly hollow. «Maiden name. For the records.»
The simple, routine question made Margaret stiffen. Her fingers fidgeted with her handbag clasp. Edward sighed impatiently.
«Mum, come on. «Whitmore,» she whispered.
Elizabeth froze. The pen hovered over the paper. Slowly, she looked up, her eyes searching Margarets face with a dawning horror. Then she turned to Edward, her voice barely audible. «Did you say… your mothers name is Margaret?»
«Yes,» he snapped, irritated. «What does it matter?»
Elizabeth exhaled sharply, her knuckles whitening around the pen. «My name is Elizabeth Grace Whitmore,» she said. «My mother gave me up in 1958. She was seventeen. She said her name was Margaretand that the babys father was her sisters husband.»
The room tilted. Edwards breath caught in his throat. Margaret closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
And in that silence, the truth settled like dust after a collapseancient, suffocating, inescapable.
