**Diary Entry**
I never thought Id see the day when my own mother became a burden. But here we are, turning into the cracked driveway of *The Willow Grove Residential Home*, the cheapest care home in all of Essex.
Maiden name? the nurse asked, pen poised over the form.
Eleanor Whitmore turned her head slowly and looked at menot with anger, not with blame, just that quiet, unbearable disappointment only a mother can carry. Dont lie, Edward, she murmured. Not now. Her voice was so soft, yet it cut deeper than any shout. That lookGod, that lookmade me want to fling open the car door and run until my legs gave out.
At that moment, I realised I was making the worst mistake of my life. One I might never undo. But the taxi was already pulling up to the peeling iron gates, and there was no turning back. The car halted in front of a shabby two-storey brick building, its grey walls half-hidden by bare, skeletal trees. A rusted sign above the entrance read, *The Willow Grove Residential Home*, though *grove* seemed a cruel jokethis was no sanctuary. It was a shipwrecks graveyard, a final berth for those whose sails had long since rotted away.
I paid the driver without meeting his eyes, then helped Mother out. Her hand in mine was cold, trembling slightly, fragile as a sparrows foot.
The air here was differentnot the damp, earthy scent of the countryside, but something stale, something decaying. Through an open window on the ground floor, a telly droned, punctuated by an old mans hacking cough. Mother paused, taking in the bleak courtyard with an odd detachment, as if she were a tourist in some dismal, unfamiliar place.
Well, here we are, I said, forcing cheer into my voice as I hefted her suitcase. Come on, theyre expecting us.
Inside, the corridor stretched ahead, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes. The walls, painted in that sickly institutional green, were spiderwebbed with cracks. The lino underfoot was worn to threads, creaking with every step. The air reeked of bleach, overcooked cabbage, and something worsesomething ancient and resigned.
From open doors, snippets of mumbled conversations, groans, the occasional hollow laugh. Two old women in identical flannel dressing gowns sat slumped on a sagging sofa, staring blankly at nothing. One turned her head toward us, her toothless mouth stretching into a grotesque grin. A shudder ran through me. I nearly grabbed Mothers arm and dragged her back to the car.
*Take her home. Anywhere but here.*
But then I pictured Olivias faceher cold, disapproving eyes, the way shed purse her lips and say, *Youre weak, Edward. I knew I couldnt rely on you.*
So I kept walking.
As a boy, Id imagined hell as fire and brimstone, like the illustrations in my storybooks. Now I knew better. Hell smelled of antiseptic. Hell had peeling green walls. And worst of all, hell was silentnot with peace, but with despair.
A memory surfaced, sharp as broken glass. I was seven. My brother James and I were building a den in the woods behind our house. Id cut my finger on a sharp stick, blood welling red and fast. Id cried, panickeduntil James, four years older, took my hand, washed it under the garden tap, and pressed a dock leaf to the wound.
*Stop crying, shrimp,* hed said, ruffling my hair. *Ill always be here to look after you.*
*Always.*
Where are you now, James?
The thought hit me so hard I flinched. I hadnt thought of him in yearshadnt *let* myself. When he died in Afghanistan, it shattered our family. And in my darkest moments, Id admitted to myself that his death had also beenGod forgive mea relief. No more comparisons. No more living in his shadow.
You can see Matron now, called a voice.
Behind the cluttered reception desk, a young woman in a white uniform peered up. Shes ready for youor you can leave the paperwork with me.
Margaret, she said to someone behind me, take our new resident, please.
A door opened, and a woman in her forties stepped out. Neat, short hair, tired but kind eyes. Her scrubs were immaculate, a stark contrast to the shabbiness around her.
Come through, she said, nodding at me and Mother. Her gaze lingered on Mothers facenot pitying, just *knowing*before sliding to me. No judgement there, just sadness.
Her office was small but surprisingly warm. A pot of geraniums on the windowsill, a kitten calendar on the wall. A tiny rebellion against the decay outside.
Sit down, she said, gesturing to the chairs. Im Margaret. Ill be your mothers primary carer.
Mother sat obediently, her handbag clutched in her lap. I leaned against the doorframe, feeling like an intruder.
Margaret took Mothers documentspassport, medical records, the referraland began filling out forms. Date of birth, blood type, allergies. I answered for Mother, who sat silent, withdrawn, as if shed already left this place in her mind.
Then Margaret turned to her directly, her voice softening. You neednt worry. Its not the Ritz, but we take care of our own here.
For the first time since wed arrived, Mother looked at her. Not with fear, not with resignationbut with something like gratitude.
Something inside me twisted. This stranger had reached her in minutes, while Iher own sonhad failed.
Nearly done, Margaret said, flipping a page. Just a few more details. Marital status?
Widowed, I muttered.
Children?
Me. Edward Whitmore.
She wrote it down, her handwriting precise, almost elegant. I studied her handswell-kept, nails trimmedand wondered what someone like her was doing in a place like this.
Then she looked up. This time, her gaze was sharper, more intent. As if she were puzzling over something.
Last question, she said. Her voice sounded strange, distant. Maiden name? For our records.
Mother flinched. Her fingers tightened around her handbag strap, knuckles whitening.
I sighed. *Just answer. Lets get this over with.*
Mum, I said impatiently, what was your name before you married Dad?
She didnt speak.
And thats when everything began to unravel.
