«Mum, maybe she should go to the care home,» whispered the daughter in the hallway.
«Emily, what’s taking so long? Lunch is getting cold!» came the disgruntled voice of Simon from the kitchen.
Emily Wilson adjusted the pillow behind her mother, tucked the blanket snugly around her, and only then replied:
«Coming, coming! I was just giving Mum her watershe needed to take her tablets.»
«Same thing every day,» muttered her husband when she finally sat at the table. «Tablets, doctors, changing pads… as if there’s nothing else to do.»
Emily silently picked at her soup. What was there to say? It *was* the same, day after day. A year and a half had passed since they’d taken in her mother after the stroke. Back then, it had seemed temporaryjust until she got back on her feet. But time passed, and Margaret only grew weaker.
«Listen,» Simon ventured cautiously, «maybe we *should* consider a care home? Theres round-the-clock care there, doctors on-site, and»
«Stop it!» Emily cut him off sharply. «How can you even say that? Shes my *mother!*»
Simon sighed and let the subject drop. Emily finished her soup in silence, knowing deep down he was right. She was exhausted. Teaching at the school drained her, and at home, her mother needed constant attentionshe couldnt be left alone for a moment.
After lunch, once Simon had gone to tend the garden, Emily sat by her mothers side. Margaret lay with her eyes closed, breathing evenly. Her daughter took her handthin, cool.
«Mum, how are you feeling? Fancy a cup of tea?»
The old woman slowly opened her eyes and gazed at her daughter for a long moment.
«Emily… I know Ive become a burden.»
«Mum, dont say that! Youre *not* a burden.»
«Dont lie, love. I see how tired you are. And Simon… hes a good man, putting up with me, but its hard on him. Youre still youngyou should be *living*, not nursing an old woman.»
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat. Her mother had always been sharp, and illness hadnt dulled that.
«Mum, dont worry about it. Well manage.»
Margaret gave her daughters hand a feeble squeeze.
«Remember when you had scarlet fever as a child? Forty-degree fever, delirious. I didnt leave your bedside for three weeks. Your father said we should take you to hospital, but I refused. Thought youd only get better at home, with me.»
«I remember, Mum.»
«And when you went off to university, I worried then, too. Thought youd forget me, drifting away. But you came home every weekend, always bringing gifts.»
Emily stayed quiet. Memories crashed over her like a wave. Her mother *had* always been her rock. Worked two jobs to put her through school, scrimped on herself so Emily never went without.
«Mum, lets not talk about this now. You should rest.»
«No, Emily, listen. Ive had months to think. And Ive realisedlove isnt about clinging on. Sometimes, love means letting go.»
Just then, little Sophie from next door peeked in.
«Auntie Em, can I see Granny Margaret? I picked her some flowers!»
«Of course, sweetheart.»
Sophie bounded to the bed, thrusting out a fistful of golden marigolds.
«Granny, these are for you! Theyre like tiny suns.»
Margaret struggled to sit up, accepting the flowers.
«Thank you, darling. Youre such a clever girl. Hows school?»
«Brilliant! I know all my letters now, and I can read. Yesterday Mum gave me money, and I bought bread and milk *all by myself!*»
«Well done! Growing up so independent.»
Sophie prattled on before dashing back outside. Emily stayed, turning the marigolds between her fingers.
«See how clever she is,» Margaret said softly. «Her parents trust herlet her go. Thats how she grows.»
«What are you saying, Mum?»
«Too much coddling can smother, love. Remember old Mrs. Harris down the road? Clung to her Andrew so tight he couldnt boil an egg at forty.»
Emily smiled despite herself. Andrew *had* been hopelessonly learned to fend for himself after his mother passed.
That evening, once Margaret was asleep, Emily went to make tea. Simon was back from the garden, reading a leaflet at the table.
«Whats that?»
«Just… some info on a care home. In case.» He tucked it away. «Em, dont be angry. I was talking to Dave todayhis mums in one. Good place, professional care…»
«Simon, *stop!*»
«Hear me out!» His voice rose. «Im not a monster. I care about Margaret too. But look at youyoure worn to the bone. Works noticing youre distracted. When did you last sleep properly? Or talk to me like we used to?»
Emily set the kettle down, leaning against the counter. Outside, leaves turned goldMargarets favourite season. This year, she barely saw it, bedbound.
«Im scared shell… fade away there,» Emily whispered. «Shes lived in her own home all her life, surrounded by her things. There, its strangers, strange walls.»
Simon came over, resting a hand on her shoulder.
«Dont you think it hurts her, seeing you suffer? Women understand these things. Maybe *she* wants you to think of yourself for once?»
The next day, Emily came home early. Neighbour Mrs. Wilkins met her in the hall.
«Em, your mums been ever so glum today. Wouldnt even chat.»
Emily found Margaret turned toward the wall.
«Mum, how are you? Fancy tea?»
«Dont want tea,» came the muffled reply.
«Anything else? Telly on?»
«Dont want anything. Just lying here, useless, ruining everyones lives.»
Emily perched on the bed.
«Mum, whats wrong? We talked fine yesterday.»
Margaret turned slowly.
«I heard you and Simon last night. About the care home.»
Emily flushed.
«Mum, it was just talk…»
«Im not deaf. Or daft. I know Ive pushed you to breaking. Simons rightsomething has to change.»
Emilys eyes stung.
«Youre *not* going anywhere. Well cope.»
«Youll *manage*… but will you be happy? Em, Im seventy-eight. Ive lived my life. Yours is still ahead. I wont let you spend it on a sick old woman.»
«Dont say that!»
«Its the truth. Youre young, lovely. You and Simon should be travelling, spoiling grandkids. Instead, youre changing my pads.»
Emily broke, tears falling. Margaret passed her a handkerchief.
«Dont cry, love. Im not blaming you. Youre kind, devoted. But sometimes loving means letting go.»
«How can I? Youre my *mother!*»
«Thats *why* you must. Maybe there, Ill have companypeople my age to talk to. Here, I just stare at walls.»
That night, Emily lay awake, Simons steady breathing beside her. Was she being selfish? Keeping her mother close for her own peace, not Margarets?
The next morning, as she left for work, she peeked in.
«Sleep alright?»
«Barely. Been thinking. Em, lets at least *look* at that home Simon mentioned.»
«Mum…»
«Just look. Then well see.»
After school, they went. The home stood in a leafy suburb, surrounded by gardens. The matrona warm, middle-aged womanshowed them around.
Rooms were small but cosy, each with a bed, armchair, and view of the grounds.
«Our residents form wonderful friendships,» the matron explained. «They walk, play chess. Weve a library, TV lounge. Doctor visits daily, nurse always on duty.»
In the dining room, elderly folks chatted over meals. They seemed… content.
«How often do families visit?» Emily asked.
«Some weekly, some monthly. Just dont forget us!»
On the drive back, Margaret was quiet. Only at home did she speak:
«Its… nice there. People seem decent.»
Emily helped her to bed. Margaret took her hand.
«Emily, Ive decided. Im moving there.»
«Mum»
«Its *my* choice. There, I wont be a burden. You can live. Visit meI know you will.»
«Every weekend.»
«Good. Now let me rest. Call them tomorrow.»
In the hallway, Emily wept silently. Simon found her, held her.
«Its the right thing. For everyone.»
«I know. But it *hurts.*»
A week later, Margaret moved in. Emily helped arrange her photos, favourite mug, the knitted throw.
«All settled, Mum?»
«Course I am! Not a child. Now, you focus on yourselfand that good man of yours.»
Leaving, Emily saw her mother at the window, waving. Frail, silver-haired, yet somehow more at peace than shed been at home.
Time passed. Emily visited every weekend, sometimes with Simon. Margaret spoke of new friends, garden strolls, books from the homes library. Shed come alive again.
«Funny thing,» she admitted once, «I feel *useful* here. Read to my neighbourher eyes are poor. Helped Mrs. Norris write to her grandson yesterdayher hands shake.»
Emily understood then. Her mother *wasnt* a burden there. She could still give.
At home, life bloomed. Emily slept. Work improved. She and Simon rediscovered the theatre, even took a seaside holidayfirst in years.
One visiting day, she bumped into Mrs. Thomson from their street.
«Emily! Had no idea your mum was here. Were thick as thievesshes everyones favourite!»
«How is she?»
«Marvellous! Better than half the folks here. Always cheering others up. Proper social butterfly!»
Emily smiled. Her mother *had* always been lively. Here, she could be herself again.
That evening, saying goodbye, Emily murmured:
«You were right, Mum. This was best.»
Margaret patted her hand.
«Knew youd see. Real love, my darling, isnt chains. Its setting someone free to be happy.»
Driving home, Emily turned the words over. One day, shed need to apply this lessonnot just with parents, but with her own children.
Autumn gilded the trees, and for the first time in years, Emily truly saw its beauty.
