**Diary Entry 12th October**
I couldnt meet my own eyes in the mirror this morning. What Ive donewhat Im doingfeels irreversible. The weight of it settled over me the moment Mum turned her gaze on me in the taxi. No lies, Simon, shed said softly, those pale blue eyes stripped of reproach but brimming with something far worsea mothers quiet devastation. It nearly undid me. I wanted to fling the car door open, bolt into the grey London drizzle, and never look back.
But the taxi was already turning into the cracked tarmac drive of *Willowbrook Care Home*, the sign hanging crooked over rusted gates. A place for forgotten souls, where time itself seemed to gather dust. The building loomedpeeling paint, sagging gutters, the skeletal remains of a once-tended garden. I paid the driver without meeting his eye, my fingers stiff around the notes. Mums hand in mine felt brittle, like the hollow bones of a sparrow.
The air here was thick with disinfectant, boiled cabbage, and something deeperthe scent of lives winding down. Through an open window, a telly droned, interrupted by the wet cough of an unseen resident. Mum paused on the path, taking in the bleakness with an eerie detachment, as if she were a tourist whod stumbled into the wrong part of town.
*This is it,* I said too brightly, hefting her small suitcase. *Theyre expecting us.*
Inside, the corridor stretched ahead, walls the colour of stale peas, the linoleum cracked and groaning underfoot. Two women in identical faded dressing gowns sat on a sunken sofa, their vacant stares fixed on nothing. One turned her head slowly, grinning toothlessly at us, and my stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed to turn aroundtake her back to her flat, to mine, *anywhere*but then Lillians voice hissed in my ear: *Weak. Always so weak, Simon.*
Id imagined hell as a childfire and brimstone, like the illustrations in Grandads old Bible. But this was worse. Hell was fluorescent lights, the stench of bleach, and the deafening silence of surrendered hope.
A memory flashed, unbidden: me at seven, bleeding from a cut after building a den with James in the woods behind our house. *Stop crying, runt,* hed said, pressing a dock leaf to my palm with his steady hands. *Ive got you. Always will.* Where are you now, James? The thought was so sharp I flinched. I hadnt let myself think of him in years. His death in Afghanistan was a family tragedy, but if Im honestin the darkest hoursit was also a reprieve. No more comparisons to the golden boy, the son Mum loved best.
*Administrations down the hall,* a nurse called, barely glancing up from her paperwork. *Matrons busy, but Sister Bennett can take the paperwork.*
The door opened, and a woman in a crisp uniform stepped outmid-forties, kind face, dark hair in a no-nonsense bob. Her gaze skimmed over Mum with gentle professionalism before landing on me. No judgement, just a quiet sorrow that made my throat tighten.
Her office was a surprisea geranium on the windowsill, a kitten calendar on the wall, a stubborn pocket of warmth in this place of slow decay. *Sit,* she said, nodding to the chairs. *Im Sister Bennett. Ill be overseeing your mothers care.*
Mum sat obediently, clutching her handbag. I hovered by the door, an intruder in my own shame. Sister Bennett flipped open the file Id handed herpassport, medical formsher pen moving efficiently. *Date of birth? Blood type? Allergies?* I answered in clipped tones, eager to be done.
Then she spoke directly to Mum, her voice softening. *Youll be looked after here. No one will hurt you.* For the first time since wed arrived, Mums eyes flickered with something like relief. A stranger had offered comfort in secondssomething Id failed at for months.
*Almost finished,* Sister Bennett said, turning a page. *Marital status?* *Widowed.* *Children?* She glanced at me. *One son. Simon Edward Whitmore.* I nodded stiffly.
Her pen stilled. Then, in a tone that felt dredged from somewhere deep, she asked the question that would unravel everything: *Maiden name? For the records.*
Mums fingers fumbled at her bags clasp. *Mum?* I prompted, impatient. *What was your name before you married Dad?*
The silence stretched. Sister Bennetts gaze locked onto Mums facenot routine curiosity, but something sharper, almost desperate. And in that moment, I knew. Whatever came next would shatter the careful lie Id built my life upon.
