“Mum, maybe she should go to a care home,” whispered the daughter in the hallway.
“Emma, what’s taking you so long? Dinner’s getting cold!” came the grumbling voice of Michael from the kitchen.
Emma Wilson adjusted her mothers pillow, tucked the blanket snugly around her, and only then replied:
“I’m coming, just a sec! Had to get Mum her water for her tablets.”
“Same thing every day,” muttered her husband when she finally sat at the table. “Tablets, doctors visits, changing her pads. Like weve got nothing else to do.”
Emma silently picked at her soup. What could she say? It *was* the same every day. It had been nearly two years since theyd taken her mum in 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,” Michael said carefully, “maybe we should think about a care home after all? Theyve got round-the-clock care, doctors, and”
“Stop it!” Emma cut him off sharply. “How can you even suggest that? Shes my *mother*!”
Michael sighed and didnt bring it up again. Emma finished her soup, knowing deep down he wasnt entirely wrong. She felt the exhaustion creeping up, day by day. Teaching at school drained her, and at homeher mum, who couldnt be left alone even for a minute.
Later, after Michael had gone to tend the allotment, Emma sat beside her mother. Margaret lay with her eyes closed, breathing steadily. Emma took her handthin now, and cool.
“Mum, how are you feeling? Fancy a cuppa?”
The old woman slowly opened her eyes and gave her daughter a long look.
“Emma, love… I know Im a burden to you.”
“Mum, dont talk like that! Youre *never* a burden.”
“Dont lie, sweetheart. I see how tired you are. And Michaelhes a good man, bless him, putting up with me, but its hard on him. Youre both still youngyou should be living your lives, not looking after an old woman.”
Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. Mum had always been sharp, and illness hadnt dulled that.
“Mum, please, dont think like that. Well manage.”
Margaret gave her daughters hand a feeble squeeze.
“Remember when you had scarlet fever as a child? Forty-degree fever, deliriousI didnt leave your bedside for three weeks. Your dad kept saying, Take her to hospital, but I wouldnt. Thought youd only get better at home, with me.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“And when you went off to uni, I worried myself sick. Thought youd forget me. But you came home every weekend, always brought me little treats.”
Emma stayed quiet. The memories washed over her like a wave. Yes, Mum had always been her rock, her support. Worked two jobs just to put her through school, never spent a penny on herself if it meant Emma had what she needed.
“Mum, lets not talk about this. Youre tiredtry to rest.”
“No, Emma, listen. Ive had a lot of time to think these past months. And Ive realisedreal love isnt about keeping someone close. Sometimes, its about letting go.”
Just then, little Sophie from next door poked her head in.
“Auntie Emma, can I come see Granny Margaret? I picked her some flowers from the garden.”
“Of course, love. Come in.”
Sophie bounded over to the bed and held out a handful of golden marigolds.
“Granny, these are for you! Theyre like tiny suns.”
Margaret struggled to prop herself up and took the flowers.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Youre such a dear. Hows school?”
“Good! I know all my letters now, and I can read. Yesterday, Mum gave me some pocket money, and I bought bread and milk all by myself at the shop!”
“Thats my clever girl! Growing up so independent.”
Sophie chatted a bit longer before dashing back outside to play. Emma stayed, holding the little bouquet, lost in thought.
“See what a bright little thing she is,” Margaret murmured. “Her parents let her go, trust herand she grows up confident.”
“Whyre you saying this, Mum?”
“Because too much coddling can do harm. Remember Mrs. Thompson from down the road? So overprotective of her lad, he couldnt even boil an egg by forty.”
Emma couldnt help but smile. Poor Dave had been a proper mummys boyonly learned to fend for himself after his mum passed.
That evening, after Margaret had fallen asleep, Emma went to make tea. Michael was back from the allotment, flipping through a brochure at the table.
“Whatre you reading?”
“Oh, just… some info about a private care home. Just in case.” He tucked it away. “Emma, dont be cross. But I was talking to Pete todayhis mums in one. Said the place is lovely, proper care…”
“Michael, stop.”
“Just hear me out!” he said, voice rising. “Im not a monster. I care about Margaret too. But look at youyoure running on fumes. Works noticing youre distracted. And at homewhen was the last time you slept properly? Or even just talked to me like we used to?”
Emma set the kettle on, leaning against the counter. Outside, the leaves were turningMum had always loved autumn, called it the prettiest season. But this year, she barely saw it.
“I just… Im scared shell be miserable there,” Emma admitted quietly. “Shes spent her whole life in her own home, with her things. And there, its strangers, strange walls.”
Michael came over, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“You think it doesnt kill her, seeing you like this? Women understand these things, love. Maybe *she* wants you to put yourself first for once?”
—
The next day, Emma came home early. Neighbour Mrs. Carter stopped her in the hall.
“Emma, your mums been ever so down today. I popped in, and she barely said a word.”
“Really? She seemed fine yesterday.”
Emma went into her mums room. Margaret was turned toward the wall.
“Mum, you alright? Fancy some tea?”
“Dont want any,” came the muffled reply.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing. Just lying here like a useless lump, making everyones life harder.”
Emma sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mum, whats happened? We were fine yesterday.”
Margaret turned slowly.
“Emma, I heard you and Michael talking last night. About the care home.”
Emma flushed.
“Mum, it was just a chat”
“Im not deaf. Or daft. I know Ive worn you both down. Hes rightsomethings got to give.”
Emmas eyes stung.
“Mum, youre not going anywhere. Well cope.”
“Youll *cope*… But will you be happy? Love, Im seventy-eight. Ive lived my life. Yours is still ahead. I wont have you wasting it on an old woman.”
“Dont say that!”
“Its the truth. Youre young, beautiful. You and Michael should be travelling, spoiling grandkids. Not changing my pads.”
Emma broke down. Margaret handed her a tissue.
“Dont cry, pet. Im not blaming you. Youre a good daughter. But sometimes loving someone means letting go.”
“How can I? Youre my *mum*!”
“Thats exactly why you should. Maybe Id be better off there, with people my own age to talk to. Here, I just stare at the walls all day.”
That night, Emma lay awake, listening to Michaels steady breathing, turning her mothers words over in her mind. Was she being selfish? Keeping Mum close for *her* sake, not Mums?
The next morning, before work, she peeked into her mothers room.
“Sleep alright?”
“Not a wink. Been thinking. Emma, lets at least look at that place Michael mentioned.”
“Mum…”
“Just look. Then well decide.”
After work, they went. The care home was nestled in a leafy suburb, surrounded by gardens. The managera kind-faced womangave them a tour.
The rooms were small but cosy, each with a bed, a nightstand, a chair. Windows looked out onto the gardens.
“Our residents are all ages,” the manager explained. “Many form friendshipswalk together, play dominoes. Weve a library, a telly in the lounge. A doctor visits daily, and nurses are always on duty.”
In the dining room, elderly folks ate their meals, chatting quietly. They seemed… content.
“How often do families visit?” Emma asked.
“Depends. Some every weekend, some once a month. The important thing is theyre not forgotten.”
On the drive back, Margaret was quiet. Only as they pulled up at home did she speak:
“Its… nice there. The people seem decent.”
Emma helped her inside, settled her into bed. Margaret took her hand.
“Love, Ive thought hard today. I think its time I moved there.”
“Mum”
“Let me finish. Its my choice. There, I wont feel like a burden. And youyoull have your life back. Youll visit, I know.”
“Every weekend.”
“Thats my girl. Now let me rest. Ring them tomorrow, will you?”
Emma stepped into the hall and cried silently. Michael found her, pulled her close.
“Its the right thing. For everyone.”
“I know. But it *hurts*.”
A week later, Margaret moved in. Emma helped her settleput out her favourite photos, her teacup, her warmest shawl.
“Alright, Mum? Comfortable?”
“Course I am. Im a big girl. Now you look after yourselfand that lovely husband of yours.”
As Emma left, Margaret stood at the window, waving. Frail, silver-hairedbut somehow lighter than shed been at home.
Time passed. Emma visited every weekend, sometimes with Michael. Mum talked about new friends, walks in the garden, books from the homes library. Shed come alive again.
“You know,” she admitted once, “I feel *useful* here. Read to my neighbourher eyesights gone. Yesterday, helped Mary write to her grandsonher hands shake so.”
Emma listened, realising Mum had been right. Here, she wasnt a burdenshe could still *give*.
And at home, life changed too. Emma slept properly again, threw herself into work, started going to the theatre with Michael. They even took a seaside holidayfirst in years.
One visiting day, Emma bumped into a familiar face in the corridorJenny from their old street.
“Emma! Had no idea your mum was here! Weve become palshave such lovely chats.”
“Hows she doing?”
“Brilliant! Better than half the folks here. Always helping, cheering everyone up. Proper life of the party!”
Emma smiled. That was Mumalways bustling, always kind. Here, she could still be *herself*.
That evening, as Emma said goodbye, she whispered:
“Mum… you were right. This was the best thing.”
Margaret patted her hand.
“Knew youd see it, love. True love isnt chainsits setting someone free to be happy.”
On the drive home, Emma thought about that. One day, shed have to let her own children go too. And thatthough it would achewould be love as well.
Autumn gilded the trees, and for the first time in years, Emma truly saw its beauty.
