**Diary Entry**
“Tell my daughter Ive gone away,” a woman said as she chose the care home to spare everyone the trouble.
A heavy silence hung over the reception. Only the clock on the wall ticked away, marking the passage of time, indifferent as ever. Emily carefully pulled her passport and medical records from her handbag, gathered them neatly, and handed them to the young woman behind the desk. The clerk glanced at the papers, then at Emily. A flicker of concern crossed her face, but she said nothing. She took the documents and made a note in the ledger.
“Do you have any family?” she asked softly, eyes downcast.
Emily sighed, weary, as if she had answered this question a thousand times before.
“I had a daughter. But its best to tell her Im gone. Simpler for everyone easier.”
The young woman looked up, startled. She wanted to argue, but the quiet resignation in Emilys eyes stopped her. There was no anger there, no painjust exhaustion. The kind that cannot be reasoned with, or mended, only endured.
Emily had known a different life once. Filled with the smell of baking, baby blankets, childrens laughter, and endless chores. Her husband had died in a car crash when their daughter, Lucy, had just turned four. Since then, she had been alonewidow, mother, homemaker, pillar. No help, no support. But with unshaken faith that shed manage. For Lucy.
And she had. She worked at the school, marked books late into the night, did laundry at dawn, baked biscuits on weekends, and read bedtime stories. Lucy grew upbright, kind, loved. Emily never complained. Sometimes, long after the house had gone quiet, shed sit alone in the kitchen and let a few tears fall. Not from weakness, but loneliness.
Later, Lucy married, had a son, and moved to Manchester. At first, she called every evening. Then just once a week. Soon, once a month. Then silence. Thered been no fight, no falling-out. Just, “Mum, you understandthe mortgage, work, the boys school were so busy. Sorry. We love you, truly. Its just not easy right now.”
Emily nodded. She always understood.
When climbing stairs grew difficult, she bought a cane. When sleepless nights multiplied, she saw a doctor for sleeping pills. When silence settled in completely, she bought a radio. When loneliness took hold, she accepted it. Lucy sent money sometimes. Not much. Just enough for the medicine.
Emily came to the care home herself. She rang, asked about the fees, packed her things. She folded her favourite jumper, wrapped a warm scarf, and tucked the photo album under her arm. She closed the door without looking back. Before leaving, she dropped a letter in Lucys mailbox. No blame, no guilt.
*”Lucy, if one day you come and Im not there, know I havent gone far from you. Ive gone back to myself.
I wont be a burden. I wont force you to choose between duty and ease.
Let it be simplerfor you, for me.
I love you. Mum.”*
At the home, Emily didnt complain. She read, tended the plants, baked shortbread when allowed in the kitchen. She didnt mourn aloud, didnt wish for more, didnt wait. But every night, when the hallway lights dimmed, she opened a small box and took out a photographlittle Lucy in a red coat with white clips in her hair.
Emily traced a finger over the image, closed her eyes, and whispered,
“Goodnight, my lark. May all be well with you”
Then she slept, hoping that somewhere out there, in another city, another life, someone still thought of her.
Three years passed. Lucy did come, unannounced. Clutching the unopened lettershe hadnt been able to read it then. Tired, lost, eyes full of regret, she stepped through the homes doors and asked, “Emily Harper is she still here?”
The nurse nodded and led her to the garden. There, under an apple tree in a rocking chair, an old woman slept, silver hair catching the breeze. In her hands, a photo. Her face was so peaceful.
Lucy couldnt hold back. She fell to her knees and sobbed,
“Mum Forgive me I understand now. I love you so much.”
Emily didnt wake. But in her sleep, she smiled. Perhaps she dreameda little girl in a red coat running down an autumn lane, calling, “Mummy!”
For even if no one else hears, a mothers heart always does.
