The ward smelled of cheap medicine, boiled cabbage, and old age—so thick and heavy you could almost scoop it with a spoon. Lydia Whitmore sat on the edge of her bed, tugging at the frayed hem of her faded dressing gown—the same one she used to wear while sipping tea by the kitchen window in her own home. Back when she still had one…
On the next bed sat a woman at least twenty years older, still as a statue, staring into nothing. Her dull gaze fixed on the wall as if it were a window to another world.
Suddenly, she rose slowly, clutched a chair, and dragged it closer to Lydia.
“Liddy, love… tell me,” the old woman rasped, settling beside her with effort. Her faded eyes held the same helplessness as a child’s—as if she weren’t an old woman at all, but a little girl the world had long forgotten.
Lydia wanted to brush her off, insist she wouldn’t understand or remember. But instead, she spoke. Because perhaps, for the first time in ages, someone actually wanted to listen.
“It started with silence,” her voice wavered. “First, James called less often—a meeting, his son’s football practice, too busy. His wife, Emily, never cared much for me. And little Tommy, my grandson… well, he’s growing up. He’s got no time for his nan. I understand.”
The neighbour leaned closer, nodding. She’d been in the home three years—every story felt like her own.
“Then they stopped remembering. My birthday passed like any other day. Then Mother’s Day. Then Christmas. And I… I waited. Baked a treacle tart, just how James liked it as a boy. Set the table. Put out that old photo of us—him in shorts, me laughing, at Brighton Beach. I stared at it and thought: They’ll come. They *have* to. They promised.”
Lydia exhaled heavily. A glimmer welled in the corners of her eyes. The old woman touched her shoulder gently.
“They came. Late that night. Stood in the hallway, James staring at the floor. ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘we’ve decided…’ And then it all blurred. Just his words, sharp as a verdict: ‘Tommy needs his own room. And you… you’ll be better off here. Care, medicine, routine…’”
“What did you say?” the neighbour whispered.
“What *could* I say?” Lydia gave a bitter smile. “I just stammered, ‘But I… I…’ And that was it. Movers. Boxes. My walnut dresser—the one with the carved vines—carried away. I reached for it, but Tommy was glued to his phone. Not a glance. No goodbye, no thanks. Like I never existed.”
“Do they call now?”
“James rang yesterday.” Lydia let out a hollow laugh. “Asked how I was. I said, ‘Remember how you’d crawl into my bed during thunderstorms? Trembling like a little sparrow…’ He said, ‘No, I don’t.’ That’s it. Doesn’t remember. Or won’t.”
The neighbour clasped her hand—warm, rough, knotted with age. Silent.
“Here’s the funny bit,” Lydia went on. “They’re renting out my flat. The money’s for Tommy’s tutors. ‘No point leaving it empty,’ James said. Now it’s a Pilates studio. Can you believe it? Where my old sideboard stood, women stretch on mats.”
The clatter of meal carts echoed in the hall. Outside, the sun dipped low, washing everything in deep orange. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
“But I remember,” Lydia whispered. “All of it. His first tooth. Rocking him to sleep. The day he cried over a B in maths. How I dreamed he’d grow up happy. I gave everything. And now… now I’m just in the way.”
The old woman wrapped an arm around her, resting her cheek against Lydia’s silver hair. Her hand—rough, comforting—felt just like Lydia’s own mother’s once had. It could shield her from anything… except the loneliness.
They sat in silence. In the dim ward, between the past that once held warmth and the present, now just shadows and endless quiet.
And one thought wouldn’t leave her:
*What if, one day, they remember?*
In the end, love isn’t measured in moments given, but in those remembered.
