Granny, Mum said we have to put you in a care home: I overheard my parents talking.
Margaret hurried across the schoolyard to collect her granddaughter after lessons. A smile brightened her face, her heels clicking against the pavement just as they had in her youth, when her heart still trusted in kindness and gratitude. Her spirits were high—at last, she had bought her own little flat, modest but cosy, in a new build. Light, clean, with a brand-new kitchen and a view of the park, it was her symbol of freedom and triumph.
She had worked hard for this. For nearly two years, she had lived frugally, saving every penny, selling the old cottage in the countryside that she and her late husband had built together. Her daughter had lent her a small sum, which Margaret had sworn to repay, though she knew the young couple needed the money themselves. But half her pension was enough, especially now she had a roof of her own.
At the school gate, eight-year-old Emily was waiting—her joy, her purpose. A late child for her daughter, born when she was nearly forty. Margaret had never wanted to leave the countryside, but she had agreed to help with the little one. Each day, she collected Emily from school, took her for walks, fed her, waited until the parents came home from work—then returned to her own flat. The property was technically in her daughter’s name, a precaution against fraud, but in her heart, Margaret still called it hers.
They were walking hand in hand when Emily suddenly stopped and looked up.
“Granny… Mum said we have to put you in a care home.”
The words struck like a blow. The ground seemed to vanish beneath her. Margaret froze.
“What did you say, love?” she asked, her voice tight.
“You know… one of those homes where all the old ladies live. Mum said you wouldn’t be lonely there.”
Margaret felt something inside her clench. She forced a smile, though her lips trembled.
“How do you know this, sweetheart?”
“I heard Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. Mum said she’s already arranged it with some lady. They won’t send you straight away—they’ll wait till I’m older. But don’t tell her I said anything… please?”
“Alright, darling… I won’t,” Margaret murmured, struggling to unlock the front door. “I’m not feeling well—I’ll just lie down for a bit. You go and change, yes?”
Emily dashed off to her room, while Margaret sank onto the sofa, still in her coat. The walls blurred before her, Emily’s words ringing in her ears—care home… you wouldn’t be lonely… already arranged…
Three months later, she packed her things. No arguments, no reproaches. One day, she simply locked the door of her flat—and never went back.
Now, Margaret lives in a village, renting a small cottage from an old friend. The air is sweeter here, the people kinder. She saves what she can for a place of her own, however humble. Friends and distant relatives support her—some with words, others with deeds. Though there are those who scold her:
“Couldn’t you just talk to your daughter? Maybe the child made it up?”
“A child doesn’t make up things like that,” Margaret says firmly. “I know my daughter. Not a call, not a letter, not a word since I left. That tells me everything. Let her realise I found out. I won’t call her. And I never will. It’s not my fault.”
