Granny Picked the Wrong Ones
Lydia Whitmore stood by the window, watching unfamiliar children play in the courtyard. A little girl with pigtails reminded her of her granddaughter, Emily, whom she hadn’t seen in six months. She could have seen her every day.
“Lydia, what’s got you so glum?” asked her neighbour, Margaret Bennett, holding a cup of tea. “Thinking about the grandchildren again?”
“Oh, just letting my mind wander,” Lydia sighed. “Watching those little ones makes me think I could be out there with Emily right now, reading her fairy tales.”
“Now, now, no use torturing yourself. You made your choice—now live with it.”
Margaret was right, of course. There *had* been a choice. And Lydia had made it. Only, the consequences weren’t at all what she’d imagined.
It all started when her husband fell ill. Seriously ill. The doctors said he’d need round-the-clock care. Lydia quit her job and became his carer. For a year and a half, she barely left his side—spoon-feeding him, turning him over, washing him, reading the newspaper aloud.
During that time, her eldest, Edward, visited maybe three times. Always work, always too busy. But her younger son, Thomas, came regularly. Helped with medicine, groceries, slipped her a bit of cash now and then. His wife, Claire, was lovely too—bringing homemade pies, doing the laundry.
“Mum, maybe we should put Dad in a care home?” Edward suggested during one of his fleeting visits. “They’d look after him properly—you could rest.”
“A care home?!” Lydia was horrified. “He’d be lost without me. Forty years together, and now I’m supposed to abandon him?”
“Not abandon—just arrange proper care.”
“Proper care is at home, with family.”
Edward shrugged and left. Thomas kept helping, even bringing his wife and little Emily so Grandpa could see his granddaughter.
When Arthur passed, Lydia was left entirely alone. The flat felt vast and hollow. Every corner whispered memories of him; every object ached with absence.
“Mum, come live with us,” Thomas offered at the wake. “No point you sitting here by yourself.”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I’m used to it here.”
“Mum, our place is tiny,” Edward cut in. “Tom’s got more room—easier for them.”
“We’ll make it work,” Thomas said firmly. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
Lydia studied her sons. Edward was successful—three-bedroom flat in a posh neighbourhood. Thomas lived modestly, a two-bed on the outskirts, smaller salary. But his heart was gold.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
She thought long and hard. Edward visited rarely but always brought fancy groceries, imported medicines. Talked up the perks of his area—good clinic nearby, nice shops, a park for walks.
“Mum, I *am* the eldest,” he’d say. “Traditionally, parents live with the eldest.”
Thomas just showed up and *helped*. Fixed the lights, brought groceries, sat and chatted. Claire baked cakes; Emily drew pictures.
“Nana, when *are* you moving in?” Emily asked once, arms wrapped around her neck. “I’ll show you my room! I’ve got a dollhouse—we can play together!”
“Soon, love, soon,” Lydia would say, still hesitating.
The decision came unexpectedly. Edward arrived one day—with his wife, Victoria. Over tea, Victoria launched into how *marvellous* it would be living together.
“Lydia, you *know* Edward can provide better care,” she said with a tight smile. “You’ll have your *own* room, proper meals. What’s Tom got? Three of them shoehorned into that tiny flat?”
“We manage just fine,” Lydia protested.
“Darling, be realistic. They’re lovely people, but… priorities differ. Look—” She slid a brochure across the table. “I’ve already found you a top cardiologist. Private. Edward’s happy to cover it.”
Lydia took the leaflet—doctor’s name, phone number.
“Tom couldn’t afford this,” Victoria pressed. “It’s £200 a session.”
“That much?!”
“Good healthcare isn’t cheap. And think long-term—what if something happens? Edward can support you. He *has* the means.”
Edward nodded vaguely.
“And really, *we’re* family,” Victoria added. “Tom and Claire might split up—then where’d you be? Edward and I? Twenty years, rock-solid.”
After they left, Lydia sat rereading the leaflet. £200—nearly her *entire pension* for one visit. But Victoria wasn’t wrong. Edward could afford it—small business, nice car, central flat. Tom worked at a factory, barely scraped by. If she got really ill… could he help?
That evening, Thomas arrived with Claire and Emily.
“Well, Mum, decided yet?” he asked, settling Emily on the sofa. “When’s moving day?”
“Tom, I’ve been thinking…” She faltered.
“About?”
“Maybe… I should go to Edward.”
Silence. Thomas stiffened; Claire flushed. Emily blinked at the grown-ups.
“Right,” Thomas said quietly. “Mind telling me why?”
Lydia felt wretched but pressed on. “Well… his place is nicer. Bigger flat, better area.”
“Nicer,” Thomas repeated. “Never mind that we helped you *daily* while Dad was dying? Edward couldn’t spare five minutes!”
“*Tom.*”
“No, Mum, I *mean* it. Where was he when Dad took his last breath? When *you* collapsed from stress and needed an ambulance?”
“He was working—”
“So was I! But I *made* time!”
Claire touched his arm. “Tom, calm down. It’s her choice.”
“Yeah, her *choice*,” Thomas spat. “Picking the richer son.”
“That’s not fair!” Lydia snapped.
“Isn’t it? If not money, then *what*?”
He stood, scooped up Emily.
“We’re leaving.”
“But Daddy, Nana promised to finish my princess story!”
“Another time.”
After they left, Lydia wept. But she didn’t change her mind. Next day, she called Edward.
He was thrilled—arrived with movers. They packed swiftly. After forty years, she’d accumulated *stuff*, but they took only essentials.
“We’ll sort the rest later,” Edward said. “Might buy a cottage—could use it there.”
Lydia nodded, though the “cottage” had been mythical for years.
New life began… differently. The room *was* spacious, bright. But it didn’t feel *hers*. Fancy furniture, all wrong—bed too soft, chair too low.
Victoria was polite but swiftly imposed rules:
“Breakfast at seven sharp. If you miss it, there’ll be leftovers. TV in your room—we watch different things. And lights out by nine—we value peace.”
Lydia adapted. Woke at seven (lifelong lie-in abandoned). Watched TV with headphones. Offered to help—rebuffed: “You *rest*, dear.”
A week in, she asked Edward about the doctor.
“What doctor?”
“The cardiologist. £200 a pop.”
“Oh. On holiday. We’ll book later.”
“Later” never came. Edward was always busy—late nights, too tired to talk. Victoria too—bank job, endless calls.
Worst was feeling *superfluous*. At home, she’d been the axis everything turned on. Here, she was an afterthought.
One night, she ventured: “Edward… maybe I should go home?”
“Home? Why? You unhappy?”
“Not unhappy, just… lonely. Miss my place.”
“You *chose* this. Changing your mind now?”
Unsure, she stayed. Then came the nitpicking:
“Could you brew weaker tea? Kitchen reeks.”
“TV’s audible. Turn it down?”
“Don’t leave cups in the sink—we wash straight away.”
Polite, but edged with irritation. Lydia knew she disrupted their rhythm—but what to do?
Then her heart acted up. Ambulance came. Young doctor gave pills:
“No admission needed, but see a cardiologist.”
Next day, she asked Edward again.
“Mum, bit skint right now—loan repayments, taxes. £200’s steep.”
“But you *promised*—”
“Thought it wasn’t urgent. Try the NHS?”
“My GP’s across *town* now—my *address* is here!”
“Ah… your *official* address is still the old flat.”
Trapped. “Living” here, but no local healthcare.
“Edward, *fix* this.”
“Paperwork nightmare, Mum.”
“Then I’m going home.”
He paused. Victoria’s relief flickered.
“Maybe… you’re right,” he said slowly. “This *is* cramped for you.”
“Cramped? It’s *huge*!”
She watched Emily playing in the courtyard, knowing some choices couldn’t be undone—but love, at least, was patient enough to forgive.
