I never imagined my old age would smell of antiseptic and lukewarm soup.
I pictured myself at seventy with red-painted lips, dancing to a waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the gentlemen at the social club, and sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or football.
But no.
Reality landed me in a care home called “Golden Horizons,” which sounds poetic but has more locked doors than a prison.
My son brought me here on a Tuesday, right after lunch.
“Mum, youll be better off here,” he said in that sheepish voice he uses when hes about to do something awful. “Youll have company, medical care, activities…”
“Oh, brilliant,” I replied. “While youre at it, leave me your credit card and Ill book myself a luxury cruise.”
He didnt answer. Instead, he gave me a quick peckthe kind of kiss you give when you want to leave before the guilt sets inand off he went.
I stared at the white ceiling, breathing in that bleach smell that clings to your skin, thinking if this was “whats best for me,” Id rather have the worst.
The first few days were a nightmare. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a freight train, and the other, Doris, hides everyones socks “just to see if they notice,” as if its some psychological experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont realise how adaptable we are when theres no other choice.
I do chair yoga (though I look more like a crumpled paper crane), play bingo twice a week, and Ive struck up a friendship with a charming old chap named Albert, who proposes to me daily.
“Love, you and I would make a smashing pair,” he says, offering me a plastic daisy.
“Of course, Albert, but first remember my name,” I always reply.
He laughs. So do I. Truth be told, Im having a better time than I expected.
Then, one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He had that suspicious grin Ive known since he was fivethe one that means, *Mum, I need something.*
“Muuuum!” he drawled, like he used to when begging for sweets.
“Go on then, whats broken now?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Nothing, Mum. Its just… Im getting married.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really? What a surprise! I didnt think anyone was that brave.”
He laughed awkwardly. I didnt.
“Well, Mum, weddings are expensive… I thought you might chip in a bit.”
“Chip in? You moved me out of your house and dumped me here because you said there wasnt enough room! Now you want me to pay for your fancy reception?”
He gave me those puppy-dog eyes. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen too many puppiesand knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
“Let me get this straight,” I continued. “You leave me here, surrounded by old folks fighting over the telly remote, and now you want my money for canapés at your wedding?”
“Theyre not canapés, Mum, its a proper sit-down meal.”
“Proper my foot. Why not get married here? Ill lend you the bingo ladies as bridesmaids, and well make Albert the vicarhe already knows how to say, ‘I do!'”
His face went as red as a ripe tomato.
“Mum, Im serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “And if you want a party, make it potluckeveryone brings a dish, and no one goes broke.”
He clutched his head.
“I cant believe you wont help me.”
“Oh, Ive helped plenty, love,” I replied. “I gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first girlfriend broke your heart, and even co-signed your car loan. My ‘mother investor’ contract expired.”
He went quiet. The nurse walking past winked at me. I reckon every mum in the home wouldve clapped.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I did give him something betteradvice worth more than a cheque.
“Listen, son. To get married, you need three things: love, patience, and a willingness to share your life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowerscan be bought on credit. And those instalments wont be paid by me.”
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and left with his head down.
I watched him go from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still have something to give himnot money, but wisdom.
That evening, Albert proposed again.
“What do you say, love? Shall we tie the knot and have the reception right here in the dining hall?”
“Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night,” I replied.
We both laughed.
And as the care home settled into quiet, with its lingering scent of soup and nostalgia, I thought maybe Im not so bad off here. Im still useful. Still teaching. Still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comesif Im invited, that isI plan to show up in a bright red dress, my shiniest walking stick in hand, and toast with my bingo mates.
Because even if he left me in this place, Ive still got something he doesnt: experience… and a sense of humour.
