**Diary Entry Edward Whitmore**
My son told me hed given me a countryside cottagebut when we arrived, the ground seemed to crumble beneath my feet.
My name is Edward, and Im 78 years old.
I never thought Id be asking strangers for advice, yet here I am. I need your perspective.
Most of my adult life was spent as a single father. My wife, Margaret, passed from cancer when our son Jeremy (now 35) was just ten.
It was a difficult time for us both, but we managed. From then on, it was just the two of us against the world. I did everything I could to be both father and mother to him, working tirelessly to give him every opportunity.
Jeremy grew into a good man. Of course, he had his rebellious moments, but overall, he was kind, hardworking, and sensible. He did well in school, earned a partial scholarship to university, and afterwards found a decent job in finance.
I was always proud of him, watching him build a successful life. We remained close, even after he moved outwe spoke weekly and had dinner together at least once a fortnight.
Which is why what happened a year ago came as such a shock.
It was a Tuesday evening when Jeremy turned up at my house, visibly excited.
“Dad,” he said, “Ive got wonderful news! Ive bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage? Jeremy, what on earth do you mean?”
“Its perfect, Dad. Quiet, peacefuljust what you need. Youll love it!”
I was taken aback. Moving somewhere far from home? It felt like too big a step.
“Jeremy, you didnt have to do this. Im perfectly happy here.”
But he insisted.
“No, Dad, you deserve this. The house youre in now is too big for you alone. Its time for a change. Trust me, itll be wonderful.”
I must admit, I was sceptical. The house I lived in had been our family home for over 30 years. It was where Jeremy grew up, where Margaret and I had built our life together. But my son seemed so sure, so confident it was the right thing. And I trusted him completely.
After all, we had always been honest with each other.
So despite my doubts, I agreed to the move and the sale of my home. Over the next few days, I packed my things while Jeremy handled the arrangements. He assured me everything was in order. He was so attentive, so caringI pushed my worries aside.
Then came the day to leave for my new home. As we drove, Jeremy talked about all the comforts waiting for me. But the further we got from town, the more uneasy I felt.
The landscape grew desolate. No rolling hills or picturesque sceneryjust empty fields and the odd derelict farmhouse.
“Jeremy,” I asked, “are you sure were going the right way? This doesnt look like the countryside I imagined.”
He insisted we were, but I noticed he wouldnt meet my eye.
After an hour, we turned onto a long, winding road. At the end stood a grim, imposing building. My heart sank as I read the sign: **Golden Autumn.**
This wasnt a cottage. It was a care home.
I turned to Jeremy, struggling to keep my voice steady.
“What is this? Whats going on?”
How could he have sold my house without my knowledge? Without my consent? I demanded answers, but Jeremy avoided my gaze. He muttered something about power of attorneyabout doing what was best for me.
I went numb. The next few hours passed in a daze. I was checked in, shown to a small room with a narrow bed and a window overlooking the car park. The walls were an oppressive beige, the air thick with disinfectant and the scent of old age.
My old home still smelled of the cinnamon scones Margaret used to bake. Id never changed a thing. Now, this sterile, joyless place was my new reality.
And there was nothing I could do.
For days, I swung between anger and disbelief, replaying Jeremys words. Had I truly become so forgetful? Had I hurt him somehow? Was he really doing what he thought was right? Or was there more to it? I began doubting myselfwas I losing my mind?
The staff at Golden Autumn were kind, encouraging me to join activities, to settle in. But something felt off.
Then, one afternoon, I overheard a conversation that made everything worse. Sitting in the lounge, pretending to read the paper, I caught two nurses talking.
“Poor Mr. Whitmore,” one said. “Have you heard about his son?”
“No, what happened?”
“Apparently, he had massive gambling debts. Thats why he sold his fathers house and put him here.”
It felt like a punch to the gut.
Gambling debts? That was the real reason? Had my son betrayed me to cover his own mistakes? The boy Id raised, the man I thought I knewhad he cast me aside for his own selfish ends?
Then, by sheer chance, an old friend intervened.
Thomas, a solicitor Id known for years, happened to visit Golden Autumn to see his sister. He was horrified to find me there. When I told him what happened, he was furious. He promised to help me reclaim my home and uncover the truth.
But the question remainscan I ever forgive such betrayal? How do I trust Jeremy again?
Do I have the right to feel this hurt, or should I try to understand?
