David wished to take his mother back to the care home. He glanced at the box before leaving.
After her husbands passing, Olive sold her countryside cottage, invested in a flat for her son and his family, and moved in with them. For as long as she had strength, she cared for the house and her grandchildren.
David and his wife worked, while Olive took the little ones to nursery, then later to school and after-school clubs. She cooked, cleaned, and never once complained. If anything, it made her happyshe felt needed. But years passed. The grandchildren grew up and “left the nest,” and the old womans health began to fail. She tried washing dishes, but the plates slipped from her frail hands and shattered.
She poured herself soup but couldnt carry it to the tableit spilled. She woke at night for water, and her shuffling disturbed her daughter-in-law. No one spoke to her much. Who would bother with an old woman? Her daughter-in-law scolded her often, calling her a burden. What fault was it of hers? Old age is no joy. Olive had no choice but to endure.
David decided it was time to move her to a care home.
“At least shell have people to talk to,” he told himself, easing his conscience. That morning, as they got into the car, Olive remembered her box.
“David, fetch my box. Ive forgotten it,” she asked timidly.
“What box?” he replied.
“The one with my treasures,” she said, describing it. David brought it to her. The old woman clutched it to her chest with a small, contented smile.
“Mum, whats inside?” She opened it.
Inside lay a lock of his baby hair and a tiny milk tooth. David stepped away from the car and sat on the kerb. He stayed there a long while, remembering his childhoodhow she had always been there, caring for him, shielding him, never once leaving him without help.
“Son, are we going?” His mother stepped out of the car and came to him.
“No, Mum,” he said softly. “Were not going anywhere. Youre staying home.”
Sometimes, the smallest things remind us of the greatest loveand the duty we owe in return.
