**Diary Entry**
My son told me hed bought me a cottage in the countrysidebut when we arrived, the ground seemed to crumble beneath my feet.
My name is Arthur, and Im 78 years old.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine 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, Eleanor, passed from cancer when our son, Thomas (now 35), was just ten.
Those were dark days for us both, but we weathered the storm together. Since then, itd been just the two of us against the world. I worked tirelessly to give him every opportunitytrying to be both mother and father, though I often fell short.
Thomas grew into a fine young man. Of course, he had his rebellious phases, but he was kind, hardworking, and level-headed. He did well in school, earned a partial scholarship to university, and landed a steady job in finance after graduation.
Ive always been fiercely proud of him, watching him build a life for himself. We stayed close even after he moved outweekly phone calls, Sunday roasts together without fail.
“Dad,” he said, unable to meet my eyes, “Im sorry. I told you it was a cottage, but this will be better for you. Theyll take proper care of you here.”
“Take care of me? I dont need looking after! Im perfectly independent. Why would you lie?”
“Please, Dad.” Finally, he looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Lately, youve been forgetting things. I worry about you living alone. This place has excellent facilities, and therell always be someone nearby if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things sometimes!” I shouted, hot tears of frustration spilling down my cheeks.
“Thats not true, Thomas. Take me home. Now.”
Thomas shook his head, then delivered the worst blow of all: “I cant, Dad. I Ive already sold the house.”
The floor might as well have vanished beneath me.
Id agreed to the sale, yesbut I thought I had time. I wanted to meet the new owners, choose a good family, explain how to care for the old oak in the garden.
This all started just over a year ago. A quiet Tuesday evening when Thomas arrived at my doorstep, buzzing with excitement.
“Dad,” he said, “brilliant news! Ive bought you a cottage in the Cotswolds!”
“A cottage? Thomas, what on earth are you on about?”
“Its perfect, Dad. Peaceful, quietexactly what you need. Youll love it!”
I was stunned. Moving away from my home? It felt too sudden.
“Thomas, you shouldnt have. Im happy here.”
But he insisted. “You deserve this. The house is too big for you now. Its time for a change. Trust me, itll be wonderful.”
Ill admit, I was sceptical. The house had been our family home for over 30 years. Thomas grew up there; Eleanor and I built our life within those walls. But my son seemed so earnest, so certain. And I trusted him completely.
After all, wed always been honest with each other.
So, despite my doubts, I agreed to move. In the following days, I packed my things while Thomas handled the arrangements, assuring me everything was settled. He was so thorough, I let my guard down.
The day finally came to leave for my “cottage.” As we drove, Thomas chatted about the new places amenities. But the farther we got from London, the heavier my unease grew.
The scenery grew bleakernot the rolling green hills Id pictured, but flat, barren fields, the occasional derelict farmhouse. The cottages Eleanor and I had once admired were cosy, nestled in lush landscapes. This was nothing like that.
“Thomas,” I asked, “are we going the right way? This doesnt look like the countryside.”
He insisted we were, but I noticed he wouldnt meet my gaze.
After an hour, we turned onto a long, winding lane. At the end stood a grim, sprawling building. My heart stopped at the sign: “Rosewood Manor.”
It wasnt a cottage. It was a care home.
