My son told me he had bought me a cottage in the countrysidebut when we arrived, I felt the ground crumble beneath my feet.
My name is Arthur, and I am seventy-eight years old.
Never did I imagine I would seek advice from strangers, 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, Edward (now thirty-five), was just ten.
It was a hard time for us both, but we endured. From then on, it was just the two of us against the world. I did everything in my power to be both father and mother to him, working tirelessly to give him every opportunity.
Edward grew into a good man. Of course, he had his rebellious moments, but he was kind, hardworking, and sensible. He excelled in school, earned a partial scholarship to university, and after graduating, found a respectable position in finance.
I was always proud of him, watching him flourish. We remained close even after he moved outspeaking regularly and sharing supper at least once a week.
Then, a little over a year ago, everything changed.
It was a Tuesday evening when Edward arrived at my home, visibly excited.
“Father,” he said, “I’ve wonderful news! Ive bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage?” I was taken aback. “Edward, what are you talking about?”
“Its perfectpeaceful, quiet. Exactly what you need. Youll love it.”
I was sceptical. Moving so far away? It seemed drastic.
“Edward, you didnt have to do this. Im content here.”
But he insisted.
“Nonsense, Father. You deserve this. The house is too big for you now. Trust me, itll be splendid.”
I must admit, I hesitated. The home we lived in had been ours for over thirty yearswhere Edward grew up, where Margaret and I built our life. Yet Edward seemed so certain, so eager. And I trusted him completely.
So despite my doubts, I agreed. In the days that followed, I packed my belongings while Edward handled the arrangements. He assured me everything was settled.
Then came the day of the move. As we drove, Edward spoke eagerly of the cottages comforts. But the further we went, the uneasier I grew.
The landscape grew barrenno rolling hills or picturesque scenery, just empty fields and a derelict farmhouse.
“Edward,” I asked, “are we going the right way? This isnt the countryside I imagined.”
He insisted we were, but his gaze faltered.
An hour later, we turned onto a long, winding road. At its end stood a grim, towering building. My heart sank as I read the sign: *Golden Autumn*.
This wasnt a cottage. It was a care home.
I turned to Edward, my voice trembling.
“What is this? What have you done?”
He wouldnt meet my eyes. “Father, please. Youve been forgetting things. I worry about you living alone. Here, youll be looked after.”
“Forgotten things? Everyone misplaces things now and then!” My hands shook with anger.
But Edward shook his head. “I cant take you back, Father. I Ive already sold the house.”
The world tilted beneath me.
I knew Id agreed to the sale, but I thought I had timeto meet the new owners, to ensure theyd care for the old oak in the garden.
Instead, I was led to a small room with a narrow bed and a window facing the car park. The walls were an unfeeling beige, the air thick with disinfectant.
My old home still smelled of cinnamon from Margarets baking. This place smelled of loneliness.
The staff were kind, urging me to join activities, but I couldnt shake the wrongness of it all.
Then, one afternoon, I overheard two nurses speaking.
“Poor Mr. Whitmore,” one murmured. “Did you hear about his son?”
The other shook her head.
“Rumour is he had gambling debts. Thats why he sold the house and put him here.”
The words struck like a blow.
Gambling debts? Was *that* the reason? Had my son betrayed me to hide his own failings?
I was shattered.
The boy Id raised, the man I thought I knew better than anyonehad he truly cast me aside for his own mistakes?
Then, by chance, an old friend intervened.
John, a solicitor Id known for years, visited the home to see his sister. He was stunned to find me there. When I told him the truth, he was outraged. He vowed to help me reclaim my hometo uncover what truly happened.
But the question remains:
Can I forgive such betrayal? How do I trust Edward again?
Do I have the right to feel this woundedor should I try to understand?
