**Diary Entry**
I never thought it would come to this, but today, my son planned to take me to a care home. Before leaving, I glanced at my old boxthe one that held my memories.
After my husband passed, I sold our countryside cottage, invested in a flat for my son and his family in London, and moved in with them. For years, I kept busylooking after the house, cooking, cleaning, and taking the grandchildren to nursery, then school, and their extracurriculars. The work never felt heavy. It made me happy, knowing they needed me. But time moved on. The children grew up, left the nest, and my strength faded. I tried washing dishes, but my hands trembled, and plates slipped, shattering on the floor.
I poured myself soup, but couldnt carry it to the tableit spilled. Nights were worseId wake thirsty, my murmurs disturbing my daughter-in-law, Claire. No one spoke to me much lately. Who wants to chat with an old woman? Claire snapped at me often, calling me a burden. Was it my fault? Age isnt a kindness. I had no choice but to endure it.
Then my son, Thomas, decided a care home was best.
*At least shell have people to talk to,* he told himself, easing his guilt. That morning, as we got into the car, I remembered my box.
“Thomas, fetch my box for me? I forgot it,” I asked softly.
“What box?” he frowned.
“The one with my treasures,” I explained, describing the worn wooden case. He brought it, and I clutched it to my chest, smiling.
“Mum, whats inside?”
I opened ita lock of his baby hair and his first milk tooth. His shoulders slumped. He stepped away from the car, sinking onto the kerb, staring at nothing. Memories flooded himhow Id always been there, fixing scraped knees, packing his school lunches, holding him when he cried.
“Thomas, arent we going?” I stepped out, touching his shoulder.
He looked up, eyes wet. “No, Mum. Were not going anywhere. Youre staying home.”
