**Diary Entry**
I thought it was time to take Mum to the care home. Before leaving, I glanced at the box on the table.
After Dad passed, Mum sold her countryside cottage, invested in a flat for me and my family, and moved in with us. As long as she had strength, she looked after the house and the grandkids.
Emma and I worked long hours, and Mum took the little ones to nursery, then later to school and their clubs. She cooked, cleanednever once complained. If anything, it made her happy. She was needed. But the years rolled on. The kids grew up, moved out, and Mums health began to fail. Shed try washing up, but dishes slipped from her weak hands and shattered.
Shed pour herself soup but couldnt carry it to the tablespilled it every time. Waking at night for water, her shuffling disturbed Emma. No one spoke to her much these days. Who wants to chat with an old woman? Emma snapped at her, called her a burden. Was it her fault? Growing old isnt a choice. Mum had no choice but to endure it.
I decided a care home was best.
“At least shell have company,” I told myself, easing my guilt. That morning, as we got into the car, Mum suddenly remembered.
“Oliver, fetch my box. Ive left it,” she murmured.
“What box?” I asked.
“My treasures,” she said, describing the little wooden chest. I brought it to her. She clutched it to her chest, smiling.
“Whats inside, Mum?” She opened it.
A lock of her hair, yellowed with age. A baby tooth. I stepped away from the car and sat on the kerb. Memories flooded backher holding me when I was poorly, packing my lunches, cheering at my football matches. Never once had she let me down.
“Oliver, are we going?” She stepped out and touched my shoulder.
“No, Mum. Were going home.”
**Lesson Learned:** Some debts cant be repaidonly honoured.
