My son told me hed bought me a countryside cottagebut when we arrived, the ground fell out from under my feet.
My names George, and Im 78.
Never thought Id be the type to ask strangers for advice, but here we are. I need your perspective.
I spent most of my adult life as a single dad. My wife, Margaret, passed from cancer when our son, Oliver (now 35), was just ten.
It was a rough patch for both of us, but we got through it. Ever since, its been just the two of us against the world. I worked my fingers to the bone to give him every opportunitydid my best to be both mum and dad.
Oliver grew up to be a good lad. Sure, he had his rebellious phases, but on the whole, he was kind, hardworking, and sharp as a tack. Did well in school, landed a partial scholarship for uni, and after graduation, snagged a decent job in finance.
I couldnt have been prouder, watching him turn into a proper success. We stayed close even after he moved outregular phone calls, Sunday roasts together at least once a week.
“Dad,” he said, not even meeting my eye. “Im sorry. I know I said it was a cottage, but thisll be better for you. Theyll take proper care of you here.”
“Take care of me? I dont need looking after! Im perfectly independent. Whyd you lie to me?”
“Dad, please.” Finally, Oliver looked at me, his eyes pleading.
“Lately, youve been forgetting things. Im worried about you living alone. This place has top-notch facilities, and therell always be someone around if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things now and then!” I snapped, furious tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Thats not true, Oliver. Take me home. Now.”
Oliver shook his head and dropped the real bombshell:
“I cant, Dad. I already sold the house.”
The floor might as well have vanished beneath me.
I knew Id agreed to sell, but I thought I had ages left. I wanted to meet the new owners, pick a nice family, make sure they knew how to care for the old oak in the garden.
Which is why what happened just over a year ago blindsided me. It was a Tuesday evening when Oliver turned up at mine, buzzing with excitement.
“Dad,” he said, “brilliant news! Ive bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage? Oliver, what on earth are you on about?”
“Its perfect, Dad. Quiet, peacefuljust what you need. Youll love it!”
I was stunned. Move to a house miles away? Felt like too big a leap.
“Oliver, you shouldnt have. Im fine right here.”
But he wouldnt let up.
“No, Dad, you deserve this. The house youre in now is too big for just you. Its time for a change. Trust me, itll be brilliant.”
Ill admit, I was sceptical. The house I lived in had been our family home for over 30 years. Oliver grew up there, Margaret and I built our life there. But my boy seemed so chuffed, so certain it was the right call. And I trusted him completely.
After all, wed always been straight with each other.
So, despite my doubts, I agreed to move and sell up. Over the next few days, I packed my things while Oliver handled the details. He assured me everything was sorted. He was so thorough, I let my worries slip away.
Finally, the day came to head to my new home. As we got in the car, Oliver rattled on about all the perks of the place. But the further we drove from town, the more uneasy I felt.
The surroundings grew bleaker. This wasnt the quaint countryside Id picturedno rolling green hills or charming views. Instead of familiar neighbours and bustling streets, there were empty fields, dull as dishwater, and even an abandoned farm.
The cottages Id admired years ago, back when Margaret was still with us, were warm and welcoming, nestled in nature. But this? Completely different.
“Oliver,” I asked, “are you sure were going the right way? This doesnt look like the countryside to me.”
He insisted we were on track, but I noticed he couldnt look me in the eye.
After about an hour, we turned onto a long, winding lane. At the end stood a grim, looming building. My heart stopped when I read the sign: *Sunset Haven.*
It wasnt a cottage. It was a nursing home.
