My son told me hed bought me a countryside cottagebut when I arrived, the ground fell away beneath my feet.
My names Arthur, and Im 78.
Never thought Id be asking strangers for advice, yet 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 tough time for both of us, but we got through it together. After that, it was just us against the world. I tried to be both mum and dad for him, working my fingers to the bone to give him every opportunity.
Oliver grew up to be a good lad. Sure, he had his rebellious phases, but on the whole, he was kind, hardworking, and sensible. Did well in school, got into university with a partial scholarship, and landed a decent job in finance after graduation.
Ive always been proud as punch watching him succeed. We stayed close even after he moved outregular phone calls, weekly dinners, the lot.
“Dad,” he said, barely 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?”
“Dad, please.” Finally, Oliver looked at me, his eyes pleading.
“Lately, youve been forgetting things. I worry about you living alone. This place has brilliant facilities, and therell always be someone around if you need help.”
“Forgetting things? Everyone forgets things sometimes!” I snapped, furious tears burning down my cheeks.
“Thats not true, Oliver. Take me home. Now.”
He shook his head and dropped the days real bombshell:
“I cant, Dad. I Ive already sold the house.”
The ground vanished beneath me.
I knew Id agreed to sell, but I thought I had time. I wanted to meet the new owners, pick a nice family, explain how to care for the old oak in the garden.
Thats why what happened just over a year ago blindsided me. It was a Tuesday evening when Oliver turned up at mine, buzzing like a bee.
“Dad,” he said, “brilliant news! Ive bought you a cottage in the countryside!”
“A cottage? Oliver, what on earth?”
“Its perfect, Dad. Quiet, peacefuljust what you need. Youll love it!”
I was gobsmacked. Moving to a house miles away? Felt like too big a leap.
“Oliver, you shouldnt have. Im fine here.”
But he wouldnt let it drop!
“No, Dad, you deserve this. The house is too big for you now. Time for a change. Trust me, itll be smashing.”
Ill admit, I was sceptical. The house 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 while Oliver handled the nitty-gritty. He assured me everything was sorted. He was so thorough, I let my guard down.
Then came moving day. As we drove, Oliver babbled about all the perks of the new place. But the further we got from town, the more my stomach knotted.
The scenery grew bleaker. This wasnt the quaint countryside Id picturedno rolling green hills or charming views. Instead of familiar neighbours and lively streets, there were empty fields, a derelict farm, and miles of nothing.
The cottages Margaret and I had once admired were cosy, warm, nestled in nature. This? Nowhere close.
“Oliver,” I asked, “are we going the right way? This doesnt look like the countryside.”
He insisted we were, but I noticed he wouldnt look me in the eye.
After an hour, we turned down a long, winding lane. At the end stood a grim, towering building. My heart stopped at the sign: *Sunset Haven.*
It wasnt a cottage. It was a care home.
