I remember so clearly those quiet days spent with my mother. We shared a home together for many years. My mother was already 86 then, a remarkable age, and I myself had just turned 57 not so long ago.
My life took an unusual path; I never married, nor did I have children. Somehow, the years just slipped by, and I found myself without the companions others often speak of. On my last birthday, we celebrated quietly, just the two of us. There was no one else to inviteno friends, nor any family besides Mother. It was always just the two of us, sharing both our joys and sorrows.
Despite her age, Mother remained spirited and independent. Her health, its true, was not what it once had been, but she refused to let it slow her down entirely, and she even strolled out for walks on her own. I often wondered what Id do without her, fearing the day when she might no longer be with me.
Though retired myself, I took on odd bits of work; our pensions barely sufficed for daily living. Still, I tried not to lose heart and cherished the time spent with my dear mother. One only had to look around to see how much more difficult lives could be. Some folk were left with neither home nor family, scraping by with far less than our modest means.
Our days unfolded peacefully, in quiet contentment. Wed brew a pot of tea in the evenings, knit together by the fire, and watch beloved old films and serials. When the weekend came, Id bake a cakeVictoria sponge or perhaps sconesand we would invite the neighbours round. Theyd tell us stories about their own families, and wed listen with pleasure. I found happiness in hearing of others good fortunes, always hoping trouble might pass us by.
Such was our waysimple and gentle. I wished for nothing more than for that life to go on as long as it possibly could, for myself and my mother.
