Today is my seventieth birthday and I write this entry sitting alone on a bench beneath the chestnut trees in the hospital garden, my handkerchief already soaked through with tears. Not a word from my son, Jonathan, nor my daughter, Susan. Not even a phone call. I suppose it shouldnt come as a surprise, but it stings all the same.
At least Mrs Margaret Collins, my neighbour in this ward, remembered and offered a kindly Happy Birthday along with a sachet of Earl Grey and a small set of hand creams. One of the orderlies, cheerful young Lucy, slipped me an apple when she learned of my special day. The place itself Rosemead Care Home is respectable enough, but most of the staff dont pay much mind to people like me, just waiting out our days until the end.
Everyone knows why were here. Even the best-kept old folks homes are mostly filled with those shuffled aside by children for whom weve become an inconvenience. I landed here thanks to my son, Jonathan, who said I needed a bit of rest for your health, Mum, just for a while. But truth be told, I was getting in his wifes way.
It had all started with that blasted flat. It was mine, all in my name. Later, Jonathan managed to talk me into signing it over to him said it was just paperwork, that nothing would really change, Id live as I always had. The very day the documents changed hands, he and his whole family moved in and the battles began. Emma my daughter-in-law would complain about my cooking, the way I left the bathroom, anything and everything. Jonathan at first tried to stand up for me but soon enough, he was barking at me too. Then, I started spotting secret conversations, the pair of them going quiet when Id walk into the room.
One morning, Jonathan sat me down and solemnly declared, Mum, you need some time away, a bit of a rest at a place where they can look after you properly. I met his eyes and asked, bitterly, Are you putting me in a home, Jon?
He went pink and stammered something about this being a spa or recovery centre, just for a month and then back home again. He brought me here, signed the forms in a rush, promised to return soon then left. He visited only once since brought two apples and a couple of oranges, asked how things were, and then dashed off halfway through my answer.
So here I am, two years on.
When a month had gone with no sign of Jonathan coming for me, I rang the old number at home. A stranger picked up. My son had sold the flat. No one knows where hes gone. I wept for a couple of nights, but in the end, what good does it do? I knew deep down Id never come home. What cuts the most is remembering how I pushed aside my daughter, Susan, for my sons sake.
I grew up in a small village. Married Peter, the boy next door. We had a big old cottage with a kitchen garden and a couple of hens not much but enough. Then one summer, a friend visiting from London talked up city life: good wages, bright lights, a flat of your own. Peter was hooked. Soon, wed sold up and moved to South London. True to his word, the friend sorted a council flat for us in no time. We bought a bit of second-hand furniture and an old Morris Minor. It was that car that did Pete in during an accident.
Two days in hospital and he was gone. I buried him and found myself alone with two children. To keep us going, Id mop the communal stairs every evening for the extra pounds. I thought surely, when the children are grown, life will ease up.
Fate had other plans. Jonathan got himself mixed up with the wrong crowds, and I had to borrow money all over just to keep him out of real trouble, then spent two years scrimping to pay it back. Susan my lovely girl married, had a child, seemed happy until her son kept falling ill. She left her job to shuttle him around to specialists. Doctors struggled for months before giving a diagnosis, a rare condition with treatment at only one specialist hospital in the country and a year-long waiting list.
While Susan spent her days at hospitals, her husband left. At least hed left her the flat. Not long after, Susan met a widower, Tom, at the childrens ward whose daughter had the same illness. They hit it off, and eventually moved in together. Some years later, Tom fell ill and needed money for an operation. I had a sum saved up meant to help Jonathan buy a flat but when Susan asked, I hesitated. I reasoned to myself that a sons needs must come first. I told her no.
That was twenty years ago. Susan took the children and left for the seaside with Tom, telling me as she walked out that I was no mother to her, and not to come to her should I ever need help myself. We havent spoken since.
Of course, if I could turn back the tide, I would. No one gets a second act, though.
That brings me to now rising slowly from the bench and shuffling towards Rosemeads entrance, lost in my memories. Suddenly, I hear it, as if in a dream:
Mum!
My heart lurches. I turn, ever so slowly. Its Susan. Susan, my girl. My legs buckle and I nearly crumple, but shes at my side in an instant, holding me up.
At last, Ive found you Jonathan refused to give your address, until I threatened to take legal action about the flat then he went quiet quick enough.
She leads me inside, and we settle on a sofa in the hall. She squeezes my hand.
Im sorry, Mum. I was angry for so long. At first, I wanted to forget, then I was ashamed. But last week, I dreamt of you, walking alone through some dark wood and crying. I woke with my heart all in knots and told Tom what happened. He said, Go to your mum and make it right. I went to the old flat but Jons lot was long gone. It took me ages, but I tracked you down. Now, come, youre coming home with me. Our house is by the sea, its lovely, and Tom said if my mums ever in trouble, she must live with us.
Tears of gratitude spilled down my cheeks as Susan held me tight. For the first time in years, they were tears of happiness.
Honour your father and mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.
I finished this entry understanding at last: no mistake is truly final, and it is never too late to seek forgiveness or to offer it.
