My Mum Is 89 Years Old. Two Years Ago She Moved in With Me. Every Morning, I Hear Her Get Up Around 7:30, Then She Chats Quietly With Her Elderly Cat and Feeds Her. Afterwards She Makes Breakfast and Sits on the Sunny Patio With Her Coffee Until She’s Fully Awake. Then She Grabs the Mop and Sweeps Through the Entire House (About 2,600 Square Feet)—She Says It’s Her Daily Workout. If She’s in the Mood, She’ll Cook Something, Tidy the Kitchen, or Do Her Usual Exercises. In the Afternoon, It’s Time for Her Ever-Changing ‘Beauty Ritual’. Sometimes She Examines Her Massive Wardrobe—Its Museum-Worthy Designer Collection. Some Clothes She Gifts to Me, Others to Friends, and Some She Even Sells—Like a True Businesswoman. I Often Tell Her, “Mum, If You’d Invested All That Money, You’d Be Living in Luxury Now!” She Laughs, “But I Love My Clothes. Besides, One Day All This Will Be Yours. Your Sister—poor thing—has no taste.” To distract ourselves, we walk three kilometres round the local lake about five times a week. Once a month, she has ‘Girls’ Night’ with her friends. She’s a voracious reader and constantly browses my bookcases. Every day, she phones her 91-year-old sister in San Diego, who visits us twice a year and still works as an accountant for a private client. (By the way, my aunt is still working!) Besides her cat, her greatest joy is the tablet I gave her last Christmas. She reads everything about her favourite authors and composers, keeps up with the news, watches ballet, opera, and more. Around midnight, I often hear her mutter, “I really should go to bed, but YouTube just started playing Pavarotti.” Truly, she and her sister seem to have won the genetic lottery. Yet Mum still complains, “I look awful!” I try to keep her positive: “Mum, at your age, most people would already be on the other side.”

Author Walton MerrittReading 3 minViews 1

My mums eighty-nine years old. Two years back, she upped sticks and moved in with me. Every morning, I hear her shuffling about at half seven. Then she starts chatting quietly with her ancient cat, Lord Whiskerton, and dishes out his breakfast. After that, she sorts her own breakfast and parks herself on the sunny patio with a mug of coffee, waiting for herself to properly wake up.

Next, out comes the mop and off she goes cleaning the entire house (it’s about 2,600 square feet, so shes practically doing laps) claims it’s her daily workout. If shes in the mood, shell whip up something in the kitchen, tidy things, or go through her usual stretching routine.

Afternoons are reserved for her beauty ritual, which changes so often I can barely keep up. Sometimes shell dive into her cavernous wardrobe honestly, its so pricey it might as well be in the V&A. Some clothes get handed down to me, some she gives away, and some she even sells a real entrepreneur at heart. I often tease her:

Mum, if youd invested all that money, youd be living a life of luxury now!

She just laughs, I like my clothes, thank you very much. Besides, one day itll all be yours. Your sister, poor thing, hasnt got a shred of taste.

To keep ourselves entertained (and, you know, mobile) we march three miles around the lake about five times a week. Once a month, she has girls night with her friends. Shes always stuck in a book and constantly raids my bookshelves. Every day, shes on the phone to her sister, ninety-one, who lives in Brighton and visits us twice a year. (By the way, my aunt still works as an accountant for a private client age is just a number, apparently.)

Besides Lord Whiskerton, her greatest joy is the tablet I got her last Christmas. She reads all about her favourite authors and composers, listens to the news, watches ballet, opera, and heaven knows what else. Around midnight, Ill often hear her saying to herself:

I really ought to sleep now, but YouTubes just put Pavarotti on for me.

She and her sister truly hit the genetic jackpot, I must say. Still, Mum never misses a chance for a grumble:

Oh, I look dreadful! she announces.

I try for a bit of optimism: Mum, at your age most people would be on the other side by now…She waves me off, eyes sparkling over her coffee mug. On the other side? Darling, Im just getting started. Besides, Lord Whiskerton wouldnt let me leave him in charge. The old cat yawned in perfect agreement.

And I realize, as I watch her settle in for another midnight concert, that some people dont really age they just keep collecting moments, like rare silk scarves, each more dazzling and stubbornly alive than the last. I can only hope Ill inherit more than just the wardrobe.

Stolen Happiness Anna was pottering in her garden—spring had come early this year. It was only the end of March, but the snow had already melted. She knew the cold would return, but for now the sun was warm enough that she stepped outside to fix the sagging fence and patch up the woodshed. She thought about getting some chickens and maybe a piglet, a dog, and a cat. “That’s enough, you’ve wandered far enough,” she chuckled to herself, “enough is enough.” She longed to dig over her vegetable patch, to tend the earth and breathe in the smell of home, just as she did as a child—shoes off, running barefoot across the newly-turned, soft-as-down soil. “We’ve still got some living to do,” Anna said aloud, to nobody in particular. “Hello?” Startled, Anna looked up. At the gate stood a girl—barely more than a child, in a thin, grey raincoat that Anna recognised from the local college; flimsy shoes, sheer nylon tights—not fit for this nippy weather. “She’ll catch her death in those,” Anna noted. The girl shifted from foot to foot. “Hello,” Anna said, curtly. “I’m sorry, may I use your loo?” the girl asked. “Oh, well, go on then. Straight ahead and round the back,” Anna replied, watching as the girl dashed off. “Thank you, you’ve saved me. I’m looking for a room to rent – do you have one?” “I wasn’t planning to let a room. What for?” Anna asked. “I just want a room of my own. I don’t want to live in the hostel—there’s too much drinking and boys coming and going.” “And what do you have to pay?” “Five pounds… that’s all I have.” “Well, come inside, then. Go on.” “Actually, can I nip to the loo again?” “Go on.” “What’s your name?” Anna asked as she led the girl inside. “Olya,” she piped, barely a squeak. “Well, Olya, why are you here really?” Anna demanded, eyeing her intently. “I… I want to rent the room—” “Don’t lie, Olya. Why are you really here?” “Er, loo, please…?” “Honestly? Girl, what’s wrong with you?” “I don’t know…” The girl was in tears. “I just can’t wait…” “Go, then…” Anna followed the girl out. “Are you just bursting for a wee? Or…?” “No, just that—hurts when I go…” “We’ll sort it out. Now talk—why are you here?” The girl was silent, gathering resolve. “Well? Out with it. I’ve nothing worth stealing here. Who sent you?” “No one. I came myself. Are you Anna Samoilova?” “Yes, that’s me…” “You… you don’t recognize me… Mummy? It’s me, Olya… your daughter.” Anna’s back was ramrod straight; not a single muscle in her weather-beaten face so much as twitched. “Olya,” she breathed, “daughter… Olyushka…” “Yes, Mum, it’s me. They wouldn’t give me your address at the orphanage, can you imagine? Said it wasn’t allowed. But my teacher in college, Anastasia Sergeyevna, she helped me. We sent off a request, found your name and address—and here I am.” Anna didn’t move, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Olya… my little Olya, my daughter…” “Mother! I’ve looked for you for so long. I wrote letters, and they laughed, said you abandoned me like an old shoe. But I believed in you, Mum, I always believed…” Anna tentatively embraced the sobbing girl; her coarse, callused hands clinging to Olya’s chunky-knit cardigan—her daughter, little Olya. They sat hugging, nothing more to be said; everything was clear. Afterwards, remembering her granny’s wisdom and her own bitter experience, Anna fetched hot water, made dill tea, fussed over Olyushka, her darling daughter—the very reason to live. There was a reason to go on—God had shown mercy. She had her garden to tend, a piglet to care for, a coat to mend, some cash tucked away just in case. She’d nearly given up, ready to die—and then her Olya turned up. *** “Mum…” “Oh?” “Mum…” “Come on, out with it, you little flatterer.” Olya grabbed a homemade pasty from the table, cheeks rosier by the day; her mother had dressed her up like the little doll she’d missed raising, and seemed herself to grow younger. “Mummy—” “What?” “Mum, I’ve fallen in love.” “Well, I’ll be—” “Yeah. He’s so lovely, Mum. His name’s Ivan. He wants to meet you…” “I… I don’t know…” But Anna thought: So, the happy days are ending—God gave, and now He’s taking away. “Mum, what’s wrong?” “Nothing, love, nothing. You just grew up so fast… I barely had time to enjoy it… Forgive me, Olyushka…” “Mum, oh what silly things you say—how could I not forgive you? You know how much I love you. I searched so long… We’ll give you grandkids, me and Ivan—just you wait.” The meeting went well; Ivan, a village lad—hardworking, steady—won Anna’s approval. Times were hard for many—some could barely feed themselves while others pampered dogs—but Anna, Olya, and Ivan got by. Anna sewed for a cooperative after her factory closed, earning enough to dress them immaculately in “designer” clothes head to toe. Ivan never sat idle—he built a new fence, fixed the house with his brothers, rebuilt the barn, and the home seemed happier than ever—especially after Olya, her clever, beautiful girl, was found. Anna’s heart melted; she wanted to live all the more, to make up for the shadowy years of her past—her secrets surfacing only in sleepless nights, when memories crashed over her like waves. “Mum, you alright?” “Yes, love, go to sleep, sweetheart.” “Mum, can I stay with you?” “Of course,” Anna shifted, hugging the wall so Olya could join her. “My little one, my girl—my heart could burst with love. This is it, real mother’s love—thank you, Lord, for letting me know it.” They got married, and the young couple stayed with Anna—who thrived. Even at work they noticed the severe Anna Pavlovna smiling, her cheeks rosy. “Will it be a grandson or granddaughter?” she whispered during break at work, “I’m so excited.” Anna Pavlovna’s daughter is so happy, her heart is so full, the women would sigh. A grandson! Antoshka—a family name, after Anna’s own mother, Olya’s grandmother: stern but fair. Anna was giddy. “I’ve not held a baby since Olya…” Well, apart from Olya, all those years ago. Holding little Antoshka, Anna’s heart hammered—pure happiness. Now, her thoughts revolved around her grandson; he was the best, the most beautiful, and he stuck to his granny like glue. Ivan got ambitious—he built a huge house, and of course there was always room for Anna. They couldn’t imagine life without Mum. Ivan and his brothers started a construction business, opened a builders’ merchant—life ticked over sweet and steady. Then, more good news: a grand-daughter on the way. Anna fashioned countless dresses for little Marina, her pretty darling. The sounds of children’s laughter filled her home. All was well for Anna, except lately she felt a frequent burning in her chest, sharp and hot. “Mum, my dear, why didn’t you say something hurts? Where? Where is it?” “It’s alright, love, really…” *** “It’s too late, there’s nothing we can do…” “Doctor, please, how can that be? She’s my mum—” “I’m sorry, truly.” *** “Daughter, Olya—it’s my time, forgive me. I’ve lived too long already. They counted me out, but you saved me, that day you came, my own girl…” “Mum, don’t say things like that—” “Love, let me finish—it’s hard…I’m not your real mother, Olya. Forgive me—” “Mum! Never say that to anyone. You’re my mum—mine, and that’s all I care about. Do you hear me?” “Yes, yes, Olya… I hear you, my heart. There’s a notebook, my diary… Forgive me, Olya. I love you, child.” “And I love you, Mum. Mum… Muuuum…” *** “Ol, have something to eat…” “Yes, Vanya… I will… you go.” Olya sat in her mother’s room, reading the notebook, as Anna had called it—her life, Anna’s. Relentless, awkward, rotten, but sometimes cheerful. Her mother—strict Antonina Karpovna—her father killed in the war. Annushka, Anyuta, Annette—so many names. She’d fallen for a thief—what a wild life, there’d been fun, danger, the thrill of it. She left home for the thief… It spiraled on and on, years lost. Old age came upon her suddenly, a grasshopper skipping through life. The thief disappeared in the camps; she was alone in the world. There might have been a child, but she’d caught cold when helping her thief-hero plan a jailbreak, youthful and foolish, she lost everything—even her womanhood. No child, no kitten—her mother’s house was all she had left. There, she thawed a little, endured. The doctors told her to wait it out, “either-or.” She went to church, seeking forgiveness—it was hard. And then a miracle—God sent unexpected joy, and Anna couldn’t let go of the chance. She thought: I’ll get to be a mum for a while, at least see what it’s like. Olya—her darling—became the light of her life. She wrote in third person, “Anna never expected to live so long—such happiness; I work, I live, I have a daughter, my soul, my little heart. Even the illness withdrew for a while.” Forgive me, God, for the request—let me live to play with my grandchildren, to help my daughter. At first, Anna worried Olya would find out the truth: that she wasn’t really her mum, just shared a surname, maybe a muddle at the orphanage. In time, she stopped fretting, began to live a normal, human life; finally believed she was worthy. Forgive me, precious girl, for stealing you from your real mother—my happiness was borrowed, stolen. “Mum,” Olya sobbed, “my dear mum—I do hope you hear me. I knew, I worked it out straight away. When I lived with you, they told me the records were wrong, Anna was Ivanovna, I found her—just to see. She turned me away, remarried, didn’t want me, Mum. “She’s still alive, has her own family, but she didn’t care about me. She was afraid I’d be found, wouldn’t see me, just gave me money. “I ran away, Mum. Remember when I was so sick? Delirious, remember? And you, my darling—you cared for me. I thank God He brought us together. I searched so long for you. You—YOU are my mum. “Maybe it was a mistake after all, maybe it wasn’t. Up there, they know who belongs with whom. How do I live without you again, Mum?” “Olya, Olyushka…” “Let her cry, Vanya. She’s burying her mother.” *** “Grandma, was Grandma Anna kind?” “Very kind, darling.” “And pretty?” “The prettiest, Annushka.” “Who named her that?” “Oh, I don’t know—her father, maybe, or her mum.” “Your granddad or your grandma named her that.” “Yes, granddad or grandma.” “And you named me after her—after your mum?” “I did; and your daddy loved his granny very much.” “Can she see me?” “Of course; she’s watching, always helping you.” “I love you, Grandma Anna,” the little girl lays a crown of dandelions on her great-grandmother’s grave. “And I love you, pet,” the birch whispers; “and we love you,” the wind echoes.

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WE ALL JUDGED HER Mila stood in the church and wept. For fifteen minutes or more. I was honestly surprised. “What’s that posh woman doing here?” I thought. Of all people, I never expected to see her in a place like this. I didn’t actually know Mila, but I saw her often enough—after all, we lived in the same block and took our walks in the same local park. Me with my four children, her with her three dogs. We all judged her—me, other mums with their children, old ladies on park benches, neighbours, and I suspect even the passers-by. Mila was stunning—a true head turner, always dressed smartly, always seeming a little frivolous, a bit arrogant. “There she goes again, another man on her arm,” grumbled Old Nina from her post near the front door. “That’s the third one already.” “Well, she can afford it—all that money she’s got,” chipped in her mate Old Maureen, eyeing Mila climbing into her latest fancy car with another new boyfriend. Old Maureen’s son Dave, 45, hasn’t even managed to buy a used car. “She’d be better off having kids—her biological clock must be ticking,” chimed in their usual frenemy, Old Tom. But if there’s one thing they can agree on, it’s judging Mila. After each breakup, the bench would gloat: “Surprised? Slapper! Her flat probably stinks of dog as well!” But nobody disliked Mila as much as we—the mums of the playground—did. While we dashed around after our kids—on the hills, the swings, through bushes and bins, wherever their little hearts led, she would stroll by, unfazed, with her “mongrels,” even smirking at us, as if to say, “You chose this chaos; I live for myself.” While we worried if we could afford new shoes for our little ones, she just breezed through life, her latest hairstyle always perfect. “Typical childfree,” commented my friend Sarah, mum of three lively boys. “The rich have their quirks—dogs, cats, hamsters,” nodded Lucy, currently pregnant with twins, as she fetched her tearaway eldest from a tree. “She’s just selfish, doesn’t want the bother—would rather swan off to Spain or Greece. I haven’t seen the sea in seven years,” sighed Marina, mother of five. And I always agreed—with everyone, even the grumpy bench ladies. Then I’d be off to rescue Tonya, who’d fallen yet again and was howling her heart out in the park. “She should have had a child, not all those dogs,” some grandma once said loudly. “Mind your own business!” Mila snapped. She almost said more, but stopped and walked on with her, honestly, rather nasty dogs. “Rude cow,” called the grandma after her. …I stared at Mila as she sobbed in that church, and then I left. “Excuse me—! Wait up,” I suddenly heard behind me. Mila hurried after me across the church courtyard. “You’re the lady always out with four little girls, aren’t you?” “I am. And you’re the one with three dogs.” She nodded. “Could I…could I talk to you?” she faltered. “You know, I always watch you and your girls, the other mums too—I think you’re all amazing.” She blushed, and I almost said, “But you’re childfree, selfish, a posh cow!” Remembering her “smirks” my heart twisted. So, we sat down on a bench, and Mila began… to talk, tears streaming down her face, desperate to get it all out. Mila grew up in a loving home, always dreaming of a big family. She married for love, but after two miscarriages the doctors announced she’d never have children. Her beloved husband left her. The next man did, too—after endless treatments and nearly dying from an ectopic pregnancy. The third fled just upon hearing children mentioned; what he liked was Mila’s car and salary, not the “burden” of children. “I’d have given anything for a baby!” Mila wept. “I thought you just loved dogs,” I answered…rather stupidly. She smiled through the tears. “I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love children.” To keep loneliness at bay, she got Teppo, then adopted Mike when friends moved away, and found Fenya as a puppy abandoned in winter. Couldn’t say no. “Should’ve had a baby, not a bunch of dogs,” that bench granny’s words echoed in my head. “And her clock’s ticking…” I remembered Old Tom. It was—to everyone’s shock, Mila was already forty-one, though she looked thirty. She decided to adopt. Little, big, it didn’t matter—she just wanted a child. She met six-year-old Charlie and instantly clicked. He ran up and asked: “Will you be my mummy?” “Yes,” she replied, heart in mouth. But they didn’t give her Charlie; his mother, though severely mentally ill, still had parental rights. “It crushed me,” Mila said. “Why does this child have to suffer? Why can’t I help?” Then along came four-year-old Ellie, who’d been taken home and returned—twice—because of her wild temper. When the second “mum” dragged her back, Ellie crawled after her, clutching at her skirt, begging, “Don’t give me back, Mummy! Please! I’ll be good!” Mila met her, and Ellie asked, “Will you send me back too?” “Never!” Mila promised, barely able to speak for tears. There were hiccups with the adoption, which Mila didn’t explain—but said, “She’s my daughter, I’ll fight for her.” That was Mila’s first ever visit to church. “I just had nowhere else left to go.” The vicar came; they spoke for ages, Mila scribbling notes. “It’ll all turn out right—God bless,” I heard him say. Mila smiled at last. We walked home together. “You probably think I’m proud and arrogant,” Mila admitted. “Truth is, I’m just too tired to explain any more. And I’ve heard it all before anyway…” I kept silent. She invited me and the girls over—to play with her dogs. I agreed, and I will—just not yet. For now, I just feel deeply ashamed. I can’t help thinking: “Why are we so quick to judge? Why do I have so much spite in me?” And all I truly want now is for Mila—the incredible woman we all judged—to finally be happy. That one day, Ellie hugs her, pressing close, calling her “Mum,” knowing she’s safe and loved forever, the three dear dogs dancing and barking all around. And maybe, just maybe, by some miracle, Mila will find a kind husband, and Ellie will have a little brother or sister. It can happen, can’t it? And may no one ever speak a harsh word to them again…

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Stay Away from Me! I Never Promised to Marry You—And Honestly, Who Knows if That Child Is Even Mine? Or Maybe She’s Not Mine at All? That’s what Victor—a man on assignment in their small English village—coldly declared to a stunned Valentina. She stood there, unable to believe her eyes or ears. Was this the same Victor who’d once carried her in his arms, confessed his endless love, and called her “Val”? Now he looked confused, angry, and a perfect stranger… Valentina wept for a week, waving goodbye to Victor forever, but at thirty-five—feeling plain and with little hope of finding happiness—she decided to become a mum on her own. In due time, Val gave birth to a wailing baby girl she named Mary. Mary grew up calm and well-behaved, giving her mum no trouble—almost as if she knew there was no use in crying for what she’d never get. Val provided for her daughter, fed her, dressed her, and bought her toys, but rarely offered a cuddle, a walk, or any true maternal affection. “Busy, tired, headaches, so much to do…” The maternal instinct in Val simply never woke up. When Mary turned seven, something unimaginable happened—Val met a man. Not only that, she brought him home! The entire village gossiped: “What sort of woman drags a stranger into her house? What about the child?” they whispered, pointing at the silent, mysterious newcomer, doubting his motives. Val, working at the local store, ignored the scandal and offered the handyman—named Ian—a place to stay. At first the village judged, but soon saw their error: Ian fixed the porch, patched up the roof, and repaired the collapsing fence. Every day, Ian was hard at work, and Val’s house began to shine. People even went to him for help. “If you’re elderly or short on cash,” Ian would say, “I’ll help for free. Otherwise, pay me with money or groceries!” Soon, Val’s kitchen saw homemade cream and fresh milk, things she and Mary never had before. With Ian around, Val transformed—she softened, smiled more, even showed a hint of dimples! She grew kinder to Mary as well, and Mary adored watching “Uncle Ian” work, especially when he surprised her with a garden swing built with his own hands. Ian took over mornings, cooked breakfast and lunch, made pies and casseroles, and taught Mary to cook and set the table as well. He walked her to school in winter, shared stories from his own hard life, taught her to fish at dawn, and even gave her her first bike and skates—bandaging her knees and encouraging her to get back up after every fall. At Christmas, Ian made sure Mary found shiny new white skates under the tree—her tears of joy proof she’d never been so happy. And while Val grumbled, “She’ll hurt herself!” Ian said firmly, “She must learn to fall and rise again.” Years later, when Mary headed off to university and faced life’s challenges, Ian was always by her side—bringing her groceries, celebrating her milestones, walking her down the aisle, welcoming grandchildren as his own. And when his time came, Mary whispered at his grave, “Goodbye, Dad… you were the best father I could ever imagine.” For fatherhood isn’t always about biology—it’s about choosing to love, nurture, and stand by a child no matter what. A moving tale of real parental love—thank you for reading, and don’t forget to follow for more heartwarming stories!

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📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Mum Is 89 Years Old. Two Years Ago She Moved in With Me. Every Morning, I Hear Her Get Up Around 7:30, Then She Chats Quietly With Her Elderly Cat and Feeds Her. Afterwards She Makes Breakfast and Sits on the Sunny Patio With Her Coffee Until She’s Fully Awake. Then She Grabs the Mop and Sweeps Through the Entire House (About 2,600 Square Feet)—She Says It’s Her Daily Workout. If She’s in the Mood, She’ll Cook Something, Tidy the Kitchen, or Do Her Usual Exercises. In the Afternoon, It’s Time for Her Ever-Changing ‘Beauty Ritual’. Sometimes She Examines Her Massive Wardrobe—Its Museum-Worthy Designer Collection. Some Clothes She Gifts to Me, Others to Friends, and Some She Even Sells—Like a True Businesswoman. I Often Tell Her, “Mum, If You’d Invested All That Money, You’d Be Living in Luxury Now!” She Laughs, “But I Love My Clothes. Besides, One Day All This Will Be Yours. Your Sister—poor thing—has no taste.” To distract ourselves, we walk three kilometres round the local lake about five times a week. Once a month, she has ‘Girls’ Night’ with her friends. She’s a voracious reader and constantly browses my bookcases. Every day, she phones her 91-year-old sister in San Diego, who visits us twice a year and still works as an accountant for a private client. (By the way, my aunt is still working!) Besides her cat, her greatest joy is the tablet I gave her last Christmas. She reads everything about her favourite authors and composers, keeps up with the news, watches ballet, opera, and more. Around midnight, I often hear her mutter, “I really should go to bed, but YouTube just started playing Pavarotti.” Truly, she and her sister seem to have won the genetic lottery. Yet Mum still complains, “I look awful!” I try to keep her positive: “Mum, at your age, most people would already be on the other side.”