A Single Form
The key to Mums flat sat nestled in my coat pocket, right beside the receipt for the deposit. I kept finding it with my fingers, through the fabric, as if touching it could somehow help me hold together everything that was happening. Three days from now, the solicitor was meant to witness us signing the sale contractbuyers had already wired eighty thousand pounds, and the estate agent sent me nightly reminders about deadlines. I replied succinctly, no smiley faces, and found myself reading the reminders as threats.
I took the stairs up to the fifth floor, no lift in the old building, catching my breath at the door before ringing. Mum didnt answer immediately. I heard the shuffle of slippers, then the click of the lock.
Steven? Just a tickIve got to sort the chain She spoke louder than needed, tension in every word, sounding as if she was apologising ahead of time.
I managed a smile, holding up a shopping bag.
Brought you groceries. And well go over the contract once more.
The contract Mum retreated, letting me through. I remember. Just dont rush me.
It was warm inside, radiators on full blast. A carrier bag full of tablets sat on a stool near the entrance. In the kitchen, a half-eaten apple on a plate and a notebook with Mums bold script outlining: Take pills, Ring Council, Stevens coming.
I unpacked the food, put the milk in the fridge, checked the door properly shut. Mum watched on, as if this too was part of some transaction.
Youve brought the wrong bread again, she said, but without a trace of annoyance.
There wasnt any other left, I replied. Mum, do you remember why were selling?
She sat down, folding her hands on her knees.
So its easier for me. So I wont have to climb all these stairs. And so you She hesitated, as if the word you weighed too much. So you lot dont squabble.
I felt irritation swelling, not at her but at the words themselves. Truth was we bickered plentysoftly, over the phone, so she wouldnt hear.
Were not squabbling, I lied. Were sorting things.
She nodded, but her eyes were steady, stubborn.
I want to see the new flat before I sign anything. You promised.
Well go tomorrow, I told her. Ground floor, nice little garden, shops round the corner.
From my folder I laid out all the paperwork: preliminary contract, deposit receipt, title register, passport copies. Everything divided into plastic sleevesorder in the folder, if not in the family.
Whats this one? Mum reached for a sheet I didnt recognise.
It was thin, stamped by the local practice and signed by a GP. At the top: Medical Certificate. Beneath, statements that made my mouth go dry: signs of cognitive decline, advisable to consider application for deputyship, capacity may be limited.
Where did this come from? I kept my voice even.
Mum looked at it, as if it belonged to someone else.
That it was given at the surgery. I thought it was for the holiday home application.
Who gave it to you? When?
She shrugged.
I went with Peter. He said we should check my memory, just in case someone tried to trick me. I agreed. The woman at reception asked me to sign a paper, so I did. Didnt read itmy glasses were at home.
Suddenly, things fell into place, and I felt even worse for it. My younger brother Peter had been repeating the same line for months: Mum shouldnt be on her own, she forgets everything, someonell take her in. Always with concern, but I could hear the tiredness underneath.
Mum, do you realise what this means? I raised the certificate.
That Im she lowered her eyes, daft?
No. It means someones started the steps so that youd need permission to sign things. That someone else would be deciding for you.
Mums head snapped up.
Im not a child.
I saw her lips tremble, not quite crying, but her eyes glistenedhurt too raw to admit.
I remember exactly where my money is, she said quickly. I remember how I took you to school. I remember this flats mine. I dont want someone she didnt finish.
I slipped the certificate carefully back into the folder, like something hot.
Ill sort it, I said. Today.
Out on the balcony to ring Peter, Mums empty pickle jars lined up in a crate, lids neatly placed separately. She might misplace her glasses, but the jars and lids were always in order.
Peter answered straight away.
So, hows it going? His voice that faux-cheery confidence.
Did you take Mum to the surgery? I asked.
A beat.
Yeah. And? I said it needed doing. She gets muddled, Steve, you know it.
I know she gets tired. Not the same. You realise shes got a form recommending deputyship now?
Dont exaggerate. Its just advice for the solicitor. These days everyones jittery about scams.
I squeezed my phone.
The solicitor isnt being difficult, hes checking capacity. If theres any note about possible limits, they might pull the plug on the sale.
And if they go ahead, someone could contest it. Do you want us dragged through court after? Peter rattled off his lines, fast. I just want it straightforward.
Straightforward is Mum knowing what shes signing. Not being pushed a paper when she cant see.
Youre blaming me again? Anger sharpened his words. I go to her more often than you. Ive seen her leave the gas on.
I remembered yesterdayMum called wanting to know the day, but instantly quoted the deposit amount and checked the receipt wasnt a scam.
Im going to the surgery this afternoon, I said. And to the solicitor. You come over tonight. We talk with Mum.
With her? Shell get upset.
Its got to be with her. Its about her.
Back on the kitchen, Mum gazed out the window as if it had answers.
Dont be cross with me, she said, not turning. Peters good. Hes just scared.
Something shifted inside meMum was defending Peter, even now.
Im not cross with him, I told her. Im cross nobody even asked you.
I packed up the folder, slotting the certificate in a separate sleeve. Before leaving I checked the hob, checked the windows. Mum walked me to the door as always.
Steve, she said quietly, dont let my flat go to just anyone.
To no one, I replied. Im not letting go of you either.
Surgery took nearly two hoursqueue for reception, hunt for the right room, then explaining why I needed details. The receptionist with the tired face said,
Confidential. Only with a letter of authority.
Shes my mother, I tried not to raise my voice. She doesnt know what shes signed. I need to know who set this down.
Shell have to come herself, the receptionist said flatly.
I left, stepped into the corridor, called Mum.
Mum, can you get here now? I asked.
Now? Surprise, just a hint of worry. I Im not ready.
Ill come for you, I said. It matters.
Back on the fifth, I helped her into her coat, found her glasses on the windowsill where shed put them to remember. She walked slow, holding the rail, but her steps were confident.
At the surgery we waited again. Mum glanced at people, the NHS posters, shrinking slightly.
I feel like a schoolgirl, she said as we reached reception.
Youre an adult, I replied. Its just the system here.
With Mum there, the reception softened. The woman took passport, NHS card, found the file.
You saw the neurologist two weeks ago, then psychiatry, by referral.
Mum flinched.
Psychiatrist? she echoed. Nobody told me that.
Routine for memory concerns, the receptionist chirped, but sounded unconvinced.
I asked for a printout and a copy of the certificate. Refusalbut Mum could get a summary for the solicitor. Mum signed the request, this time with glasses, reading each line slowly.
There you go, the receptionist said, handing over the slip. Talk to the Practice Manager if there are any issues.
Managers office was closed, a sign on the door: Appointments from 2pm. It was half past twelve.
Well never make it, Mum said, a note of relief, as if a delay might save her.
Well wait, I said.
We sat on a hard bench. Mum clutched the summary, like a ticket someone might take away.
Steve, she said, still not looking at me, I do muddle things sometimes. Might forget if Ive had breakfast. But I dont want to be written off.
I studied her hands: skin thin, blue veins, nimble fingers. Memory of her tying my scarf as a boy, me embarrassed by my own helplessness.
Nobody writes you off unless you let them, I told her.
What if I dont know what Im agreeing to?
That landed harder than the certificate had.
Then Ill be here, I said. And well make sure you understand.
Manager saw us just after two. Woman in her fifties, precise, neutral.
Theres no court ruling about incapacity for your mother, she said, checking her screen. The doctor noted some possible cognitive decline, suggested you speak to the Council about support. That doesnt block her signing anything.
But the solicitor might refuse because of it, I said.
Capacity is assessed on the day, she replied. If unsure, he might ask for a psychiatrists opinion or have a doctor attend for the signing. The form by itself doesnt stop anything.
Mum sat stiffly, clutching her bag.
Who told them to write about deputyship? I asked.
Manager looked at me a moment.
The file says son present. No surname. The GP wrote it after some tests, most likely. Nobody officially requests whats written.
I realised there wasnt any point arguing further. Care would always seem well-intentioned when wrapped in red tape. The murky bits started where Mum signed without reading.
On the way home, Mum was weary, but steady. On the bus she said,
Peter worries I’ll give the flat away and be homeless.
Hes scared, I said.
And what scares you?
I didnt answer straightaway. I feared a failed sale, buyers demanding their deposit in court, losing the new flat option, Mum stuck in this walk-up for years. But most of all, that shed stop being seen as herself, becoming just someone to look after.
I worry nobody will ask you, I said.
Peter turned up that evening. He kicked off his boots, wandered into the kitchen like it was his own. Mum laid plates, got salad from the fridge. I saw her try to act calm, as if it was just an ordinary family tea.
Mum, you okay? Peter pecked her cheek.
Fine, she replied, almost curt. Found out I saw a psychiatrist today.
Peter hesitated, glancing at me.
I didnt want to scare you, Mum. Just another doctor, really. Everyone gets checked nowadays.
I wasnt checkedI was taken.
I laid the summary on the table.
Pete, do you get that this could scupper the sale? I said.
And do you get, without it, it could be dangerous? Peter shot back. The solicitor should see were being careful. I wont have anyone saying Old dear didnt know what she was signing.
She knows, I said.
She does nowtomorrow, who knows? He raised his voice. You see it, surely. She could sign anything.
Mum slapped her palm lightly on the tablethe sound sharper than the impact.
I wont sign anything, she said. Ill sign whats explained to me.
Peter dropped his gaze.
Mum, Im just worn out, he muttered. Every day I thinkwhat if someone calls you, tells you to transfer money? I saw Mrs. Dawson next door taken for a ride. I couldnt bear that happening to you.
He wasnt being greedy, I realised, just frightened; but that didnt give the right to decide everything for her.
So lets do this differently, I said. No deputyship, no incapacity. We go to the solicitor first, no buyers around. Mum, with her glasses, no rush. Solicitor talks to her direct. If needed, we get a psychiatrists note confirming she knows what shes signing. Make a limited Power of Attorneynot for everything, just utilities, bank stuff. The sale money goes into an account with joint signaturesMum and me, or Mum and Peter. However she decides.
Peter looked up.
Itll take too long. Buyers wont wait.
Then theyll go elsewhere, I said, words tough and unplanned, feeling Mum flinch. I wont sell if Mums declared incapable just to hurry it along.
She met my eyessomething new in her look, a mix of gratitude and fear.
Stevewhat if we lose the money?
I moved to sit beside her.
We might lose the deposit, I admitted. And time. But if we cave in now for speed, youll spend your days being checked, every step justified as for your own safety.
Peters fists clenched.
You think I want to humiliate her?
I think you want control, because youre scared. Because its easier that way.
He shot up, bristling.
Easier? Do it yourself, thenyou come once a week, then lecture me about care.
I stood too but held back. Saw Mum shrink, bracing as if our row was a physical blow.
Enough, I said. This isnt a contest. Its about Mum being central to decisions. Mum, do you want Pete to sign on your behalf?
She was silent for ages then said:
I want you both present when I sign. And to hear the trutheven if its hard.
I nodded.
Thats what well do.
The next day, I went to see the solicitor with the summary and certificate. His office was in the city centre, up stairs gleaming from years of shoes. Solicitor, a serious man with thick glasses, studied the documents.
The certificate isnt reason to refuse, he said. Id suggest having a psychiatrist present or getting a written opinion. But your mother has to attend in person. No blanket Power of Attorney here.
The buyers are waiting, I told him.
Buyers always waituntil they dont. Your choice.
Outside, I called the agent.
Were postponing.
How long? Her voice chilly.
Two weeks. We need medical confirmation.
The buyers may walkand youll have to return the deposit.
Then I will, I said, surprised at my own calm.
That evening, I told Mum and Peter. He swore, said Id ruined the chance, messed it up. Then left, banging the doorjust enough to rattle the coat hooks.
Mum was by the sink, twisting a pen in her fingers.
He wont come back? she asked.
He will, I said. He just needs time.
What about me? she said.
I understoodthat wasnt about waiting at home, but how much time she had left to make her own choices, before being turned into just someone cared for.
You need time, too, I answered. And the right.
A week later, we took Mum to a private psychiatrist. She was nervous but steady. The doctor spoke gently, asked her the date, her childrens names, why she was selling up. Mum got the date wrong once, but explained perfectly: selling to get a lower flat, putting the money towards her new place, for her needs.
He wrote a conclusion for us: Patient is able to understand the nature and effect of her decisions. I held that paper like a shield, heartsick it had come to thisher right to be herself had to be rubber-stamped.
The buyers dropped out anyway. Agent texted: They found another place. Please return deposit by Friday or face action. I sent the money back, dipping into my own savingsit stung, but didnt devastate.
Peter didnt call for three days. Then he appeared, unannounced. I overheard Mum in the hall.
Sorry, Mum, Peter said, I got carried away.
You didnt offend me, Mum answered. You frightened me.
Peter came into the kitchen, facing me.
I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing, he said. Didnt want anyone to
I get it, I replied. But from now, any forms, were all there. Mum gets a say, and if youre scared, say so, dont hide it behind paperwork.
Peter nodded, stubbornness still lingering in his eyes.
What if she ends up really? He didnt finish.
Mum looked at him steadily.
Then you both sort it together, she said. But for now, as long as I know whats happening, I want to be asked.
I saw it: we werent a harmonious family now. Grudges remained, sunken like sediment. The sale had fallen through, money repaid, the new flat lost. But inside my folder new papers began to gatherMums limited Power of Attorney for sorting bills, her consent on the joint account, a list of questions shed drawn up herself, bold writing for the next solicitor.
Quite late that night, about to leave, Mum walked me out as ever.
Steve, she said, offering me a spare set of keys, Take these. Not because I cant manage. Just makes things easier.
I felt the keys cold metal in my palm, nodded.
Its easier, I echoed.
On the landing, I paused, listening for her footsteps, the lock snapping shut. Truth hadnt surfaced in full. Who filled out the form, why no one explained to Mum what she was signing, where care ends and control beginsthose shadows remain. But now, Mums voice was not just a word, but backed by our actions. And I learned, in the end, you can only protect someones autonomy by choosing the slower, harder wayone that gives them space not to fade into the background.
