Choose: Me or Your Mum
The phone rang at half past ten in the evening, just as I was already in bed, leafing through a book. Richard was in the next room, perched in his favourite armchair with his laptop. From there, I could hear the low tones of a business programme on the telly.
The number was unfamiliar, but it had a Westfield dialling codemy childhood home.
Hello? My voice came out wary. Something inside me tightened, a seed of worry.
Hello, is that Emily Smith? This is Mrs. Green, from across the road. We havent met, but well, your mother, Mrs. Margaret Carter, she fell this morning. I popped round this evening and found her on the floor. She could barely speak, one side of her face
I was already up, groping for my slippers.
Is she in hospital? I managed to get out.
They took her an hour ago. Ambulance came, said it looked like a stroke. I found your number in her mobile, took me a while though
Thank you, Mrs. Green. Thank you so much.
I hung up and just stood there, clutching the phone, frozen for a handful of seconds. Then I went to Richard.
He was stretched out in his stylish lounge suit, a glass of sparkling water resting on the arm of his chair. Fifty-six, well-groomed, sideburns neat, the picture of middle-class success in our tidy London flat.
Rich, my mums very ill. Stroke. Shes at Westfield Hospital.
He muted the TV, turning to me.
When? he asked.
This morning. Mrs. Green found her on the floor. Shed been there all day, on her own
He set the glass on the coffee table.
Right. So, what now?
I stared at him. I have to go. Ill need to leave first thing.
Go, then. Im not stopping you.
Richard, we need to have a serious conversation. Mums seventy-eight. If shes had a serious stroke, she cant be left alone anymore. We have to think about what to do.
He turned the volume up a notch, a subtle reminder of his lack of real interest.
Em, weve talked about this. More than once.
That was in theory. Now its actually happened.
And whats changed? Ive told you how I feel. We cant have her here. Its not suitable.
I sank onto the sofa opposite.
Richard. Weve four bedrooms.
Yes, and Im planning work on two of them. Weve been over this. I want a proper study; you said you wanted a walk-in wardrobe. Am I supposed to put her in the hallway?
We could leave a room for Mum. The refurb can wait.
It cant. The builders are booked for March. Deposits paid. You know that.
Richard, this is about my mother. Shes seriously ill.
He finally looked me in the eye. I am sorry, truly. But lets be clear what this means. An elderly stranger in the flat, with health needs, incontinence, possibly not talking. Im not prepared for that, and I have every right to be honest.
Shes not a stranger. Shes my mother.
For me, she almost is. Ive met her four times in as many years. Shes never really tried to get to know me.
Because you
Lets not blame anyone here. Im talking about reality. I work from home, I need peace. I cant live in a sick room. Its my home too, after all.
I said nothing for a long time. Londons night murmured outside, as indifferent and oblivious as ever.
What if we found a carer? For her house in Westfield. A good onewe can afford it.
Fine. Get one, then.
But Id need to visit. Often.
Go as often as you like. No ones stopping you.
This No ones stopping you slipped out so lightly, so habitually, that I felt the ground shift under me. Not sharply, just a slow, reorienting heave, like discovering earth where you walk is softer than you imagined.
I rose, went back to bed, and stared at the ceiling until two.
In the morning, I drove to Westfield alone.
The local hospital greeted me with the smell of disinfectant and institutionally thick paint. Mum was in a six-bed ward, by the window. The right side of her face drooped, her right hand motionless atop the blanket. Mum looked up at me, silent, the left side of her mouth twitching faintly.
Mum, I said, taking her cold, papery hand. Im here. Its alright.
She tried to say something, but her words were a blur.
You dont have to say anything. Im here. Im not going anywhere.
The doctor, a tired, middle-aged woman, explained it all simply: A major ischaemic stroke. Right-side paralysis, speech impaired. Any improvement would take timesix months, minimum, of care, therapy, daily exercises, constant supervision.
She cant live alone, not as she is, the doctor noted. Youre her only child?
Yes.
The doctor just nodded, with that weary professionalism that belongs to those who have seen many families at this crossroads. Not pity, not judgmentjust the knowledge of how life is.
I spent the rest of the day feeding Mum watery porridge by the teaspoon, telling stories to fill the silence while she listened, her eyes alive with understanding, even if her mouth refused to comply.
As evening fell, I called Richard.
How is she? he asked.
Badly. Paralysed on the right, speech gone. She cant be left alone.
A short pause.
I see.
Richard, Im going to stay here.
For how long?
I dont know. As long as needed. I cant leave her.
He was quiet, his tone a notch more taut.
Youve got work. Youve got your life there.
Ill sort something. Do some remote work. Find a way. Mum cant be alone.
You mentioned a carer.
A carer cant replace a daughter. You know that.
He didnt answer for a while.
You do realise this could be for a long time?
I do.
And youre prepared to live in that house?
Yes.
Another pause, longer.
Alright, he said at last, and there was no warmth or objection, just fact. Call if you need anything.
I put the phone away and stared out into the fading evening. The streetlights flickered, every other one out. An old woman shuffled along with a tartan shopping bag; from somewhere, I could smell woodsmoke.
Mums house was at the end of Orchard Close, a squat timber cottage blackened by time, wonky porch, narrow, old windows. I unlocked it with the key I still kept on my ring, though I hardly thought Id ever use it again.
Inside was cold and damp. Mum hadnt lit the fire for days. I found logs in the scullery, struggled through the strange, childlike process of laying a fire: hands remembering, body uncertain. Id spent the first eighteen years of my life in that house.
I did a circuit: the tiny kitchen with its cracked tiles, the thin hallway, the two rooms. Mums bed in one, a battered sofa in the othermy childhood bed. Everything neat and spare. On the walls, old photos: me, my late father, black and white ancestors. That village minimalism where every item counts because there are so few.
Late that night, I messaged Richard: Im going to live here for now. Ill come back for anything I need.
He replied in twenty minutes: Understood. As you wish.
And that was all. That was the end of, well, everything, probably.
Those first days blended into one. I went to hospital every morning, left only in the evenings. I learned to turn Mum to avoid bedsores, to do the exercises the nurse showed, to stay calm, never to show fatigue. Mum began speech therapy. It hurt to watch: a brilliant retired maths teacher, fighting to retrieve the simplest words.
One morning, Mum managed: Emilygo home.
I am home, Mum.
No. She made a feeble gesture with her left hand. There. To your husband.
Dont talk about that, Mum.
Richard not happy?
I tucked her blanket.
Its fine, Mum. Dont worry.
She stared at me, long, searching. There was something in her gaze that made me turn away, looking out the window.
Almost four weeks in, they discharged her: a pile of medicines, sheets of exercises, a referral to the speech therapist. I hired a man with a van to bring her home. A young fellow from next door helped carry her over the step, up to bed, warm broth simmering, fire ticking in the grate.
A different life began.
Caring for someone who cant move doesnt get spoken about much. Its turning her every two hours, bedpans and wet sheets, morning stretches for useless limbs, three slow meals a day, always vigilant for choking. Tablets on schedule, seven in the morning, five in the evening. The speech therapist, Mrs. White, came three times a week. Mum ground her teeth in frustration, but she never gave up.
I continued working from homepart-time accounts for a small firm. My boss was supportive, but money got tighter. Richard sent the odd sum, small, wordless, a ping from the bank. I never asked him for more.
We barely spoke.
One dreary November morning, I was struggling with a wobbly porch stepMum would soon need to try walking with a frameI heard a voice.
Youre doing that wrong. A man in a battered work jacket, strong hands, open face. Drive the nail at an angle. Then it wont work loose.
He politely took the hammer, crouched, and had the step fixed in minutes.
Nicholas. From number twelve, he introduced himself, gesturing across the road. Youre Margarets daughter, arent you?
Yes. Emily.
She on the mend?
A little. Slowly.
If you need help around the place, just ask. Im always around.
I hate to trouble you.
Its no trouble. Your mother once helped mine out, years back. I havent forgotten.
And off he went.
I stood there, thinking how little embarrassment mattered to me these days. It was something else, something harder to explain: knowing Mum lay here alone while I’d once lived cushy in the city.
That November was cold. One night the smoke began to back up into the house. Panicked, I went to Nicholass. He came round, shimmied up to clear the chimney, explained the job needed doing every autumn, and resolutely refused payment.
Fancy a cup of tea? I offered.
If its not a bother.
He sat at the kitchen table with me, tea and some shop biscuits between us, while Mum dozed in the next room. The wind rattled the old apple tree outside.
How long have you lived here? I asked.
All my life. Left for a stint in Birmingham, factory work, but came back.
Why?
He thought about that one. Its just mine, here. In the city, its all someone elses. Some people like that. I dont.
I clung to my mug. I spent twenty years in London, never thought Id come back, really. But now Im here I wonder how I missed it all these years.
He didnt say there-there or tell me not to feel guilty. Just said, Youre here now. Thats what matters.
By December, Mum could sit up unaideda tiny triumph. Mrs. White praised her so honestly that Mum managed a left-sided smile.
Speech returned, haltingly. She groped for words, sometimes angry, but simple phrases were coming.
Youve lost weight, she told me once.
Not really, Mum.
Yes, you have. Does Richard call?
Sometimes.
Will he visit?
I dont know, Mum.
Long pause.
He wont, she said, not with bitterness, just the flat tone of a woman who knows the difference between hope and reality.
He didnt visit. Once a week, hed call: Hows things? Id say, Were managing. Hed recount the progress on the flat, or a posh work dinner. Id listen, feeling the silent widening gulf; not anger, not dramajust distance, as if we now lived on separate planets.
In January, my friend Rachel came downbearing cake and cheer, wanting to help, but the conversation misfired from the start.
Em, dont you think youre killing yourself here? she said, exasperated, over tea. A couple monthsalright, but how long can you keep this up?
What do you want me to do, Rach?
Get a proper nurse. Or a nice care homethere are good ones, honestly!
Mums terrified of care homes.
Thats hardly the point, Em. She doesnt see what youre going through
She does, I replied quietly. She knows.
Rachel was silent.
Richards not coming?
No.
And what will you do?
I dont know.
Em, youre clever, but you mustnt throw your life away. Richard provides for you, youve got a nice home
I looked at her.
Rachel, my mother lay on a cold floor for a day. Shes seventy-eight.
I know
No, you dont. Please dont tell me about providers.
She left later that day, faintly offended. We patched things up in messages, but something had shifted.
Older village women treated me differently, with a kind of rural, matter-of-fact respect. Mrs. Green, who had found my mother, sometimes left a jar of homemade chutney or a pie at the door. Another, Mrs. Dean, sat with Mum for two hours once while I fetched medicine, saying only, Were almost the same age, well have a natter.
Women my own age, from my school days, looked at me another way entirelyeyes sly with curiosity, sniffing for stories. Hows Richard, will he come up? Are you two managing? There was something in their questionsa secret relish at the drama.
Were alright, I told them, nothing more.
Nicholas helped, often and without fuss. He fixed the fence after a snowstorm, delivered logs in neat piles. When I was ill with a fever, he brought food, kept the fire going, and once, wordlessly, even helped Mum change her bed linen.
Nicholas, how do I thank you?
He shrugged, Were neighbours.
Not all neighbours are like you.
He nodded, simply. No. They arent.
After a quiet spell, I asked, Are you married, Nicholas?
I was. Wife died eight years ago. Daughters in London, calls now and then. Mostly Im on my own. You get used to it.
Dont you get lonely?
Sometimes. But not as much as you think. Theres always work to do.
That night I thought of Richard, alone in the big flat with its perfect new refurbishment, leather sofa, giant telly, evening business shows. Did he ever get lonely?
I rang him.
Richard, we need to talk.
Something happened?
No. Just its been a while since we really talked.
Pause.
Go on.
How are you?
Fine. Nearly finished the flat. Got a new project. Pause. When are you coming home?
I think Im not coming back.
Long silence.
At all?
At all.
He neither shouted nor pleaded. Just asked, Is this about your mother or about me?
I considered for a few seconds.
Probably about myself.
He breathed down the line.
Understood, he said eventually. You want a divorce?
Yes.
Right then. Divorce it is.
And his divorce it is, delivered in the same businesslike way he ordered paint samples, was the end.
In the spring, Mum began walking. At first, just to the kitchen, then to the front step. It was slow, faltering, frustrating, and she wept one dayit was so unlike her. But progress it was.
Mrs. White beamed, She has motivation! Thats half the cure.
Was it me? I didnt know. But it was a comforting thought.
In May, Nicholas and I sat on the bench outside the gate in the mild evening. Mum put herself to bed these days, so I had precious spare moments now.
Any plans to leave? he asked.
No, I said, eventually but with certainty. I thought about it. But I want to stay. Funny, isnt it? I spent years longing for city lifeand now I dont want to go anywhere.
Not funny at all, Nicholas said. Sometimes you dont know where you belong until its almost too late.
Things are hard here. Not always pleasant.
Thats different. Pleasantness and rightness are two things.
I glanced at him: ordinary man, rough hands, crows feet. Spoke little, but his words stayed with you.
Nicholas, you know Im getting divorced?
Heard. We all hear, village and all.
You think less of me?
What for?
Well. I left my husband. The family.
Family, eh? He seemed to weigh the word. Familys being together. Through good and bad. Otherwise, its just two people sharing a postcode.
I didnt reply. No answer was needed.
The divorce was quick, smoothRichard businesslike as ever. He kept the flat, settled some money on me. I needed it for the old house: to fix the rotten floors, leaking roof, faulty wiring.
That summer, Nicholas rounded up a couple of mates and between the three of them, they rebuilt my floors, mended the roof, at cost price.
Why? I asked bluntly.
Were neighbours.
No, not just that.
He considered me. Alright. Not just for that.
Mum watched all this from the front porchher face never fully regained its old symmetry, her speech never fully fluent, but the doctor said shed made brilliant progress. Every evening she watched me and Nicholas from the bench.
One day she said, A good man.
Yes, Mum.
You see that?
I do.
She nodded, nothing more.
Richard rang in Julythe first time since the decree absolute. His voice was a little different, softer, less businesslike.
How are you both? he asked.
Well, Mums up and about. House is almost repaired.
Glad to hear it. Pause. You know, Ive been thinking. Maybe I didnt do things right. Back then, in autumn.
I didnt say its fine. It wasnt.
Probably, I said.
Are you angry?
No. Not anymore.
Good. Are you happy now?
I looked out the window. Mum sat outside in the old armchair Nicholas dragged onto the porch. She had her bookmaybe only pretending to read. The apple trees, late in bloom this year, were heavy with green fruit. A starling watched from the fence.
Im not sure thats quite the word, I said. But Im well. Im alright.
I see, said Richard. And I believed he did, for the first time.
We said goodbye, quietly.
Afterwards, I went out to the porch.
Cup of tea, Mum?
Yes, please.
I put the kettle onold, battered, still working. My mothers geranium, lush and burgundy, stood on the sill, as it had for thirty years. The air smelt of cut grass and wood from the sun-warmed porch.
At half past five, Nicholas knocked.
Evening, Mrs. Carter. Got some raspberries from the gardenfirst pick.
Thank you, love, come in, Mum answered.
I heard their voices in the next room while I stood with three mugs in my hands, just standing for a moment. There was something so simple and important about that old kitchen, the voices, the scent of tea and flowers. Somewhere in the city, in a freshly decorated flat, sat a man whod chosen the perfect sofa, but not the right life.
I had chosen the right life.
Or maybe I was still choosing. Every day, a little more.
I brought in the mugs.
Nicholas, stay and have tea.
Id like that.
Mum glanced over, the left side of her mouth lifting in her half-smile. This was real.
Sit down, said my mother. Both of you.
And we did.
The sun slipped behind the rooftops, long shadows crossing the garden, the starling singing its complicated tune. The raspberries glowed, warm and red and summer-scented.
And for a moment, there was truly nothing more to be said.
