The phone rang at exactly seven in the morning, just as Lydia was heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She glanced at the screen and frowned—it was her younger sister, Emily.
“Hello, Em, what’s wrong? You know I’m barely awake at this hour.”
“Lyd, get to Mum’s right now!” Emily’s voice was tense. “I’ve sorted everything—the paperwork’s done. We’re selling her flat and putting her in a lovely care home.”
Lydia nearly dropped her phone.
“What did you say? What care home? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know! Mum’s losing it. Yesterday she left the gas on, and the day before, the neighbour found her on the stairs—she forgot which floor she lives on. This can’t go on!”
“Em, slow down. What paperwork have you actually done?”
“Power of attorney for the flat. Mum signed it herself. I explained it was for her own good.”
Lydia felt fury bubble up inside her.
“Have you lost your mind? How could you do this without me? She’s got two children, you know!”
“And where have *you* been all this time?” Emily snapped. “Popping in once a week for a cuppa and patting yourself on the back? I visit her every day after work—groceries, meds, everything!”
“I work non-stop, you know that. And I don’t live round the corner like you do!”
“Exactly! So *I’m* the one deciding what’s best for her. Come say goodbye to the flat if you want. The estate agent’s coming tomorrow.”
Emily hung up. Lydia stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, stunned. Her little sister—the one she still saw as the moody teen who once borrowed her clothes without asking—had just bulldozed over their seventy-five-year-old mother’s future.
She threw on her coat and sped to Mum’s. On the way, Lydia thought back to after Dad’s passing, when *she*, the eldest, had shouldered everything—finances, bills, doctors’ appointments. Emily had been finishing uni back then, carefree and oblivious.
Mum’s flat was on the fourth floor of an old brick building. Lydia took the familiar stairs and rang the bell. Mum—Margaret Hughes, a petite woman with sharp blue eyes—answered.
“Lydia, love! So early—is everything alright?”
“Mum, we need to talk. Seriously.”
They settled in the kitchen. Mum put the kettle on and dug out some biscuits.
“Mum, tell me about yesterday. What did you do?”
Margaret frowned in thought. “Got up, had breakfast… Then Emily came over. We chatted, she had some papers…”
“What papers, Mum?”
“Don’t remember exactly. Said it was for my own good. Needed signing.”
“And you *signed*?”
“Well, of course. Emily knows about these things. She’s in finance.”
Lydia clenched her fists. Forgetful or not, Mum still had a say in her own life.
“What else did Emily mention?”
“Something about a care home. Said it’d be nicer there, with nurses and cooked meals. But I don’t want to leave, love. This is *home*.”
Her eyes welled up. Lydia hugged her.
“You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let it.”
The doorbell rang. Emily marched in—forty-three, sharp suit, sleek bob.
“Oh, you’re here. Good. Let’s settle this like adults.”
“*Adults*?” Lydia stood. “You call tricking a vulnerable woman *adult* behaviour?”
“I didn’t trick anyone! Mum signed willingly.”
“Mum didn’t understand what she was signing!”
“Mum’s right *here*,” Margaret cut in, voice rare and firm. “And stop shouting in my home.”
Silence. When Mum raised her voice, even the boiler listened.
“Emily, explain those papers again,” Margaret said.
Emily sat beside her, all business. “Mum, I arranged to sell the flat. Found you a *gorgeous* care home—clean, cozy, a doctor on-site. You’ll have your own room, we’ll visit whenever—”
“But I don’t *want* to sell,” Mum whispered. “My whole life’s here. Your dad’s memories—”
“Mum, it’s *dangerous*. You could leave the gas on, fall, and no one would know!”
“The neighbours—”
“Neighbours aren’t family! Lydia’s miles away, I can’t be here 24/7—”
Lydia couldn’t stay silent.
“Em, we could hire a carer. Or Mum could live with me.”
“Carers cost a *fortune*. And your flat’s a shoebox—where would she *sleep*?”
“We’ll *figure it out*!”
“*Figure it out*?” Emily scoffed. “Lydia, stop playing the perfect daughter! You’d cram Mum onto your sofa? Or expect *me* to keep juggling work, my kids, and daily visits?”
“I never *asked* you to juggle!”
“You didn’t *have to*! Who else was going to do it? You thought Mum would just *manage*?”
Margaret stood. “Girls, go home. I need to think.”
“Mum—” Emily started.
“*Go.* We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Outside, in the drizzle, Emily exhaled. “Lyd, I’m not the villain here. I’m *worried* about her.”
“Worried? Then why cut me out?”
“Would it have changed anything? You’d argue, we’d stall, and Mum could’ve *burned the place down* by then!”
“You had no *right* to decide alone!”
“I *earned* that right! I’m the one *actually* looking after her. You waltz in for tea like it’s a day out!”
“That’s *not true*!”
“Isn’t it? Who stayed with her in hospital last year? Who buys her meds? Her *food*? *Me!*”
Lydia opened her mouth—then shut it. Emily *was* right. She *had* done the heavy lifting.
“Fine. You help more. But that doesn’t mean you *control* her life!”
“Then what’s *your* genius plan? Wait till she sets the place alight?”
“Find a *proper* solution. *Together*.”
Emily sighed. “Lyd, it’s done. Estate agent tomorrow. The home needs a deposit next week.”
“*Cancel it.*”
“No. No more delays.”
As Emily turned to leave, Lydia called: “What if Mum refuses to go?”
“She won’t. She’ll see it’s best.”
“What if I *sue*? Challenge the power of attorney?”
Emily turned back. “Sue all you like. But while we’re in court, Mum could *actually* get hurt. That’ll be on *you*.”
Lydia went back upstairs. Mum was at the window, watching the rain.
“Mum, do you *want* to move?”
“I don’t know, love. Emily says it’s best. Maybe she’s right.”
“What do *you* think?”
“What *I* think?” Mum gave a sad laugh. “Old women don’t get opinions. Emily decides, you work. I’m just… in the way.”
“You’re *not*—”
“I am. Emily’s exhausted. You’re stressed. All over *me*.”
Lydia sat beside her. “Mum… are you scared to be alone?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “Yes. Sometimes I wake up and forget if I turned the kettle off. Last week, I got lost on my own street.”
“Why didn’t you *tell* me?”
“Why upset you? You’ve enough on your plate.”
Lydia took her hand. “If you’re scared, we’ll fix it. A carer, or I’ll visit more—”
“Love, you’re sweet. But Emily’s right—carers cost. And you’re run ragged as it is.”
“It’s *fine*!”
“It’s *not*. You work all hours, your flat’s tiny… then there’s *me*.”
“Mum, you’re not a *burden*.”
Margaret smiled. “You know… maybe Emily’s right. A home might be safer. People around, a doctor… You wouldn’t have to worry.”
“But you *said* you didn’t want to leave.”
“What I want and what’s *needed*… different things.”
—
Next day, Lydia took time off and arrived early—hoping to find another way.
But outside the building, a car with “*Estate Agent*” on the side was parked. Upstairs, voices spilled from the flat.
The agent—a man in his forties—stood when Lydia walked in.
“Lydia looked at her mum, then at Emily, and finally said, “You’re right—it’s time we start listening to what Mum *actually* wants, not just what we *think* is best for her,” and with that, the three of them sat down together, truly talking for the first time in years.
