**Diary Entry – 12th October**
My dearest children… Tomorrow you’ll come to visit. It’s my milestone birthday, supposed to be a celebration. You’ll arrive with flowers, a cake, and polite smiles. And I’ll greet you with water glasses shaking in my wrinkled hands because each year, things grow harder. You’ll see how age weighs on me. All I ask is for your patience. Try to understand what stage of life I’m walking through now.
If your father or I repeat a story—whether from a year ago, a month past, or even an hour earlier—don’t cut me off. Don’t frown or sigh, *“Mum, you’ve told us this before.”* Just… listen. The way I listened when you were small, begging for the same bedtime tale night after night until you drifted off, clinging to your book.
If I say I don’t want a shower, don’t scold or shame me. Remember how I coaxed you into the bath after school, when you’d stamp your feet and whine about being tired. I never lost my temper. I’d simply rub your back, whisper *“Nearly done,”* and fill the tub while humming some half-remembered tune.
When I fumble with your telly remote or smartphone, don’t roll your eyes. I wasn’t born knowing these things. I learned from scratch—just like I taught you to hold a spoon, fasten your buttons, tie your laces. I guided you. Now guide *me*. Without irritation. Without mocking.
You’ll notice, more often now, how I lose my thread mid-sentence or forget simple words. Yes, I’m ageing. Yes, I’m weary. But don’t point it out. Don’t say, *“You’ve forgotten again, haven’t you?”* I *know*. And it frightens me. Just wait, quietly, while I gather my thoughts. Stay close.
I don’t want to be a burden. I only want to be the woman who once steadied your first wobbly steps. Now that my own legs falter, offer me your arm. Don’t rush. Walk beside me. I once matched my stride to your tiny ones.
I ask for little—no fanfare, no lavish gifts, no perfect speeches. Just warmth. Just presence. A quiet hour where we simply *are*. I beg you: don’t fear my frailty. Embrace it. The way I embraced your scraped knees, your nightmares, your stubborn tears.
Don’t wait till I’m gone to remember how my hands felt when they held yours. Hug me *now*. Say *“I love you”*—*now*, while I can still hear it. While I can still feel it.
When you arrive tomorrow, don’t just be polite. Be *real*. I’ll sense if you’re counting minutes till you leave. If your silence is love or frustration. I don’t need much—just your honest *“Mum.”*
My pen trembles as I finish this. My heart’s too full. One last reminder: I love you. Always. To my last breath.
— MumShe sighed, folded the letter, and tucked it into the drawer, knowing some words are better felt than spoken.
