Margaret Whitby sat on a bench in the garden of the old nursing home, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was the day she turned eighty, and neither son nor daughter had come to wish her.
Only her fellow resident, Evelyn Smythe, stopped by with a modest present, and the young orderly, Molly, offered her a crisp apple in celebration. The home was respectable, yet the staff seemed largely indifferent.
Everyone knew that children brought their elders here to spend their final years, often feeling them more a burden than a blessing. Margarets own son, Thomas, claimed he was taking her to rest and recover, but in truth he merely wanted to rid himself of the inconvenience she posed for his wife.
The flat had always been Margarets; later Thomas coaxed her into signing a deed, promising she would stay there as she always had. In practice, the whole family moved in at once, and a feud ignited with his wife, who was never satisfied, left the bathroom filthy, and complained about everything. At first Thomas defended his mother, then grew weary and began shouting himself. Margaret noticed how they whispered whenever she entered a room, only to fall silent the moment she appeared.
One morning Thomas tried to convince her once more that she needed to rest and get better. She stared into his eyes and asked, bitterly, Youre sending me to a care home, aren’t you, son? He flushed, fidgeted, and answered apologetically, Oh, Mother, its just a convalescent home. A month here, then youll be back home. He hurried her paperwork, left in a rush, promising to return soon. He did appear only once more, bearing two apples and two oranges, asking how she fared before darting away.
Two years have now slipped by.
When a month passed without Thomass return, Margaret dialed the number she remembered from home. Strangers answered; it turned out Thomas had sold the flat and vanished. She wept for a couple of nights, already knowing she would never be taken back, that her tears were now in vain. The most painful thought was that she had once scolded her own daughter for the sake of her sons happiness.
Margaret had been born in a small Yorkshire village, where she married her schoolmate, Peter Hall. They lived in a modest house with a small farm, never wealthy but never hungry. A city visitor, Edward, came to stay with their parents and sang the praises of urban lifegood wages, immediate housing. Peter, dazzled, sold everything and moved to London. The promised flat arrived promptly, furnished, along with a battered Zaporozhie that later crashed, killing Peter two days after the accident.
Widowed, Margaret was left with two children in her arms. To feed and clothe them she swept stairwells each evening, hoping the kids would grow up to help. It never happened. Thomas fell into trouble, forcing Margaret to borrow money to keep him out of jail, a burden she repaid for two long years. Her daughter, Daisy, married, bore a child, and for a year life seemed steady. Then Thomass health declined repeatedly; Margaret quit her work to tend him, but doctors could not pinpoint the ailment. Eventually a specialist in a distant institute identified a rare disease, though the waiting list was endless. While Daisy shuttled him between hospitals, her own husband left, leaving only the flat behind. In a ward, Margaret met a widower whose daughter suffered the same illness. They grew fond and lived together, but five years later he fell ill and required costly surgery. Margaret had saved enough and intended to give the money as a downpayment for Thomass new flat.
When Daisy asked for the funds, Margaret felt a pang of guilt at spending on a stranger when her own son needed it. She refused. Daisy, hurt, declared she would no longer regard Margaret as mother and warned her not to seek help when times grew hard. For two decades they kept silent.
Daisy eventually recovered, took her children, and moved to a seaside town. If fate could be rewound, Margaret would have acted differently, yet the past is unchangeable.
One crisp afternoon Margaret rose slowly from the bench and shuffled toward the homes entrance. A voice called, Mum! Her heart leapt. She turned and saw Daisy, her legs trembling, nearly collapsing, but Margaret caught her.
Finally Ive found you, Daisy whispered. Brother wouldnt give me the address, but I threatened him with court, saying he sold the flat illegally, and he fell silent…
They entered the building and sat together on a sofa in the lobby.
Forgive me, Mother, for all those years of silence, Daisy said, tears shining. I was angry, I pushed everything aside, it was shameful. A week ago you visited me in a dream, walking through a forest, weeping.
I stood up, my soul heavy, Daisy continued. I told my husband everything, and he urged me to come and make peace. I arrived, only to find strangers who knew nothing.
I searched for my brothers address, finally found it, and now Im here. Come with me. Theres a big house by the sea, you know, the one we spoke of. My husband insists if your health falters, well bring you to us.
Margaret clung to her daughter, cryingtears of relief this time.
Read the blessing of your father and mother, that your days may be long upon the earth the Lord, your God, has given you.
