In the quiet of an English village many years ago, I recall stepping into my garden one crisp morning and noticing an elderly woman sitting beneath the awning of my neighbour’s cottage. She was hunched over, dozing on a wooden bench in the fresh air. It struck me as odd, for my neighbour, Mrs. Whitmore, had no living kin—childless after years of marriage, and widowed the year before after her husband’s long illness. Though she grieved, she was not so old as to despair. Life had left her alone in her twilight years, and she had little choice but to accept it.
Curious, I visited Mrs. Whitmore to inquire about the stranger. The elderly lady, a well-mannered soul, spoke little. Later, in confidence, my neighbour explained the woman was in distress—her own son had disowned her. “Best not trouble her,” she whispered.
The woman—let’s call her Mrs. Eleanor—had spent her life working at the Royal Philharmonic. Her husband, a university professor, was a man of prestige, yet whispers of his affairs with students had long been known. Still, she held her tongue, unwilling to break the family apart. Her days were filled with music lessons at home and devotion to her only son.
Time passed. The boy grew, graduated, married, and soon became a father himself. Mrs. Eleanor adored her granddaughter. Yet even as her joy grew, her husband left her for another woman—though he refused to divorce.
Her son, busy building his own fortune, visited seldom, though he sometimes left the granddaughter in her care. Age crept upon her swiftly. Then, to her surprise, her husband returned—cast aside by his mistress. But the years had not been kind to Mrs. Eleanor in his eyes. He found her aged, unbecoming, and barely tolerated her presence, always searching for someone younger.
Meanwhile, her son had purchased a grand country house. His father pressed him to take in his mother, and the son agreed—his daughter loved her grandmother dearly. But his wife?
She refused to share her home with “some old woman.” At first, the son argued—after all, this was his mother—but the wife stood firm.
“Fine,” she relented at last. “But your father must sign over the flat to our daughter. What if he takes up with another woman and we’re left with nothing?”
To appease her, the son spoke with his father, who promised the flat would go to the granddaughter.
So Mrs. Eleanor moved in. The countryside air was fresh, the surroundings peaceful—yet her husband wasted no time finding another paramour, still avoiding divorce. Worse, the daughter-in-law made life unbearable—berating the old woman, even raising her hand. The granddaughter, mimicking her mother, did the same. At last, in despair, Mrs. Eleanor demanded to return to her own home.
Her son rang his father, but the old man refused—he had moved on, with another woman in his life. Pressured by his wife and daughter, the son made a decision: he would take her to a care home.
Upon hearing this, my neighbour—who, it turned out, had known Mrs. Eleanor for years—took pity. She arranged for her to stay instead with her, and the son, relieved, promised to send money and visit often. Whether he kept his word, time would tell.
Such is the way of things when family becomes a burden—discarded by those who should care most. Where else could the poor woman go? Life, like a boomerang, returns what is thrown. Parents deserve kindness, not abandonment.
Be gentle. Be good. For one day, you too may grow old.
