**Diary Entry**
She was just past fifty. A vibrant, successful woman, confident in herself—someone who seemed to have it all: family, career, friends, respect. Yet one thing gnawed at her endlessly: her parents. Once lively, active, full of opinions, they now seemed to fade quietly before her eyes, as if someone had dimmed their light.
She’d burst into their London flat, the scent of her expensive perfume trailing behind her, her planner full of engagements, her mind buzzing with responsibilities. But the air inside carried the musty tang of age and forgotten meals. She rushed to the fridge—there it was again, stale food, leftovers gone sour. Gourmet takeaways, boutique delicacies—she tried to replace their mundane routine with luxury. She brought jars of fine soups, elegant side dishes, desserts. She brought new clothes—a dressing gown for her mother, a shirt for her father—hanging them carefully in the wardrobe, tenderly.
But when she returned a week later, nothing had changed. The fridge still held a pot of spoiled stew with onions from goodness-knows-when. Her gifts hung untouched in the wardrobe, crinkly tags still attached. Her father wore the same checked shirt, threadbare at the elbows. Her mother—in that same patched-up robe she’d altered a dozen times.
Once, she snapped. She took her mother’s old wool coat, the one with the worn fur collar she’d had for twenty years, and tossed it. In its place, she gave her a new one—soft, grey fox fur, warm and weightless. Her mother tried it on.
*”Oh, look at me—just like a bride,”* she chuckled, then folded it neatly back into the wardrobe.
*”Wear it, Mum!”* her daughter urged.
A year later, her mother passed. Clearing out the wardrobe, the daughter found it—hidden in a black bag at the back, the fur coat. Tags still on. Never worn. And that’s when it struck her: perhaps her mother hadn’t even stepped outside in all that time.
A student once told me this story. Listening, my own chest ached—because it was my story too. My parents, gentle souls who’d loved each other for seventy years, still resisted “new.” I’d pull old chicken bones from the fridge.
*”For the alley cats,”* Mum would say.
But the bones were blackened, rotting, wrapped in scraps of *The Telegraph*.
I tried throwing out their old clothes, only to meet their silent, wounded stares. They never argued. Never fought back. But it hurt them.
This wasn’t about possessions. Each discarded robe felt like tossing away pieces of their past, their memories.
They didn’t want new things. The old ones, worn as they were, meant something. I realised: trying to “correct” elderly parents is like trying to grow a flower through concrete. Pointless. And cruel.
I learned five rules. Maybe they’ll help someone else:
Don’t break their habits.
If you update their wardrobe, make it familiar. A shirt in the same pattern. A dressing gown just like the old one. Otherwise, they won’t wear it.
Don’t scare them with what things cost.
Older folk are frugal. Even if it’s your money, they’ll fret. Remove tags. Skip the receipt. Say:
*”Bought this for myself—didn’t fit. Hate to waste it—fancy giving it a go?”*
Don’t push private healthcare.
If they need a doctor, lie.
*”My mate’s cousin—just popping ‘round as a favour.”*
It’s a kindness. The doctor will understand.
Bring them joy.
Show them how to text. Help them join *Facebook*, or a gardening forum. Let them chat. Let them laugh. The elderly laugh too seldom—change that.
If dementia sets in, don’t press the sore spots.
Don’t snap, *”You just asked me that!”*
Don’t scold. Steer the talk to childhood instead:
*”How did you and Dad meet?”*
*”What was your mum like?”*
Memory isn’t a machine. Age rewrites the rules. Our job isn’t to *fix* them—it’s to hold them up. Not to persuade, but to love. Not to reform, but to cherish.
Because even at eighty—they’re still our parents. And all they deserve from us is warmth. No conditions. No scolding. No attempts to reshape them. Just love.
