**Diary Entry**
When I first arrived in Manchester, I was twenty-seven. Back in Wales, my mother was facing surgery soon, and we had a mountain of mortgage debt. I promised myself I’d work hard for no more than eighteen months—then return home.
I found work quickly through an agency, hired as a carer for an elderly woman. The flat’s owner, Margaret Whitmore, needed someone to look after her eighty-four-year-old mother, Eleanor. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady, so I took it.
From the very first day, the old woman treated me with contempt. “Where are you from?” she demanded the moment I stepped inside. When I answered, her face twisted. “Another Welsh girl. First the travellers, now you. Nothing but riff-raff in my home.” It only got worse.
Every morning began with complaints—her porridge was wrong, the dusting wasn’t thorough, I shut the door too loudly, even my breathing annoyed her. Once, I overheard her whispering to her daughter on the phone: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Keep an eye on her.” It made me sick. I bathed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicine—all met with icy disdain.
For six months, I endured it. Only thoughts of my mother kept me from walking out. Then one day, she accused me of stealing fifty pounds. We tore the flat apart—only to find the notes in her own handbag. No apology, just that same cold sneer.
I packed my things and told her I was leaving. She stood by the door, smirking. “Go on, then. You’ll be crawling back soon enough—penniless as you are.”
“I’ll manage,” I said quietly. “Even without you.”
Then something unexpected happened. Her voice changed—no malice, just confusion. “You… put up with all this… for your mother?”
I froze, then nodded, spilling everything—the surgery, the debt. She listened in silence. Then, slowly, she sat beside me, took my hand, and… wept. No words, just tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I was cruel—not to you, but to Margaret. She abandoned me. I thought if you left, she’d return. But you… you bore it all. For your mum.”
From that day, everything shifted. We talked openly—she shared her past, I shared mine. She even gave me money to visit my husband. When I returned, she met me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she passed—peacefully, in her sleep. I mourned her like family.
A week later, Margaret arrived with a solicitor. “There’s a will to discuss,” he said. “Eleanor left you… a substantial sum.”
Margaret turned pale. “She’s gone mad! What did you do to her? Bribe her?”
I said nothing at first. Then, suddenly, I stepped forward and hugged her.
“That’s what I did. Just… hugged her.”
**Lesson learned:** Kindness often breaks walls no argument ever could.
