I never imagined my old age would smell of antiseptic and lukewarm soup.
I pictured myself at seventy with red-stained lips, dancing the waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the retired gents at the club, sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or football.
But no.
Reality landed me in a care home called “Horizons of Life,” which sounds poetic but has more locked doors than a prison.
My son brought me here on a Tuesday, right after lunch.
“Mum, youll be better off here,” he said in that guilty-lamb voice he uses right before doing something awful. “Youll have company, medical care, activities…”
“Oh, brilliant,” I shot back. “Why not leave your credit card too while youre at it? Ill book myself a nice cruise for recreation.”
He didnt answer. Just gave me a quick peckthe kind you give when youre desperate to leave before the guilt sinks inand off he went.
I stared at the white ceiling, that bleach smell clinging to my skin, thinking if this was “whats best for me,” Id rather have the worst.
The first few days were rough. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Doris, hides everyones socks “to see if theyll look for them,” like some psychological experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont realise how adaptable we are when theres no choice.
I do chair yoga (though I look more like a crumpled paper crane), play bingo three times a week, and befriended a lovely old chap named Arthur, who proposes to me daily.
“Madam, you and I would make a fine pair,” he says, holding out a plastic rose.
“Of course, Arthur, but first, remember my name,” I always reply.
He laughs. So do I. Truth be told, Im getting on better than I expected.
Then, one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He had that same suspicious grin hes worn since he was fivethe “Mum, I need something” smile.
“Muuuum!” he drawled, like he used to when begging for sweets.
“Out with itwhatve you broken now?” I asked, arms crossed.
“Nothing! Its just… Im getting married.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really? What a shock! Didnt realise anyone was that brave.”
He laughed awkwardly. I didnt.
“Well, Mum, weddings are expensive… thought you might lend a hand?”
“A hand? You kicked me out of your house and stuffed me here because you had no room! Now you want me to bankroll your fancy do?”
He gave me the sad-puppy eyes. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen one too many puppies and knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
“Let me get this straight,” I continued. “You dump me here, surrounded by old folk fighting over the telly remote, and now you want my money for canapés at your wedding?”
“Theyre not just canapés, Mum, its a proper venue.”
“Proper my foot. Why not marry here? Ill lend you my bingo pals as bridesmaids, and well make Arthur the vicarhe can even say I do!”
He went red as a beetroot.
“Mum, Im serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “If you want a party, make it bring-a-disheveryone brings their own Tupperware, and Bobs your uncle.”
He clutched his head.
“I cant believe you wont help me.”
“Oh, Ive helped plenty, love. Gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first girlfriend dumped you, even co-signed your car loan. My mum-investor contract expired.”
He fell silent. The nurse passing by winked. I reckon every mother in the home wouldve clapped.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I gave him something better: advice, worth more than a cheque.
“Listen close, son. To marry, you need three things: love, patience, and a will to share your life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowersthats all on hire purchase. And I wont be paying the instalments.”
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and left with his tail between his legs.
I watched from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still have something to givenot cash, but wisdom.
That night, Arthur proposed again.
“What dyou say, love? Shall we wed and have the reception in the dining hall?”
“Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night,” I replied.
We both laughed.
And as the care home settled into its usual soup-scented quiet, I thought maybe Im not so bad off here. Im still useful. Still teaching. Still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comesif Im invited, mindIll go dressed in red, with the shiniest walking stick in the place, and toast with my bingo mates.
Because even if he left me here, Ive still got something he lacks: experience… and a sense of humour.
