I never thought my golden years would smell like disinfectant and lukewarm soup.
I pictured myself at seventy with red lipstick, dancing the waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the old boys from the local club, sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or football.
But no.
Reality dumped me in a care home called “Golden Horizons”sounds poetic, but its got 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, using that sheepish voice he always does right before doing something awful. “Youll have company, medical care, activities”
“Oh, brilliant,” I shot back. “While youre at it, leave me your credit card, and Ill book myself a luxury cruise.”
He didnt answer. Just gave me a quick peckthe kind you give when youre desperate to leave before guilt kicks inand off he went.
I stared at the white ceiling, the bleach smell clinging to my skin, thinking if *this* was “whats best for me,” Id rather have the worst.
The first few days were a nightmare. Couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Doris, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Margaret, hides everyones socks “to see if theyll look for them,” as if its some psychological experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate old folks. Theyve no idea how flexible we are when theres no other choice.
I do chair yoga (though I look like a crumpled paper doll), play bingo three times a week, andbonusmade friends with a lovely chap named Arthur, who proposes to me daily.
“Love, you and me would make a fine pair,” he says, holding out a plastic daisy.
“Sure, Arthur, but first, remember my name,” I always reply.
He laughs. I laugh. Truth is, Im having a better time than I expected.
Then one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. Wearing that dodgy smile Ive known since he was fivethe “Mum, I need something” smile.
*”Muuuum!”* he drawled, like he used to when begging for sweets.
“Whatve you broken now?” I asked, folding my arms.
“Nothing! Its just Im getting married.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Fancy that! Didnt know anyone was that brave.”
He chuckled awkwardly. I didnt.
“Well, Mum, weddings are expensive thought you might chip in a bit?”
“*Chip in?* You booted me out of your house and stuck me here because you said there wasnt room! Now you want me to fund your fancy dinner?”
He gave me the puppy-dog eyes. I gave him the mum-look that says, *”Ive raised enough puppies to know they always chew the wrong shoe.”*
“Let me get this straight,” I went on. “You dump me here, surrounded by old dears 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 get married here? Ill lend you my bingo ladies as bridesmaids, and Arthur can officiatehe even knows how to say I do!”
He went red as a beetroot.
“Mum, Im serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “If you want a party, make it potluckeveryone brings a dish, everyones happy.”
He clutched his head.
“I cant believe you wont help me.”
“Oh, I *have* helped, darling. 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 went quiet. The nurse passing by winked at me. Pretty sure every mum in the home wouldve clapped.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But something betteradvice worth more than a cheque.
“Listen, son. Marriage needs three things: love, patience, and wanting to share a life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowersyou can get on finance. And *Im* not paying the instalments.”
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and slunk off.
I watched him from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still had something to give himnot cash, but wisdom.
That night, Arthur proposed again.
“What dyou say, love? Fancy a wedding in the dining hall?”
“Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night,” I said.
We both laughed.
And as the care home settled into its usual soup-and-nostalgia haze, I thought maybe Im not so bad off here. Still useful, still teaching, still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comesif Im invitedIll show up in red, with my shiniest walking stick, toasting with my bingo girls.
Because even if he left me here, Ive got something he doesnt: experience and a sense of humour.
