I never imagined my old age would smell of antiseptic and lukewarm custard.
Id pictured myself at seventy with crimson lips, dancing the foxtrot on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the gents at the social club, sipping tea with scones while debating politics or cricket.
But no.
Reality dumped me in a care home called “Horizons of Life”poetic, if it werent locked up tighter than a bank vault.
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 rotten. *”Youll have company, medical care, activities…”*
*”Brilliant,”* I shot back. *”Hand over your credit card while youre at it, and Ill book myself a cruise.”*
He didnt answer. Just planted a quick kiss on my cheekthe kind you give when youre itching to leave before guilt catches upand vanished.
I stared at the white ceiling, the bleach smell clinging to my skin, thinking if *this* was whats best for me, Id take worse any day.
The first week was a nightmare. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Beatrice, hides everyones socks *”just to see if they bother looking,”* as if shes running a psychology experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont realise how bendy we can be when theres no other choice.
I do chair yoga (though I look like a crumpled paper crane), play bingo three times a week, and befriended a charming old chap named Albert, who proposes to me daily.
*”Love, you and I would make a fine pair,”* he says, clutching a plastic daffodil.
*”Course we would, Albertjust remind me what my name is first.”*
He laughs. I laugh. Truth is, Im having more fun than I expected.
Then one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He wore that suspicious grin Ive known since he was fivethe *”Mum, I need something”* smile.
*”Muuuum!”* he drawled, the way he used to when begging for sweets.
*”Out with it,”* I said, arms folded. *”Whatve you broken this time?”*
*”Nothing. Its just Im getting married.”*
I raised an eyebrow.
*”Really? Blimey, someones brave.”*
He chuckled nervously. I didnt.
*”Well, Mum, weddings being pricey and all thought you might chip in?”*
*”Chip in? You carted me off here claiming there wasnt room! Now you want me to bankroll the buffet?”*
He gave me the puppy-dog eyes. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen too many puppiesand knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
*”Let me get this straight,”* I went on. *”You dump me here, surrounded by old dears squabbling over the telly remote, and now you want my pension for your posh finger sandwiches?”*
*”Its not finger sandwiches, its a proper venue!”*
*”Proper my foot. Why not marry here? Ill lend you my bingo mates as bridesmaids, and well have Albert officiatehe knows how to say *I do*!”*
He turned red as a postbox.
*”Mum, Im serious.”*
*”So am I,”* I said. *”If you want a party, make it potluckeveryone brings a dish.”*
He clutched his head.
*”I cant believe you wont help.”*
*”Oh, Ive helped plenty, love,”* I said. *”Gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when that first girlfriend broke your heart, even co-signed your car loan. My *mum investor* contract expired.”*
He fell silent. The nurse passing by winked at me. I reckon every mother in the home wouldve clapped.
In the end, I didnt give him money. I gave him something bettera bit of wisdom, worth more than a cheque.
*”Listen close, son. Marriage needs three things: love, patience, and a willingness to share your life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowersyou can buy on finance. And those instalments wont be in my name.”*
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and trudged off, head low.
I watched from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still had something to givenot money, but sense.
That night, Albert proposed again.
*”What dyou say, love? Fancy a wedding breakfast in the canteen?”*
*”Only if you promise not to snore on our honeymoon,”* I said.*
We both laughed.
And as the care home settled into its usual quiet, thick with custard and nostalgia, I thoughtmaybe Im not so bad off here. Im still useful. Still teaching. Still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comes (if Im invited), Ill show up in red, with the shiniest walking stick in the place, and toast with my bingo ladies.
Because even if he left me here, Ive still got something he hasnt: experience and a sense of humour.
