I never imagined my old age would smell of antiseptic and lukewarm broth.
At seventy, I pictured myself with red-painted lips, dancing the waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the gentlemen from the local bridge club, sipping tea with scones while debating politics or cricket.
But no.
Reality dumped me in a care home called *Horizon View*, 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 guilt-tinged, lamb-soft voice he uses right before doing something awful. “Youll have company, medical care, activities”
“Oh, perfect,” I cut in. “While you’re at it, leave me your credit card, and Ill book myself a luxury cruise for *recreational purposes*.”
He didnt answer. Just gave me a quick kissthe kind you plant when youre desperate to leave before the guilt sinks inand walked out.
I stared at the white ceiling, breathing in that bleach smell that clings to your skin, thinking if *this* was “whats best for me,” Id take worse any day.
The first weeks were torture. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a lorry engine, and the other, Edith, hides everyones socks “to see if they bother looking,” as if lifes some twisted psychology experiment.
But I adapted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont know how flexible we become when theres no other choice.
I do chair yoga (though I resemble a crumpled paper crane), play bingo three times a week, andbonusstruck up a friendship with a charming old chap named Arthur, who proposes to me daily.
“Love, you and I would make a smashing pair,” he says, waving a plastic daisy.
“Sure, Arthur, but first, try remembering my name,” I always reply.
He laughs. So do I. Truth is, Im happier here 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.
*”Muuuuum!”* he drawled, like he used to when begging for toys.
“Out with it,” I said, folding my arms. “Whats broken now?”
“Nothing! Its just Im getting married.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really? Fancy that. Didnt realise anyone was *that* brave.”
He chuckled nervously. I didnt.
“Well, Mum, weddings being pricey and all thought you might chip in?”
*”Chip in?”* I scoffed. “You shoved me in here because your flat was *too small*, and now you want me to bankroll your fancy buffet?”
He gave me the kicked-puppy look. 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 pensioners fighting over the telly remote, and now you want my savings for *canapés* at your posh do?”
“Its not just *canapés*its a proper venue!”
“Oh, very posh. Why not marry *here*? Ill lend you my bingo ladies as bridesmaids, and Arthur can officiatehe knows how to say *I do*!”
His face turned tomato-red.
“Mum, Im serious.”
“So am I,” I shot back. “If you want a party, make it *bring-a-dish*every guest packs a Tupperware, everyones happy.”
He clutched his head.
“I cant believe you wont help.”
“Oh, darling,” I sighed. “Ive helped *plenty*. I gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first girlfriend dumped you, even co-signed your car loan. My *mother investor* contract expired.”
Silence. The nurse passing by winked at me. Bet every mum in this place wouldve cheered.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I gave him 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 buy on credit. And *Im* not paying the instalments.”
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and slunk off.
I watched through the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still had something to givenot cash, but wisdom.
That night, Arthur proposed again.
“What dyou say, love? Fancy a wedding dinner in the canteen?”
“Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night,” I said.
We both laughed.
And as the care home quietened, thick with the smell of gravy and nostalgia, I thought maybe Im not so bad off here.
Im still useful. Still teaching. Still *alive*.
And when my sons wedding day comes*if* he invites meIll go dressed in red, with the shiniest walking stick in the place, toasting with my bingo girls.
Because even if he left me here, Ive got something he hasnt: experience and a sense of humour.
