“Gran, Mum said we have to put you in a care home.” The words slipped from my lips like an echo I shouldn’t have heard.
Margaret hurried across the schoolyard to collect her granddaughter, her heels clicking against the pavement just as they had in her youth—back when the world still felt kind. She was in high spirits; at last, she’d bought her own flat—a snug little one-bedder in a new build. Bright, clean, with a gleaming kitchenette and a view of the park, it was her hard-won sanctuary.
It had taken years: scrimping, selling the old cottage in Devon she’d once fixed up with her late husband, even accepting a loan from her daughter—money she’d sworn to repay. Her daughter and son-in-law were young, after all, carving out their own lives. Margaret didn’t need much—half her pension would do, now that she had a place of her own.
At the school gates, eight-year-old Lottie—her joy, her purpose—waited. A late blessing for her daughter, born when she was nearly forty. Margaret had resisted moving to London but relented when asked to help with the little one. Each day, she’d fetch Lottie, walk her home, feed her, wait till her parents returned—then retreat to her own flat. Legally, the flat was in her daughter’s name—just a precaution, they’d said, to avoid scammers. But privately, Margaret still called it hers.
They walked hand in hand when Lottie suddenly stopped, her small fingers tightening.
“Gran… Mum said we have to put you in a care home.”
The words hit like a stone. The pavement seemed to tilt. Margaret froze.
“What did you say, love?” Her voice was thin, strangled.
“Like… a home for old people. Mum said you wouldn’t be lonely there.”
Something hollowed out inside her. She forced a smile, but her lips quivered.
“How do you know that?”
“I heard Mum and Dad talking in the kitchen. Mum said she already sorted it with some lady. But they won’t send you yet—they’ll wait till I’m older. Don’t tell her I said anything, okay?”
“Of course, sweetheart. I won’t.” Margaret fumbled with the door. “I’m feeling a bit poorly—just need a lie-down. Go change out of your uniform, all right?”
Lottie scampered off, and Margaret sank onto the sofa, still in her coat. The walls blurred. That phrase looped in her head: *care home… you wouldn’t be lonely… already sorted.*
Three months later, she packed her things. No shouting, no blame. Just a quiet click of the door behind her—and no looking back.
Now, Margaret lives in a rented cottage in Cornwall, the sea air thick with salt and solace. She’s saving for a place of her own, however modest. Friends and distant cousins keep her steady—some with tea, others with spare furniture. But there are whispers:
“Did you even talk to your daughter? What if the child got it wrong?”
“Children don’t invent things like that,” Margaret says firmly. “I know my daughter. Not a call, not a letter, not a word since I left. That tells me everything. Let her know I figured it out. I won’t ring. I won’t. It’s not my fault.”
