At the front desk, silence reigned. Only the ticking clock on the wall marked the passing seconds, a quiet reminder: time moves forward, regardless of everything else. Anna carefully took her passport and medical records from her handbag, arranged them, and handed them to the young woman behind the glass. The woman glanced at the documents, then at Anna, her eyes flickering with a hint of concern, but she remained silent. She took the papers and quietly noted something in her logbook.
“Do you have any family?” she asked softly, not lifting her gaze.
Anna sighed, weary like someone who’d been asked this question a thousand times — and had answered it just as many.
“I had a daughter. But it’s best to tell her I’m gone. It’ll be easier… and more convenient that way.”
The young woman looked up, startled. She wanted to object but, seeing Anna’s face, she fell silent. In her eyes, there was neither pain nor anger. Only exhaustion. The kind that one doesn’t argue with. A kind that isn’t easily healed. A kind one can only live through.
There was a time when Anna’s life was entirely different. Filled with the scent of baked goods, diapers, children’s laughter, and endless tasks. Her husband had died in a car accident when their daughter Emily was barely four. From then on, she was alone — a widow, a mother, a homemaker, and a source of strength. No support, no backing. But with a faith that she would manage. For Emily.
And manage she did. She worked at a school, graded papers in the evenings, did laundry and ironing at night, made pies and read bedtime stories on weekends. Emily grew up smart, kind, and beloved. Anna never complained. Only sometimes, deep in the night, when the whole house was silent, she would close the door, sit in the kitchen and allow herself a few tears. Not from weakness — from loneliness.
When Emily grew up, she got married, had a son, and moved to York. At first, she called every evening. Then once a week. Then once a month. And then… there was silence. No quarrel, no resentment. Just — “Mum, you know… we have the mortgage, work, nursery… no time at all. Sorry. We love you, truly. It’s just hard right now.”
Anna nodded. She always understood.
When climbing the stairs became difficult, she bought herself a cane. When sleepless nights became unbearable, she visited a doctor and asked for tablets. When absolute silence descended, she bought a radio. When loneliness settled in, she simply accepted it. Emily occasionally sent money. Not much. But enough for the medicine.
Anna came to the retirement home on her own. She called, learned about the conditions, packed her things. Carefully folded her favorite cardigan, a warm shawl, and placed a photo album. She locked the door — without looking back. As a farewell, she dropped a letter into her daughter’s mailbox. No reproach, no complaint.
“Emily, if one day you come by and I’m no longer around, know this: I didn’t leave you. I left for myself. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want you to choose between conscience and convenience. Let it be easier — for both you and me. I love you. Mum.”
Anna never complained at the home. She read, tended to flowers, occasionally baked cookies if they let her in the kitchen. She didn’t whine, didn’t grumble, and didn’t expect anything. But every night, when the corridor lights went out, she’d open a small box and retrieve a picture — Emily as a child, in a red coat with white bows.
Anna would run her fingers over the photo, close her eyes, and whisper:
“Goodnight, my little bird. May all be well with you…”
And she’d fall asleep. With a hope that somewhere, in another town, in another life, someone might still remember her.
Three years passed. Emily indeed came. One day, suddenly. Clutching the letter she’d kept unopened all that time — she couldn’t bring herself to read it back then. Tired, bewildered, her eyes full of guilt, she stepped over the threshold of the home and asked, “Is Anna Green… still here?..”
A young nurse nodded and led her to the garden. There, under the apple tree, in a rocking chair, slept a silver-haired woman. In her hand — a photograph. The wind tugged gently at her fine hair, and her face was so calm…
Emily couldn’t help herself. She fell to her knees and wept:
“Mum… I’m sorry… I understand everything. But I love you so much.”
Anna didn’t wake. But she smiled in her sleep. Perhaps, she dreamed of a little girl in a red coat rushing to her along an autumn path, shouting: “Mummy!”
Because even if no one hears — a mother’s heart always does.
