**From the Diary of Edward Whitmore**
The window pane was cool against my forehead as I watched the neighbour’s children play in the garden. A little girl with pigtails tugged at my heart—just like my granddaughter Emily, whom I hadn’t seen in months. I could’ve seen her every day, if only things had been different.
“Edward, what’s troubling you?” My neighbour, Margaret, settled beside me with a cup of tea. “Thinking about your grandchildren again?”
“Just reminiscing,” I sighed. “I see those children and think—I could be out there with Emily, reading her fairy tales.”
“No use dwelling on it,” Margaret said gently. “You made your choice. Now you must live with it.”
She was right, of course. There *had* been a choice. And I’d made it. Only, the consequences weren’t what I’d expected.
It began when my wife, Elizabeth, fell ill. The doctors were clear—she needed constant care. I left my job, becoming her full-time carer. For eighteen months, I barely left her side—feeding her, turning her in bed, reading aloud from the papers.
My eldest, Jonathan, visited maybe three times in all that while. Too busy with work, he said. But my younger son, Thomas, came every week. Helped with prescriptions, groceries, even slipped me a bit of cash now and then. His wife, Claire, was a godsend—bringing homemade stew, doing the washing.
“Dad, why not put Mum in a care home?” Jonathan suggested during one of his fleeting visits. “They’d look after her properly, and you could rest.”
“A care home?” I bristled. “She’d waste away without me. Fifty years together, and you’d have me abandon her now?”
“Not abandon—ensure she gets proper care.”
“*Proper care* is with family.”
Jonathan shrugged and left. Thomas kept helping, even bringing Claire and little Emily so Elizabeth could see her granddaughter.
After Elizabeth passed, the house felt cavernous, every corner echoing with memories.
“Come live with us, Dad,” Thomas offered after the funeral. “No sense rattling around here alone.”
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “This place is home.”
Jonathan cut in. “Thomas’s flat’s cramped. Mine’s bigger—three bedrooms in Chelsea. Easier for you.”
Thomas frowned. “We’ll make room. Dad shouldn’t be alone.”
I studied them. Jonathan was successful—high-paying finance job, flashy car. Thomas, a mechanic, lived modestly in Croydon. But his heart was solid gold.
“I’ll think on it,” I said.
Jonathan pushed harder. Expensive groceries, promises of private doctors. “Dad, I’m the eldest. Tradition says parents stay with the eldest.”
Thomas just *showed up*. Fixed the leaky tap. Brought fish and chips. Claire baked scones; Emily drew pictures.
“Grandad, when are you moving in?” Emily would ask, hugging me. “I’ll show you my dollhouse!”
“Soon, love,” I’d say, yet I hesitated.
The decision came abruptly. Jonathan visited—with his wife, Vanessa.
“Edward,” she said, crisp as her designer blouse, “Jonathan can provide *proper* care. Private room, best specialists. Thomas can’t match that on a mechanic’s wage.”
She slid a brochure across the table. “This cardiologist charges £500 per visit. Jonathan can afford it.”
*Half my pension for one appointment.*
Vanessa smiled. “And let’s be honest—Claire’s sweet, but what if they divorce? Jonathan and I? Rock solid.”
That evening, Thomas came with Claire and Emily.
“Made your mind up, Dad?”
I faltered. “…Maybe I should go to Jonathan’s.”
Silence. Thomas paled. Claire stiffened.
“Why?” Thomas asked quietly.
“His place is… nicer.”
“Nicer?” His voice cracked. “Where was Jonathan when Mum was dying? When *you* collapsed from stress? *I* was there!”
Claire touched his arm. “It’s your dad’s choice.”
Thomas stood, lifting Emily. “Right. Let’s go.”
“But Grandad promised to finish my princess story!” Emily whined.
“Another time.”
After they left, I wept—but didn’t change my mind.
Jonathan’s house *was* nicer. Spare room, marble counters. But Vanessa’s rules piled up: “Breakfast at seven sharp.” “TV in your room only.” “No cups left in the sink.”
Then my heart acted up. An ambulance came. The young doctor said, “See a specialist.”
“Jonathan, what about that £500 cardiologist?”
He shifted. “Dad, it’s a bad time. Mortgages, taxes…”
I gritted my teeth. “Then I’m going home.”
Relief flickered in Vanessa’s eyes.
Back in my house, loneliness gnawed. Jonathan visited monthly, perfunctory. Thomas never came.
Then, one day, I saw Emily in the park.
“Grandad!” She barrelled into me. “I thought you’d gone forever!”
Claire hung back, icy. “You made your choice.”
“I was wrong.”
“And you hurt Thomas. Deeply.”
That night, I rang Thomas.
He met me at a café in Brixton. Weary, older.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I chose wealth over love.”
He stirred his coffee. “And now?”
“Now I know—better to be a burden to those who care, than a convenience to those who don’t.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “You can visit. But not yet. Claire’s still hurt.”
Walking home, I watched children play. Emily’s laugh lingered in my mind—no longer a stab of regret, but a promise.
Mistakes can be mended. If you’re brave enough to admit them.
