The phone rang promptly at seven in the morning, just as Lydia was shuffling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She glanced at the screen and winced—her younger sister, Emily, was calling.
“Em, what’s wrong? You know I’m barely functional this early.”
“Lyd, get over to Mum’s—now!” Emily’s voice was tight with urgency. “I’ve sorted everything. We’re selling her flat and moving her to a lovely care home.”
Lydia nearly dropped her phone.
“Excuse me? What care home? What on earth are you on about?”
“Don’t play dumb! Mum’s losing it. Yesterday, she left the gas on, and the day before, Mrs. Thompson found her wandering the stairs because she forgot which floor she lives on. We can’t carry on like this!”
“Em, hold on. Let’s talk calmly. What paperwork have you actually done?”
“A power of attorney for the sale. Mum signed it herself. I told her it was for her own good.”
Lydia felt her blood boil.
“Have you lost the plot? How could you do this without consulting me? She’s got two daughters, in case you’ve forgotten!”
“And where have *you* been all this time?” Emily snapped. “Popping in once a week for a cuppa, thinking you’ve done your duty? I’m here every evening after work—sorting her meds, doing her shopping!”
“I work all hours, Em! I don’t live round the corner like you!”
“Exactly! So *I’m* the one deciding what’s best for Mum. Come say goodbye to the flat if you like. The estate agent’s coming tomorrow.”
The line went dead. Lydia stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, phone in hand, unable to process it. Her little sister—the one she’d still half-thought of as a moody teen—had just unilaterally decided the fate of their 75-year-old mother.
She threw on a coat and sped to Mum’s. On the drive, she remembered how, after Dad died, *she’d* been the one handling everything—helping with bills, organising repairs, ferrying Mum to doctor’s appointments. Emily had been finishing her degree back then, living the carefree student life.
Mum’s flat was on the fourth floor of an old red-brick block. Lydia took the familiar stairs and rang the bell. Margaret “Maggie” Bennett—a petite woman with sharp brown eyes—opened the door.
“Lyd, love!” she beamed. “You’re up early. Everything alright?”
“Mum, we need to talk. Properly.”
They settled in the kitchen. Maggie put the kettle on and dug out custard creams from the cupboard.
“Mum, tell me about yesterday. What did you do?”
Maggie frowned in thought. “Got up, had breakfast… Then Em popped round. We chatted about something. She had papers with her.”
“What papers, Mum?”
“Can’t remember exactly. Said they were important, for my own good. Something about signing.”
“And you *signed*?”
“Well, yes. Em knows about these things. She’s in finance, isn’t she?”
Lydia clenched her fists. Forgetful or not, Mum still had a right to a say in her own life.
“Mum, what else did Em mention?”
“Something about a care home. Said it’d be nice—people looking after me, meals cooked. But I don’t *want* to leave, Lyd. This is my home.”
Mum’s eyes welled up. Lydia hugged her.
“You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let it happen.”
The doorbell rang. Emily stood there—sharp bob, smart trouser suit, all business.
“Oh, you’re here. Good. Now we can talk like adults.”
“*Adults*?” Lydia stood abruptly. “You’re swindling a vulnerable woman out of her home!”
“I did no such thing! Mum signed willingly.”
“Mum didn’t understand what she was signing!”
“I’m right here, you know!” Maggie cut in. “And I won’t have shouting in my flat!”
The sisters fell silent. When Mum raised her voice, everyone listened.
“Em, explain those papers properly,” Maggie said firmly.
Emily shuffled closer. “Mum, I arranged to sell the flat. Found you a brilliant care home—clean, warm, a doctor on-site. You’ll have your own room, we’ll visit whenever—”
“But I don’t *want* to sell,” Maggie whispered. “My whole life’s here. Your dad’s memories—”
“It’s not safe, Mum! You could leave the gas on, take a fall—”
“The neighbours check in! *I* check in!”
“Neighbours aren’t family. And I can’t be here 24/7!”
Lydia broke in. “We could hire a carer. Or I’ll move in with you.”
“A carer costs a fortune. And you’ve got a studio flat—where would Mum *sleep*?”
“We’ll figure it out!”
“*Figure it out*?” Emily scoffed. “Christ, Lyd, stop playing martyr! You’d cram Mum onto a sofa bed? Or dump it all back on me?”
“I never *asked* you to—”
“No? Who *else* was going to? Did you think she’d magically look after herself?”
Maggie stood. “Girls, go home. I need to think.”
“But Mum—”
“Go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Outside, Emily lit a cigarette. “I’m not the villain here, Lyd. I’m *terrified* for her.”
“Then why cut me out?”
“Would it have changed anything? You’d have argued, dragged it out, and Mum could’ve burned the place down by then!”
“You had no *right*—”
“I had every right! I’m the one *doing* everything! When she was in hospital last year, who sat with her? Me! Who picks up prescriptions? Me! Who does her bloody shopping? STILL ME!”
Lydia opened her mouth—then shut it. Emily *was* right. She *had* shouldered most of it.
“Fine,” Lydia muttered. “You help more. But that doesn’t mean you decide where she lives!”
“So what’s *your* genius plan? Wait till she burns to death?”
“Find a *proper* solution. *Together*.”
Emily stubbed out her cigarette. “Too late. Estate agent’s tomorrow. Care home’s booked. Deposit’s due next week.”
“Cancel it!”
“No. Enough stalling.”
As Emily turned to leave, Lydia called: “What if Mum refuses to go?”
“She won’t. She’ll see sense.”
“What if I contest the power of attorney?”
Emily turned. “Go ahead. But while you drag it through court, Mum could *die*. That’ll be *your* guilt to live with.”
Lydia went back upstairs.
“Mum, do you *really* want to move?”
Maggie stared out the window. “Em says it’s best. Maybe she’s right.”
“What do *you* want?”
Maggie sighed. “What difference does it make? Em decides. You work. I’m just… in the way.”
“You’re *not*.”
“Aren’t I? Em’s exhausted. You’re stressed. All because of me.”
Lydia knelt beside her. “Mum, are you scared living alone?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “Sometimes. I wake up and… can’t remember if I turned the oven off. Last week, I got lost buying milk.”
“Why didn’t you *tell* me?”
“Why worry you? You’ve enough on your plate.”
Lydia squeezed her hand. “We’ll fix this. Maybe a carer. Or I’ll visit more—”
“Love, carers cost the earth. And you’re knackered as it is.”
“But—”
“Listen,” Maggie said softly. “Em’s not wrong. A home *would* be safer. But… this is my *home*.” She hesitated. “Unless… you sold *your* flat? Moved in here?”
Lydia blinked. Her studio *was* tiny. Mum’s place had two bedrooms…
“I could,” she said slowly. “Find remote work. Be here full-time.”
Maggie’s eyes filled. “You’d really live with your daft old mum?”
“I’d *love* to live with my mum.”
Emily, when told, was stunned. “You’d… do that?”
“Someone has to. Might as well be me.”
Emily burst into tears. “God, I’m *sorry*. I just… panicked. Watching her decline—”
Lydia hugged her. “We’ll share it now. *Properly*.”
The power of attorney was revoked. The estate agent ghosted. Lydia put her flat on the market.
It wasn’t perfect. ButIn the end, they laughed about it over Sunday roast, because sometimes the hardest decisions bring families closer than ever.
