**Diary Entry – 10th May**
The phone rang at exactly seven in the morning, just as Lydia was shuffling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. She squinted at the screen and sighed—her younger sister, Olivia, was calling.
“Liv? What’s wrong? You know I’m barely awake yet.”
“Lyd, you need to get to Mum’s—now!” Olivia’s voice trembled. “It’s all sorted. I’ve done the paperwork. We’re selling her flat and moving her into a nice care home.”
Lydia nearly dropped the phone.
“What? What care home? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know! Mum’s losing it. Yesterday she left the gas on, and the day before, Mrs. Jenkins found her on the landing—she forgot which floor she lived on. We can’t let this go on!”
“Liv, slow down. What paperwork?”
“The power of attorney for the flat. Mum signed it. I told her it was for her own good.”
Lydia’s stomach twisted.
“Are you mad? How could you do this without me? She’s got two daughters, in case you forgot!”
“And where have *you* been all this time?” Olivia snapped. “Popping in once a week for a cuppa doesn’t make you a saint. I’m the one buying her groceries, checking her meds, running over after work every bloody day!”
“I’m working dawn till dusk—you know that! And I don’t live round the corner like you!”
“Exactly! So *I’m* the one making the tough calls. The estate agent’s coming tomorrow—come say goodbye to the flat if you want.”
The line went dead. Lydia stood frozen, gripping the phone. Her little sister, who she still half-remembered as a sulky teen, had just upended their seventy-five-year-old mother’s life without so much as a chat.
She threw on her coat and drove straight to Mum’s. The whole way, guilt gnawed at her. After Dad passed, *she* had been the one managing everything—sending money, handling bills, taking Mum to hospital appointments. Olivia had just been finishing uni back then, living without a care.
Mum’s flat was on the fourth floor of an old walk-up. Lydia took the familiar stairs and rang the bell. The door opened to reveal Margaret—petite, silver-haired, her warm brown eyes crinkling.
“Lydia, love! You’re here early—everything alright?”
“Mum, we need to talk. Properly.”
They settled at the kitchen table. The kettle whistled as Mum dug out the biscuits.
“Mum, tell me about yesterday. What’d you do?”
Margaret frowned, thinking.
“Had breakfast. Then… Olivia came over. Brought some papers. Said I needed to sign.”
“What papers?”
“Don’t quite recall. Something about my ‘best interests.’”
“And you signed?”
“Well, yes. Olivia knows about these things—she’s in finance.”
Lydia clenched her fists. Mum *had* been forgetful lately, but that didn’t mean she’d lost the right to decide her own life.
“Mum, what else did Liv say?”
“Something about a care home. Said it’d be safer. But I don’t *want* to leave, love. This is my home.” Her voice cracked. Lydia pulled her close.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
The doorbell rang. Olivia marched in—sharp bob, tailored blazer, all business.
“Oh, you’re here. Good. Let’s talk like adults.”
“Adults?” Lydia stood. “You call tricking Mum ‘adult’ behaviour?”
“I didn’t trick anyone! She signed the papers herself!”
“She didn’t understand what she was signing!”
“Girls!” Margaret’s rare sharp tone cut through. “Stop shouting in my home.”
Silence.
Olivia sat beside Mum, softening.
“Mum, the care home’s lovely—your own room, a doctor on-site, proper meals. We’ll visit whenever you like.”
“But I don’t *want* to sell the flat,” Margaret whispered. “Your dad and I… this is where our life was.”
“It’s not safe anymore. What if you fall? Leave the stove on?”
“Liv, we could hire a carer. Or I’ll move Mum in with me.”
“A carer costs a fortune. And your shoebox flat barely fits *you*!”
“So you’d rather shove her into some facility?”
“You think I *want* this? I’m *drowning*, Lyd! Between work, my kids, and racing over here every night—”
Margaret stood. “Both of you—go home. I need to think.”
Outside, Olivia’s bravado cracked.
“I’m not the villain here. I’m *terrified* for her.”
“Then why not *talk* to me first?”
“And what? Argue for months while Mum burns the place down?”
“You don’t get to decide alone!”
“I *had* to! Because I’m the only one *doing* anything!”
Lydia’s retort died in her throat. Liv wasn’t wrong.
The next morning, Lydia took leave and arrived early—only to find an estate agent’s car outside. Upstairs, voices buzzed in the flat.
Olivia answered the door.
“Oh good, you’re here. Meet the agent—we’ve got an offer.”
Lydia barged past.
“Mum? You agreed to this?”
Margaret stirred her tea, eyes down.
“Olivia said it’s best.”
“What do *you* want?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “Does it matter?”
Lydia turned to the agent. “The sale’s off.”
Chaos erupted. Power of attorney versus moral rights. Mum caught in the middle.
Later, drained, Lydia made an offer: she’d sell her own flat and move in.
Olivia’s anger finally broke. “I just… I’m so *tired*,” she admitted.
Margaret hugged them both. “My girls. I’m so glad we sorted this.”
***
*Lesson learned: The hardest decisions aren’t always the right ones. And sometimes, the answer isn’t* either *side’s solution—but what’s been overlooked all along.*
