The son wanted to take his mother to a care home. He peeked into the box before leaving.
After her husband passed, Olive sold her house in the countryside, invested in a flat for her son and his family, and moved in with them. As long as she had the strength, she took care of the house and her grandchildren.
Her son and daughter-in-law worked, and Olive ferried the little ones to nursery, then later to school and after-school clubs. She cooked, she cleaned. The chores never weighed her downif anything, they made her happy. After all, her family needed her. But years slipped by. The grandchildren grew up and “flew the nest,” while Olives health began to falter. She tried washing the dishes, but plates slid from her shaky hands and smashed.
She poured herself some soup but couldnt carry it to the tablespilled it everywhere. Shed wake at night for a glass of waterher shuffling would rouse her daughter-in-law. Nobody wanted to chat with her these days. Whod want to chat with an old woman? Her daughter-in-law grumbled constantly, calling her “dead weight.” What was she supposed to do? Growing old wasnt exactly a picnic. Olive had no choice but to carry on.
Her son decided it was time to move her to a care home.
“At least shell have people to talk to,” he told himself, easing his conscience. That morning, as he got into the car, Olive remembered her box.
“Love, fetch my box. Ive forgotten it,” she asked timidly.
“What box?” David frowned.
“The one with my treasures,” Olive said, describing it. David brought it down. The old woman hugged it to her chest, smiling faintly.
“Mum, whats in there?” She opened it.
A lock of his baby hair and a tiny milk tooth. The man stepped away from the car and sat on the kerb. He stayed there a long while, remembering his childhoodhow his mother had always been there, looking after him, protecting him. Never once had she let him down.
“Son, are we going?” His mother climbed out of the car and touched his shoulder.
“No, Mum,” he said quietly. “Were not going anywhere. Youre staying home.”
