The bus let me off in front of the walled garden of the councilrun assisted living block at precisely eight twenty on a crisp September morning. The chill nipped at my cheeks, and dry oak leaves littered the flowerbed by the doorway. First day on the job, fortysix years of life, Ill manage, I told myself, shouldering a bag that held a fresh pair of shoes and an empty flask.
Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves, the matron, greeted me in the lobby, which still smelled faintly of boiled potatoes from the communal kitchen. Behind her round spectacles she glanced at me and said, Come in, Ill show you the ward.
A low hum of a television drifted from the dining hall, and the clink of dishes echoed from the kitchen. An elderly man, thin as a rail, leaned against his walker by the wall, dozing. No one seemed to raise their voices; the staff appeared intent on preserving the fragile peace of the residents.
They gave me a small locker, a simple gown, and a thin badge that read Social Worker Claire B. I slipped off my hat; my hair was a little mussed and I smoothed it in vain. In my previous job at a city council office, which had closed in the summer after cutbacks, everything smelled of paper, not antiseptic and medicine. The loss of my father that winter had driven me to this work; I wanted my hands to do something tangible, to help those who truly had no one else.
My first task was to hand out knitted throws. I visited a sixbedroom bay: Mrs. Helen folded tiny caps for her grandchildren, knitting without ever looking up; Mr. Arthur strained to read a newspaper, holding the magnifier close to his nose; Mrs. Violet sat by the window, listening not to the street but to her own silence. Each room was cluttered with belongings, yet the occupants seemed alone. A prickling rose in my chest, as if I sensed a strangers tear I could not wipe away.
During the lunch break I stepped outside, found a public phone, and dialed my mothers number. Mrs. Eleanor, Im seventytwo, I live in the same part of town, but it takes two bus changes to get here, she said. Alls well, only the hobs burner is acting up again; come over and have a look. I promised to visit on Saturday, hearing a brief dont forget. I pictured her thin lips, never asking for more than she needed.
That evening, after laying the beds and signing the first roundcheck sheet, I closed my shift. The sky darkened, ravens streaked across it. On the bus I leafed through a printed guide on caring for mobilityimpaired elders, supplied by the training college. Between the lines I thought of my mother, alone in a flat, placing a heavy skillet on a gas hob just to avoid borrowing an electric kettle from neighbours.
A month passed. October nights iced the windows, and I fell into the rhythm: meetings with a physiotherapist, group exercises, medication checks. I started Coffee Fridays, brewing Turkishstyle coffee in the dining room, setting a small folding table for four, and playing recordings of 1960s British pop. Two smiled, one dozed, but even dozing together felt better than the empty corridors.
One Thursday the senior care assistant fell ill, and I was left to escort a resident to the clinic alone. Mrs. Lydia Pavlovich had to wait in line while Mrs. Margaret called her upstairs to fill out an urgent form for the social services inspector. Lydia sighed softly, Its all right, dear, Ill wait. I saw her knuckles tremble over her handbag half an hour on her sore joints was a trial.
That night my mother called first. Ive run out of my bloodpressure tablets, and my heads a bit heavy, she said flatly. I pressed the phone to my cheek while wiping a basket of apples in the staff kitchen, where the cook had asked for help. Ill buy them tomorrow, I whispered, adding, Sorry, I havent managed today. A pause filled with the hum of the house lingered.
The next morning began badly: the bus was stuck in traffic and I arrived fifteen minutes late. I asked Mrs. Margaret for a break, rushed to the nearest pharmacy, stood in a line of pensioners, and returned with a parcel of medicines. I handed a small box labelled Forzaten to my mother via a familiar postwoman, as I could not make it home in time. A text arrived two hours later, Got it, thank you, but the words brought me no joy.
That evening Mr. Arthur could not find his photo album and wept helplessly, a sight that tightened my own chest. We searched under mattresses, behind bedside tables, even in the linen cupboard, finding only a faded circus ticket. He then told me how his daughter had moved to the far north of Scotland and only sent greetings on holidays. I think Im forgetting her voice, he whispered. I sensed my own fear: what if my mother one day didnt recognise my voice over the phone?
I did not reach home until after nine. A cold wind rattled the street lamps, the stairwells were dark. The door slammed behind me, and the display on the wall showed a missed call from my mother an hour ago. I dialled back, but the line only emitted a monotonous tone. The memory of the grim care home corridor swamped me there a nightshift nurse checked in every two hours, but my mother was now utterly alone.
On Sunday I finally drove to my mothers flat. The air was filled with the scent of braised cabbage and old oil. The fridge hummed louder than it had a year before. She sat on a stool, a hand resting on her knee as if conserving strength.
Ill change the light myself, I tried to joke, but she stared at me. The light isnt the problem. When was the last time you just sat down, had a cup of tea, and didnt watch the clock? Her question pierced my excuses like a needle through cloth.
On Monday the homes director announced an upcoming audit, meaning every worker now had to submit a report on community engagement. Mrs. Margaret handed out a stack of forms. I grabbed one automatically, but the image of my mothers empty kitchen flashed before my eyes. A weight settled in my chest; the choice was clear my job now demanded my full presence.
Late October. Rain hammered the windows of the trolleybus, early dusk pushed the few pedestrians beneath the awnings of apartment blocks. After a shift in which two residents argued over the television, I did not board the bus home. Instead I alighted at the stop near my mothers fivestorey block, bought three batteries for a torch, and climbed to the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, chained only. Inside the flat smelled of damp leaves, a draft sweeping in from the open balcony.
My mother sat opposite a cold stove, shoulders hunched. A solitary candle sputtered, casting shadows on the cabinets.
The fuse has blown, she said without looking up. Its dark, I didnt feel like making a fuss.
I shed my coat, flicked on the torch, but the black panel in the hallway felt like a mute rebuke.
You called, didnt you? she said softly. I called just to talk.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, suddenly realizing that in this halflight we were both like my residents the roles had simply reversed.
I took my mothers hand cold now, no longer the warm support of years past. A clear thought rose: I could not reclaim those evenings later, just as I could not give Mr. Arthur his lost photographs.
Mother, Ill make sure youre not left alone, I said aloud, as if signing a declaration. The resolve trembled in my stomach; it meant demanding a flexible roster, seeking a livein carer, risking another position. I could no longer run between two solitary worlds.
At dawn, before sunrise, I turned the torch on again; the bulb in my mothers hallway glowed, the fuse had been replaced during the night. The smell of burnt insulation mingled with fresh bread; a neighbour below had brought a loaf after hearing the clatter. My mother set the kettle on and watched, surprised, as I fussed with the wiring.
Ill arrange for regular visits from specialists, I repeated, standing straighter. On the kitchen table lay an opened notebook with the contact details of the district social services centre.
Within an hour I was explaining the situation at the centre. The social worker in a lavender cardigan flipped through a brochure swiftly.
You can submit the application online. By law, residents over sixtyfive are entitled to a homecare assistant twice a week, she said.
I filled in the forms, attached my mothers income statement, and cautiously asked about a visiting nurse. Well organise a care package, but well need to agree on a schedule, the worker nodded.
I arrived back at the assistedliving block around noon. The gatekeeper glanced at his watch, but Mrs. Margaret met me in the staff room, handing out the next shifts roster.
I have a personal reason, I began, laying it out plainly: my mother needed help, and without a flexible schedule I would falter both here and at home. Its not a request for a break; I need to leave two evenings a week early, and Ill take morning shifts and the reports.
My words came sharper than intended.
Mrs. Margaret removed her glasses, wiped the lenses with a tissue. You know the paperwork is mounting, the inspection is looming, she said. I braced for rejection, but she continued, The residents have a right to stable support. Propose a clear plan so none are left unattended, and Ill sign.
In the dining room I drafted a coverage plan within twenty minutes: Lydia would be taken to the clinic by a university volunteer, the nightwatch in the foyer would be handled by the attendant, and I would move Coffee Fridays to early mornings when staff were free. Mrs. Margaret glanced over the table, signed, and added, Make sure the quality doesnt slip. These people arent statistics; theyre lives.
That afternoon I returned to the mens wing. Mr. Arthur sat by the radio, fingers fidgeting with the blankets fringe.
Well find the album, I whispered.
I swept through the laundry, peeked into the storage where extra blankets were kept, questioned the nightshift attendant about the previous shift. By evening, after moving a small sideboard, I heard a rustle of paper a redlined corner tucked between a board and the skirting board. The album.
I pulled it out with both hands, brushed away dust. The cover bore the faded words Summer 1973. Mr. Arthur pressed the find to his chest as if it were a living bird. He stayed silent, eyes shining, and I felt my own tension melt away.
At the next residents meeting I proposed a familyhistory corner: each could store treasured items albums, cards, embroidered pieces in a locked drawer. The idea was welcomed, and the attendant, George, volunteered to build shelves from old vegetable crates. The sound of his hammer made me smile more than once.
Near seven I shed my gown and caught the commuter train home. My mothers flat glowed; a silverhaired nurse in a healthservice uniform sat at the kitchen table, a mask pulled over her face, appointed by the socialcare centre for three weekly visits. The women discussed a cranberryjuice recipe. My mother eyed the newcomer warily, but when she saw me in the doorway she nodded, They say it helps keep the pressure down.
A week later I rose at five to catch the early bus that took residents to physiotherapy, and on Thursdays and Saturdays I left at five in the evening, just in time to prepare dinner for my mother or simply sit with a mug of hot water. The schedule was tight, but for the first time it didnt feel like a futile race.
One morning Mrs. Margaret stopped me at the desk. The inspectors noted an increase in resident involvement. Those little story boxes are a success. Keep up the personal touch, she said, handing me a commendation. I exhaled; the plan was working.
The day grew misty, a light snow began to fall. From the secondfloor windows the thawing pavement shone with a thin crust of ice. I escorted Mr. Arthur back to his room, checked that the heater was warm, and asked the nightshift nurse Olga to drop by before the night shift ended. Then I pulled my coat tighter and stepped out into the streetlamps glow.
In the trolleybus the air was warm, smelling of damp wool. I opened my phone to a message from my mother: Nurse brought a sphygmomanometer, reading 130, all good. A brief line, but it carried peace. I sent a voice note, telling her how Mr. Arthur had finally turned the pages of his album and found the circus photograph hed spoken of.
The flat smelled of apple compote. The old fridge rattled, but beside it now sat a new extension cord, installed by an electrician from the council after the socialwork request. I rearranged the pantry, changed my shoes, and sat at the table.
Are you in a hurry today? my mother asked.
No, I replied. I have a morning shift tomorrow, Ill make it.
We sipped tea with honey. On the windowsill lay a flashlight no longer needed, but habit kept it close. My mother talked about recording her bloodpressure readings in a paper diary for the nurse to check. I listened, and the nervous flutter in my gut faded; the balance I feared missing turned out to be a concrete timetable and a handful of allies.
Before leaving I adjusted my coat on the rack, and my mother handed me a small woolen scarf.
Its powdering outside, she said.
I wrapped it around my throat, feeling the familiar warmth of the yarn. The hallway clock ticked, the only sound breaking the silence. I switched off the main light, leaving the kitchen lamp glowing.
See you tomorrow, Mum.
No rush, no clamor.
On the stairwell the cold brushed the iron railings. I clasped the scarf in my hand and suddenly understood: neither the care home nor my mothers flat were dead ends. They were two points between which I had learned to walk. Snowflakes, barely visible beneath the entrance lantern, swirled softly. I stepped into the night, knowing another shift and another cup of tea awaited.
