The bus dropped Emily Norton outside the highrise of the Riverside Care Home at exactly 8.20am. A chilly September morning nipped her cheeks, and dry maple leaves littered the flowerbed by the entrance. First day on the job, 46th year of life, Ive got this, she muttered, hoisting a tote that contained a fresh pair of shoes and an empty thermos.
Head of the house, Mrs. Zoe Parker, greeted her in the lobby, which smelled faintly of porridge from the communal kitchen. Behind her round spectacles, sharp eyes flickered:
Come in, Ill show you the ward.
A low hum from a television drifted down the corridor, while the dining room echoed with clinking crockery. An elderly gentleman, propped on his walking frame, dozed in a corner. Emily noticed that staff spoke in whispers; here, they seemed intent on preserving the residents fragile peace.
She was handed a small locker, a soft cardigan, and a badge that read Social Worker Emily N. She slipped off her hat, tried to smooth a slightly rumpled hairdo, and sighed. Her previous job at a bustling accounting firm, closed last summer after cuts, had been a world of paper and coffee, not antiseptics and medication. The shift wasnt prompted solely by an idle summer; after her fathers death she craved something she could grasp with her own hands, something to help those who truly had no one.
Her first task was to hand out knitted blankets. She walked past a sixbed ward: Ellen was folding tiny caps for her grandchildren, eyes never leaving her needles; Arthur was squinting at a newspaper, holding his magnifier close to his nose; Valerie stared out the window as if listening to the silence rather than the street. Each room was a museum of possessions, yet the occupants seemed solitary. Emily felt a strange tingle under her breastbone, as if shed almost felt someone elses tear she didnt know how to wipe away.
During lunch break she stepped into the courtyard, dialed her mothers number, and heard a familiar voice. Mum, its Emily.
Ah, love, Im at seventytwo, same part of town but you need two buses to get here, her mother replied. Just the stoves acting up again, youll have a look later? Emily promised a Saturday visit and caught a brief dont forget. She pictured her mothers thin lips, always too polite to ask for more.
That evening, after making the beds and signing the first roundsheet, Emily closed her shift. The sky was already bruised as the bus pulled away, and she leafed through a handout on caring for mobilityimpaired elders, printed by a local college. Between the lines a thought kept surfacing: her mother, alone in a flat, probably balancing a heavy pan on a sputtering gas burner just to avoid borrowing the neighbours electric hob.
A month slipped by. October nights layered thin ice on the windows, and Emily settled into the routine: doctor visits, group physiotherapy, medication checks. She invented Coffee Fridays, brewing beans in a Turkish pot in the dining room, setting a folding table for four, and playing a 60s pop playlist. Two residents smiled, one dozed, but even a nap sounded better with company than in an empty hallway.
People, however, were perpetually in short supply. One Thursday the care assistant called in sick, leaving Emily to escort a resident to the clinic alone. Lydia Patel had to wait for her turn while Mrs. Parker summoned her upstairs to fill out an urgent form for the social services inspector. Lydia sighed softly:
Dont worry, dear, Ill sit tight.
Emily watched Lydias trembling fingers grip her handbag; half an hour on her feet was a marathon for swollen joints.
That evening her mother called first. Ran out of my bloodpressure tablets and my heads pounding, she said, dryly. Emily pressed the phone to her cheek while wiping a basket of apples in the staff kitchen the cook had asked for a hand. Ill buy them tomorrow, she whispered, apologising for missing the errand. A pause filled the line with the hum of everyday life.
The next morning started badly: the bus stalled in traffic and Emily arrived fifteen minutes late. She asked Mrs. Parker for a short break, raced to the nearest pharmacy, stood in the queue for pensioners, and returned with a packet of meds. She slipped a small box labelled forzaten into a postwomans bag, hoping it would reach her mother before she got home. A text later read, Got it, thanks, but the joy was missing.
That night Arthur realised his photo album was missing and broke down in tears, a sight that made Emilys chest tighten. They tore through the mattress, the bedframe, under the nightstand, even the linen cupboard, finding only a faded circus ticket. Arthur then shared how his daughter had moved to the farnorth and only sent holiday cards. I think Im forgetting her voice, he murmured. Emily sensed her own fear: what if her mother ever didnt recognise her on the phone?
She didnt get home until after nine; the wind was damp, streetlights shivered, and the stairwell was unlit. The front door thudded shut behind her, and the screen displayed a missed call from her mother an hour ago. She tried calling back, but the line kept buzzing. The memory of the shelters dim corridor loomed at least a nightshift nurse checked in every couple of hours, whereas her mum was now truly alone.
On Sunday Emily finally arrived at her mothers flat. The air smelled of braised cabbage and old oil. The fridge hummed louder than it had a year before. Her mother perched on a stool, a hand resting on her knee as if conserving strength.
Ill change the light bulb myself, Emily joked, but her mother stared back:
Lights are easy. When was the last time you just sat, had a cuppa, and didnt watch the clock?
The question, like a needle, pierced through Emilys web of excuses.
On Monday the homes director announced an upcoming audit, meaning every staff member now had to submit a communityengagement report. Mrs. Parker handed out a stack of forms. Emily grabbed one automatically, but a vision of her mothers empty kitchen flashed before her eyes. A heaviness settled in her chest: the job now demanded her full presence.
End of October. Rain hammered the tram windows, early dusk pushed the few passersby under the awnings of the flats. After a shift where two residents argued over the television, Emily didnt head home. She alighted at the stop opposite her mothers fivestorey block, bought three batteries for a torch from the nightshift kiosk, and climbed to the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, held only by a chain. Inside, the scent of damp leaves drifted in from an open balcony.
Her mother sat at the kitchen table opposite a dead stove, shoulders hunched. A solitary candle sputtered, casting shadows on the cupboards.
The fuse blew again, she said without looking up, its dark, I didnt bother fixing it.
Emily shrugged off her coat, flicked the torch on, but the black panel in the hallway felt like a silent rebuke.
You called, didnt you? her mother said softly. I just wanted someone to talk to.
Emily sank onto the edge of a chair, suddenly realising that in this halflight they were both, in a way, like her residents the roles had flipped.
She took her mothers hand cold now, not the warm support it used to be. A clear thought rose: she couldnt go back to the frantic juggling of two lonely worlds.
Mum, Ill make sure youre not left on your own, she declared, as if signing a contract. The decision trembled in her stomach: shed have to ask for a flexible schedule, look for a livein carer, risk another job. She could no longer run between two isolated lives.
At dawn the next day she turned the torch on again; the hallway light at her mothers now glowed, the fuse had been swapped overnight. The smell of burnt insulation mixed with fresh bread; a neighbour from below had delivered a loaf after hearing the clatter. Her mother set the kettle and watched, amazed, as Emily fiddled with the wiring.
Ill arrange for specialists to visit you, Emily said, straightening up. On the nearby table lay an open notebook with the phone number of the local councils socialcare department.
Within the hour she was at the council, explaining the situation. The social worker in a lavender sweater flipped through a program:
You can apply online. By law, residents over 65 can receive a carer twice a week.
Emily filled out the forms, added her mothers income statement, and cautiously asked about a visiting nurse. Well set up a care package, but we need to agree on the schedule, the worker replied, nodding.
Emily returned to the care home around midday. The gatekeeper glared at her watch, but Mrs. Parker met her in the medical room, handing over the shift roster.
I have a personal reason, Emily began, laying it out: her mum needed help, and without a flexible rota shed collapse both at work and at home. Im not asking for a holiday; I need two evenings off each week, Im happy to take early mornings and do the paperwork.
The words came out sharper than she intended.
Mrs. Parker removed her spectacles, wiped the glasses with a cloth.
You know the reports are piling up, the inspection is right around the corner.
Emily braced for rejection, but the head supervisor continued:
Residents have a right to stable support. Propose a clear plan so none of them are left unattended, and Ill sign off.
In the dining hall she quickly drafted a coverage plan: Lydia would be escorted to the clinic by a university volunteer, the hallway watch would be taken by the caretaker Gary, and Coffee Fridays would move to early mornings when staff are freer. Mrs. Parker glanced over the sheet, signed, and added:
Make sure the quality doesnt slip. Here were dealing with lives, not timetables.
The same day Emily returned to the mens wing. Arthur was listening to the radio, fingers fidgeting with the blankets fringe.
Well find your album, she whispered.
She scoured the laundry room, peeked into the storage cupboard where spare blankets were kept, questioned the nightshift aide about the previous shift. By evening, after moving a bedside table, a rustle caught her ear a thin red folder tucked between the skirting board. The album.
She pulled it out, brushed off dust. The cover read Summer 1973 in yellowed script. Arthur held the find to his chest as if it were a newborn chick. He was silent, eyes shining, and Emily felt the knot in her chest loosen.
At the next resident meeting she suggested a FamilyMemory Corner: a locked drawer where anyone could store precious items albums, postcards, embroidery. The idea was welcomed, and Gary volunteered to build shelves from old vegetablecrate boxes. The clatter of his hammer made Emily smile for no reason at all.
Around seventhirty she slipped off her cardigan, caught the last tram, and arrived at her mothers flat to find a silverhaired nurse in a mask, officially from the council, scheduled for three weekly visits. Her mother eyed the newcomer warily, but upon seeing Emily at the door, gave a reluctant nod.
They say regular checks will keep the pressure down, the nurse said.
A week later Emily rose at five, caught the early bus that ferried residents to physiotherapy, and on Thursdays and Saturdays she left at five in the evening enough time to cook dinner for her mum or simply sit with a mug of steaming tea. The schedule was tight, but for the first time it didnt feel like a pointless race.
One morning Mrs. Parker stopped her at the desk.
The inspectors noted a rise in resident engagement. Those memory boxes are a hit. Heres a little commendation.
Emily exhaled; the plan was working.
The day grew misty, a light snow began to fall. From the secondfloor windows you could see a thin crust of ice glinting on the thawing pavement. Emily helped Arthur back to his room, made sure his radiator was warm, and asked the nightshift nurse Olga to check on him before the night shift ended. Then she gathered her coat and stepped out into the streetlight.
On the tram, warm air mixed with the scent of damp wool. She opened a message from her mother: Nurse brought the bloodpressure monitor, reading 130, all good. A brief line, but it carried peace. Emily sent a voice note back, recounting how Arthur finally turned the albums pages and found a circus photograph hed spoken of for weeks.
The flat smelled of apple compote. The ancient fridge rumbled, now joined by a new power strip the building electrician had installed after the social workers call. Emily arranged the pantry, slipped back into her shoes, and sat at the kitchen table.
You not in a rush today? her mother asked.
No, Emily replied. Ive got a morning shift tomorrow, but Ill be fine.
They sipped tea with honey. A lantern rested on the windowsill useless now, but habit kept it within reach. Her mother explained how she was learning to jot down her bloodpressure readings in a paper diary for the nurse to verify. Emily listened, noticing the nervous flutter in her stomach fade. The balance shed feared missing emerged as a concrete timetable and a handful of allies.
Before leaving, Emily straightened her coat on the hook, and her mother handed her a small knitted scarf.
Its chilly outside.
Emily wrapped the scarf around her neck, feeling the familiar warmth of the yarn. The hallway clock ticked, the only sound breaking the stillness. She switched off the overhead light, leaving the kitchen lamp to glow.
See you tomorrow, Mum.
No rush, no panic.
On the stairwell the air smelled of cold metal and the iron rails. Emily clenched the scarf, suddenly aware that neither the care home nor the flat were dead ends. They were two points between which she had learned to move. Snowflakes, barely visible under the entrance lantern, swirled gently. She stepped into the night another shift awaited, and another cup of tea.
