**The Son Decided for Me**
Margaret Elizabeth smoothed out her best suit on the bed and began ironing it. Tomorrow, she had an important meeting with the director of the care home, and she wanted to make a good impression. At seventy-three, she could still stand her ground, but today she felt cornered.
«Mum, are you ready?» Dennis called from the hallway. «The car’s waiting downstairs!»
«What car?» Margaret peered out from the bedroom. «We’re seeing that… care place tomorrow.»
«It’s not a care home, Mum—it’s a retirement residence,» Dennis corrected, stepping in with a suitcase. «And it’s today, not tomorrow. I told you yesterday.»
«Dennis, I don’t remember anything about today. I’ve got the doctor tomorrow, then the hairdresser the day after.»
He stopped and studied her carefully.
«Mum, what doctor? What hairdresser? We’ve talked about this with Claire. You need proper care, and we can’t—»
«Hold on,» Margaret set the iron down and sank onto the edge of the bed. «What are you on about? I manage just fine. I cook, I clean, I tend to my garden.»
«Mum, you left the cooker on all night two days ago. And last week, you lost your keys and couldn’t get in. Mrs. Thompson from next door found you on the stairs at one in the morning.»
Margaret frowned. Bits of that sounded familiar, but the details slipped away like sand through her fingers.
«So what? Everyone forgets things now and then. You lost your keys plenty when you were younger.»
«It’s not just forgetfulness, Mum. Dr. Harris said—»
«Who’s Dr. Harris? I never saw him!»
«You did, Mum. We went last week. You complained about your headaches.»
Margaret tried to recall, but her mind was blank. Had she actually been to the doctor?
«Even if I was, that doesn’t mean I need shipping off somewhere,» she said defiantly.
«No one’s shipping you off. We just want you looked after. The place is lovely—full medical care, activities, other people your age—»
«I don’t want to socialise with strangers!» Margaret stood and paced the room. «This is my house. My home. My whole life is here.»
Dennis sighed and sat in the armchair.
«Mum, I know this is hard. But think of us. Claire and I work, the kids are in school. We can’t check on you every day.»
«Who asked you to? I’ve managed just fine.»
«Have you?» He pulled out his phone. «Here’s last month’s call log. Twenty-seven times you rang me at work because you couldn’t find your glasses—they were on your head. Fifteen times you rang Claire because you forgot what day it was. Ten times you called the locksmith because you struggled with your own keys.»
Margaret stared at the screen, a cold weight settling in her chest. Was she really so helpless?
«It’s temporary,» she murmured weakly. «Just a bit tired. I’ll rest, and things will sort themselves out.»
«Mum, the doctor said it’s progressive. It won’t just go away.»
«What is it?» she whispered.
Dennis hesitated.
«Early-stage dementia. It’s not severe yet, but without supervision, it could get worse.»
The word hit like a sentence. Margaret lowered herself onto the bed, covering her face.
«I don’t want to be a mad old woman.»
«You’re not mad, Mum. Just a bit forgetful. The residence has programmes, medication—it could slow things down.»
«What if I refuse?»
Dennis stood and walked to the window.
«There’s no choice, Mum. I’ve already paid the deposit. The paperwork’s done.»
She looked up sharply.
«You did paperwork—without me?»
«I have power of attorney. You signed it after your fall last year.»
«I don’t remember signing anything!»
«Remember or not, it’s legal. I can make decisions about your care.»
Panic coiled in her stomach. Did that mean she couldn’t refuse?
«Dennis, please,» she grabbed his arm. «Isn’t there another way? A carer? More doctor visits—»
«We’ve been over this. A good carer costs £3,000 a month—plus medication, tests. We can’t afford it.»
«And the residence is cheaper?»
«Far cheaper. And it’s all-inclusive—no hunting for specialists, no hospital trips.»
Margaret stood and looked out the window. Children played in the garden below, mothers chatting on benches. Ordinary life, now beyond reach.
«What about my house? My things?»
«We’ll keep the house. I’ve packed essentials.»
She turned and saw the suitcase by the door. The decision was already made.
«Dennis, what does Claire think? She always called me ‘Mum’.»
He looked away.
«Claire agrees. Actually, it was her idea.»
The words punched the air from her lungs. She’d always thought they got on well. Did Claire secretly resent her?
«Why? What did I do?»
«Nothing. She’s just tired of the worry. The calls, the emergencies… She has her own life.»
«Ah,» Margaret nodded bitterly. «I’m a burden.»
«Not a burden—a problem we have to fix.»
The doorbell rang.
«That’ll be the driver,» Dennis said. «We should go.»
«What if I say no?»
«Then I call an ambulance. I’ve got the paperwork. They’ll take you, and you’ll end up there anyway.»
Trapped. He’d planned it all.
«Fine,» she said quietly. «But I want my photos.»
«They’re in the suitcase.»
«And Dad’s old watch.»
«Got it.»
«My garden—who’ll water it?»
He paused.
«We’ll ask the neighbours.»
Margaret walked to the kitchen window. Her roses—twenty bushes, some planted by her late husband—sat in neat rows.
«They’ll die without me.»
«They’re just flowers, Mum.»
«Just to you. To me, they’re alive. I talk to them, know each one.»
Dennis put a hand on her shoulder.
«The residence has a garden. You can still tend to things.»
«Someone else’s plants. Not the same.»
The doorbell rang again—insistent.
«Mum, we really need to go.»
She went to the bedside table, took her late husband’s picture, and tucked it into her pocket.
«I’m ready.»
Dennis took the suitcase while she lingered, saying silent goodbyes to each room. In the living room, she stopped by the bookshelf.
«My books?»
«Too many to take. They have a library.»
«But not my copies. Not with my notes.»
«We’ll bring some later.»
She nodded, though she knew «later» might never come.
Outside, a car waited. The driver—a polite middle-aged man—took the suitcase.
«Where to?» he asked.
«Golden Years Residence,» Dennis answered.
Golden Years. What a hollow name for a place where unwanted parents were tucked away.
As the car pulled off, Margaret watched familiar streets blur past—forty years of memories slipping away.
«You’ll like it, Mum,» Dennis said. «I checked the reviews. Good food, medical care, activities.»
«Mmm.»
«And it’s close. We’ll visit often.»
She turned to him.
«Dennis, remember when you had chickenpox as a boy? I stayed home with you for weeks. Fed you, carried you, even though you were in school.»
«I remember.»
«Or when you nearly failed uni? I begged the dean for another chance—even offered money.»
«Mum, why bring this up?»
«And when Claire almost left you? Who talked her round? Who minded the kids while you patched things up?»
Dennis stayed silent.
«I know I’m a problem now,» she continued. «But isn’t there another way? Maybe I’m not so far gone?»
«The decision’s made. It’s for the best.»
«For whom? You and Claire—or me?»
«Everyone. You’ll be safe. We’ll have peace of mind.»
«And me? Will I have peace, torn from everything I know?»
He turned to her.
«What’s the alternative? Wait until you leave the gas on and blow up the house? Or wander off and get lost?»
«It might not happen—»
«It might. I won’t risk it.»
The car turned onto a tree-lined drive. Beyond the gates stood neat white buildings.
«Here we are,» the driver said.
Margaret studied the residence—modern, manicured, but sterile underneath.
«Come on, Mum.» Dennis opened her door.
She stepped out. Elderly residents strolled the grounds, some feeding ducks by a pond.
«See? Fresh air, greenery,» Dennis said.
«Like a holiday camp,» she murmured.
The manager—a friendly woman in her fifties—greeted them.
«MargaretShe took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and decided that if this was her new life, she’d face it with the same quiet strength that had carried her through seventy-three years.