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 present herself well. At seventy-three, she could still hold her own, but today she felt backed into a corner.
“Mum, are you ready?” called James from the hallway. “The car’s waiting downstairs!”
“What car?” Margaret Elizabeth frowned, peering out from the bedroom. “We’re going to see that… what do you call it… the retirement home tomorrow.”
“Not a retirement home, a residential care facility,” James corrected, stepping in with a suitcase in hand. “And not tomorrow—today. I told you yesterday.”
“James, I don’t remember anything about today. I’ve got the doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and the hairdresser the day after.”
Her son stopped and studied her carefully.
“Mum, what doctor? What hairdresser? Emily and I discussed all this. You need proper care, and we can’t—”
“Wait, wait.” Margaret Elizabeth set the iron aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “What care are you talking about? I manage perfectly fine. I cook, I clean, I look after the garden.”
“Mum, you left the cooker on all night yesterday. The day before, you lost your keys and couldn’t get inside. Mrs. Davies from next door found you sitting on the stairs at one in the morning.”
Margaret Elizabeth scowled. There had been something like that, but the details slipped through her fingers like sand.
“So what? Everyone forgets things sometimes. You used to lose your keys too.”
“Mum, this isn’t just forgetfulness. Dr. Thompson said—”
“What Dr. Thompson? I never saw him!”
“You did, Mum. We went together last week. You’d been complaining about headaches.”
She tried to remember, but her mind was blank. Had she really seen a doctor and forgotten?
“Even if I did, that doesn’t mean I need to be sent away,” she said defiantly.
“Mum, no one’s sending you away. We just want you to be looked after properly. The home has excellent facilities, medical care, other residents your age—”
“I don’t want to live with strangers!” Margaret Elizabeth stood and paced the room. “This is my flat, my home. Everything I know is here.”
James sighed heavily and sank into the armchair.
“Mum, I understand how hard this is. But think of us. Emily works, I work, the kids are in school. We can’t check on you every day.”
“Did I ask you to? I’ve managed fine without you.”
“Have you?” James pulled out his phone and showed her the screen. “Calls from you last month—twenty-seven times to my office because you couldn’t find your glasses. Fifteen calls to Emily because you didn’t know what day it was. Ten times you called a locksmith because you couldn’t work your own keys.”
She stared at the phone, her chest tightening. Had she really become so helpless?
“It’s temporary,” she protested weakly. “I’m just tired. A good rest and I’ll be fine.”
“Mum, the doctor said it’s progressive. It won’t go away on its own.”
“What condition?” she asked, frightened.
James hesitated, choosing his words.
“Early-stage dementia. Not severe yet, but without proper care, it could worsen.”
The word *dementia* landed like a death sentence. Margaret Elizabeth sank onto the bed and covered her face.
“I don’t want to be a mad old woman,” she whispered.
“You’re not mad, Mum. You just forget sometimes. The home has programmes, medication to slow it down.”
“What if I don’t want to go?”
James stood and walked to the window.
“Mum, we don’t have a choice. The deposit’s paid. The paperwork’s done.”
She snapped her head up.
“Paperwork? Without my permission?”
“I have power of attorney. You signed it when you were in hospital after your fall.”
“I don’t remember signing anything!”
“Whether you remember or not, it’s legal. I can make decisions about your care.”
Panic rose in her throat. Did that mean her own son could do whatever he wanted?
“James, please,” she begged, clutching his arm. “There must be another way. A live-in carer, medication—”
“We’ve discussed this, Mum. A good carer costs a thousand pounds a month, plus medicine, doctor visits. We can’t afford it.”
“And the home’s cheaper?”
“Much. And it’s all-inclusive. No need to arrange separate appointments.”
She went to the window. Below, children played in the courtyard, mothers chatted on benches. A normal life, now out of reach.
“What about my flat? My things?”
“The flat stays for now. I’ve packed your essentials.”
She turned and saw the suitcase by the door. The decision was already made.
“James, what does Emily think? She always called me Mum.”
He looked away.
“Emily agrees. It was her idea.”
The words hit like a punch. Margaret Elizabeth had always thought they got along well. Had Emily been tolerating her all this time?
“Why? What did I do?”
“Nothing. She’s just exhausted—your calls, the emergencies… She has her own job, the kids.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve become a burden.”
“Not a burden, just… a difficult situation that needs sorting.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’s the driver,” said James. “Mum, we need to go.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I call an ambulance. I’ve got a doctor’s note. They’ll admit you, and you’ll still end up in the home.”
She understood then—she was trapped. Her son had planned everything, leaving her no real choice.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “But I want my photographs.”
“They’re in the case.”
“And my jewellery box—your father’s things.”
“Already packed.”
“What about my roses? Who’ll water them?”
James hesitated.
“We’ll ask the neighbours.”
She went to the kitchen and looked at her roses on the sill—twenty pots of different varieties, some grown from cuttings her late husband had planted.
“They’ll die without me,” she said.
“Mum, they’re just flowers.”
“To *you*, maybe. To me, they’re alive. I talk to them. I know each one.”
James put an arm around her shoulders.
“The home has a garden. You can tend to plants there.”
“Someone else’s plants. Not the same.”
The doorbell rang again, impatient.
“Mum, we really have to go.”
She took her husband’s photograph from the side table and slipped it into her pocket.
“I’m ready,” she said.
James carried the case while she wandered through the flat, silently saying goodbye. In the sitting room, she paused by the bookshelves.
“What about my books?”
“Mum, there’s a library there.”
“But not mine. Not with my notes in the margins.”
“We’ll bring some later.”
She nodded, though she knew “later” might never come.
A car waited outside. The driver, a middle-aged man, helped with the case.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Golden Years Residence,” said James.
*Golden Years*. A cruel name for a place where unwanted old people were dumped.
As the car pulled away, Margaret Elizabeth watched her neighbourhood—the corner shop, the bus stop, the park—slip past. Forty years of her life, disappearing behind her.
“Mum, you’ll like it there,” James said. “I checked the reviews. Good food, medical staff, activities.”
“Hmm.”
“And it’s close. We’ll visit often.”
She turned to him.
“James, do you remember when you had chickenpox? I barely left the house for weeks. Fed you soup, carried you, though you were big enough to walk.”
“I remember,” he said quietly.
“And when you nearly failed university? I begged the dean for another chance—even offered a bribe.”
“Mum, why bring this up now?”
“And when Emily almost left you? Who talked her into staying? Who looked after the children while you patched things up?”
James stared out the window.
“I know I’ve been difficult,” she continued. “But isn’t there another way? Maybe I’m not that far gone?”
“Mum, it’s decided.”
“Decided by whom? You and Emily—or me?”
“For everyone. You’ll be safe, and we won’t worry.”
“And me? Will *I* be safe, ripped away from everything I know?”
He turned to her.
“What’s the alternative? Wait until you leave the gas on and blow up the building? Wander off and get lost?”
“It might not happen—”
“Or it might. I won’t risk it.”
The car turned onto a tree-lined drive. Ahead, white buildings loomed behind tall fences.
“HereAs she stepped inside the unfamiliar building, clutching her husband’s photograph like a talisman, Margaret Elizabeth realized that freedom was no longer hers—but perhaps, in this quiet surrender, she could still find some small dignity.