“Mum, maybe she should go to the care home,” whispered Emily in the hallway.
“Emma, what’s taking so long? Dinner’s getting cold!” called Mark from the kitchen, sounding impatient.
Emma Wilson adjusted the pillow behind her mothers head, tucked the blanket in snugly, and only then replied, “Coming, coming! Just gave Mum her water for her tablets.”
“Same thing every day,” muttered her husband when she finally sat at the table. “Tablets, doctors visits, changing padsas if we dont have anything else to do.”
Emma silently started on her soup. What could she say? It *was* the same routine, day after day. It had been a year and a half since theyd taken her mother in after the stroke. Back then, it had felt temporaryjust until she got back on her feet. But time passed, and Margaret only grew weaker.
“Listen,” Mark ventured carefully, “maybe we should think about a care home? They have round-the-clock care, doctors on site…”
“Dont even say that!” Emma cut him off sharply. “How can you suggest that? Shes my *mother*!”
Mark sighed and didnt bring it up again. Emma finished her soup, knowing deep down he was right. She was exhaustedteaching at school drained her, and at home, her mother needed constant attention.
After lunch, while Mark was out in the garden, Emma sat by her mums side. Margaret lay with her eyes closed but breathing steadily. Emma took her handthin and cool.
“Mum, how are you feeling? Fancy a cuppa?”
The old woman opened her eyes slowly and gave her daughter a long look.
“Emma, love… I know Im a burden to you.”
“Mum, dont say that! Youre *not*.”
“Dont lie, love. I see how tired you are. And Markhes a good man, putting up with me, but its hard on him. Youre still young, you should be living your life, not looking after an old woman.”
Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. Her mother had always been perceptive, and illness hadnt changed that.
“Mum, dont worry about it. Well manage.”
Margaret gave her hand a weak squeeze.
“Remember when you had scarlet fever as a child? Fever raging, deliriousI didnt leave your side for three weeks. Your dad said we should take you to hospital, but I refused. I thought youd only get better at home, with me.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“And when you went off to uni, I worried then too. Thought youd forget all about me. But you came home every weekend, always bringing little treats.”
Emma stayed quiet, memories flooding in. Her mum *had* always been her rock, working two jobs just to give her an education, never spending a penny on herself if it meant Emma had what she needed.
“Mum, lets not talk about this. You should rest.”
“No, love, listen. Ive had time to think these past months. Real love isnt about holding onsometimes its about letting go.”
Just then, little Sophie from next door peeked in.
“Auntie Emma, can I see Granny Margaret? I picked her some flowers!”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Sophie bounded over to the bed, holding out a bunch of bright yellow marigolds.
“Granny, these are for you! Theyre like tiny suns.”
With effort, Margaret lifted a hand and took them.
“Thank you, darling. Youre such a clever girl. Hows school?”
“Good! I know all my letters now, and I can read. Yesterday, Mum gave me money, and I bought bread and milk all by myself!”
“Well done! Growing up so independent.”
Sophie chattered a bit longer before dashing back outside. Emma stayed, holding the marigolds, lost in thought.
“You see?” Margaret said softly. “Her parents arent afraid to let her go. Thats how she grows up confident.”
“What are you saying, Mum?”
“That too much holding on can do harm. Remember Auntie Joan down the road? Coddled her Robbie so much he couldnt even boil an egg at forty.”
Emma smiled despite herself. Robbie *had* been hopeless until after Joan passed.
That evening, after Margaret was asleep, Emma went to the kitchen to make tea. Mark was at the table, flipping through a brochure.
“Whats that?”
“Just… information about a care home. In case.” He quickly tucked it away. “Emma, dont be cross. But I spoke to Dave todayhis mums in one. Said the place is lovely, proper care…”
“Mark, stop!”
“Just hear me out!” His voice rose slightly. “Im not a monster. I care about Margaret too. But look at youyoure worn to the bone. Works noticed youre distracted. When did you last sleep properly? Or even just talk to me like we used to?”
Emma leaned against the counter, kettle boiling. Outside, autumn leaves were turning gold. Her mum loved autumncalled it the prettiest season. This year, though, she hardly saw it.
“Im just… scared shell be miserable there,” Emma admitted quietly. “Shes spent her whole life in her own home, surrounded by her things. There, its all strangers.”
Mark came over, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“And dyou think its easy for her, watching you struggle? Women understand these things. Maybe *she* wants you to think of yourself for once?”
The next day, Emma came home early. Neighbour Mrs. Wilkins met her in the hall.
“Emma, your mums been ever so quiet today. Wouldnt even chat when I popped in.”
Emma frowned. “She was fine yesterday.”
She went to her mums room. Margaret lay facing the wall, unusually withdrawn.
“Mum, how are you? Fancy a cuppa?”
“Dont want any,” came the muted reply.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing. Just lying here like a useless old log, making everyones life difficult.”
Emma sat on the beds edge. “Mum, whats happened? We talked fine yesterday.”
Margaret turned slowly. “I heard you and Mark last night. About the care home.”
Emma flushed. “Mum, it was just a discussion…”
“Im not deaf. Or daft. I know Ive pushed you to your limit. Marks rightwe need to sort this.”
Emmas eyes stung. “Youre not going anywhere. Well manage.”
“Youll *manage*? But will you be happy? Emma, Im seventy-eight. Ive lived my life. Yours is still ahead. I wont have you wasting it on me.”
“Dont talk like that!”
“Its the truth. Youre young, lovelyyou and Mark should be off on holidays, maybe grandkids one day. Instead, youre changing my pads.”
Emma broke down. Margaret handed her a tissue.
“Dont cry, love. Im not blaming you. Youre wonderful. But sometimes loving someone means letting go.”
That evening, Emma lay awake long after Mark fell asleep, turning her mothers words over. Was she being selfish? Keeping her mum close for her own sake, not Margarets?
The next morning, before work, she checked in.
“Howd you sleep?”
“Poorly. Been thinking. Emma, lets at least look at that home Mark mentioned.”
“Mum…”
“Just a look. No promises.”
After work, they went. The care home was set in leafy grounds, the building modern and airy. The manager, a pleasant middle-aged woman, showed them around.
The rooms were small but cosybed, nightstand, armchair, windows overlooking the garden.
“Residents make friends here,” the manager explained. “They play chess, have book club. Doctor visits daily, nurses always on hand.”
In the dining room, elderly residents chatted over meals, looking content.
“How often do families visit?” Emma asked.
“Varies. Some weekly, some monthly. The main thing is theyre not forgotten.”
On the drive back, Margaret stayed quiet until they pulled up at home.
“You know… it seemed nice. The people looked decent.”
Emma helped her inside, settled her in bed. Margaret took her hand.
“Emma, Ive made up my mind. I want to go there.”
“Mum”
“Its my choice. There, I wont feel like a burden. You can live properly. And youll visitI know you will.”
“Of course. Every weekend.”
“Good. Now let me rest. Call them tomorrow.”
In the hallway, Emma quietly cried. Mark found her, holding her close.
“Dont cry. This is right.”
“I know. But it hurts.”
A week later, Margaret moved in. Emma helped set up her thingsphotos, her favourite teacup, a warm throw.
“All settled, Mum?”
“Course. Im not helpless. Now you look after yourself. And that good husband of yours.”
As Emma left, Margaret waved from the windowfrail, silver-haired, but somehow more at peace than shed been at home.
Time passed. Emma visited every weekend, sometimes with Mark. Margaret spoke of new friends, garden strolls, books from the homes library. Shed come alive again.
“You know,” she confessed once, “I feel *useful* here. Read to my neighbourher eyes arent good. Helped Mary write to her grandson yesterdayher hands shake.”
Emma listened, realising her mum was right. Here, Margaret wasnt a burdenshe could still help others.
At home, life changed too. Emma slept properly, focused better at work, even started going to the theatre with Mark. They took a seaside holidayfirst in years.
One visit, Emma bumped into Mrs. Thompson from their old street in the hallway.
“Emma! I didnt know your mum was here! Weve become friendsshes such a dear.”
“How is she?”
“Thriving! Better than half the folks here. Always cheering everyone up. The life and soul!”
Emma smiled. Her mum had always been livelyhere, she could be herself again.
That evening, saying goodbye, Emma admitted, “Mum, you were right. This was the best decision.”
Margaret patted her hand. “I knew youd see. Real love isnt tying someone to youits setting them free to be happy.”
Driving home, Emma turned those words over. This lesson wouldnt just apply to her mumone day, shed have to let her own children go too. And that would be love just the same.
Autumn leaves glowed gold, and for the first time in years, Emma truly saw their beauty.
