Seeing his mother as a burden, her son checked her into the cheapest care home he could find. “Maiden name?”
Margaret Whitmore slowly turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. “Dont, Edward,” she said quietly but clearly. “Dont lie. Not now, at least.” Her gaze held no judgmentonly endless maternal pain. At that moment, Edward wanted to fling open the car door and run as far as he could.
It struck him then that he was making the worst mistake of his lifeone he might never undo. But the taxi was already turning toward the peeling grey gates, and there was no going back. The car stopped in front of a shabby two-storey building of dull brick, surrounded by a few bare trees.
The sign, *Havenview Retirement Home*, was printed in institutional lettering, rust bleeding through from underneath. It looked less like a refuge and more like the final stop for those whose ships had long since sunk. Edward paid the driver, avoiding eye contact, then helped his mother out of the car. Her hand in his was cold, almost weightless, like a birds claw.
The air here was differentnot city air. It smelled of dampness, rotting leaves, and something faintly decaying. From a half-open window on the ground floor came the sound of a blaring television and an old mans cough. Margaret paused, surveying the bleak surroundings.
There was no fear or despair on her face, just a detached curiosity, as if she were a tourist in some unwelcoming place. “Well, here we are,” Edward said with forced cheer, picking up her bag. “Come ontheyre expecting us.” Inside, they were met by a dimly lit hallway.
The walls, painted a nauseating institutional green, were streaked with cracks. The floor, covered in threadbare linoleum, creaked underfoot. The air was thick with the smell of bleach, cheap food, and old age. Through half-open doors, snippets of conversation, groans, and muttered words drifted out.
Two elderly women in identical flannel dressing gowns sat on a sagging sofa by the wall, staring blankly ahead. One turned her head slowly toward them, her toothless mouth stretching into a strange, unsettling grin. Edward shuddered. A physical urge gripped himto turn around and take his mother anywhere else.
Back to her old flat, even to his own unfinished house. But he pictured his wife Charlottes face, her cold, disapproving eyes. He heard her voice: *Again, youre showing weakness, Edward. I knew I couldnt rely on you.* So he forced himself forward.
As a boy, hed imagined hellfire and brimstone, rivers of molten torment. Now he understood the real thing. It smelled of disinfectant, it was painted green, and it echoed with the deafening silence of despair.
A memory surfaced, sharp and unexpected. He was seven, building a den with sticks behind the house with his brother James. Edward cut his fingerblood, pain, tears. James, three years older, examined the wound with solemn care, rinsed it under the tap, and wrapped it in a dock leaf. *”Dont cry, little one,”* he said in his deep, grown-up voice. *”Ill always be here to protect you. Always.”*
Where are you now, James? Why arent you here? The thought was so vivid Edward flinched. He hadnt thought of his brother in years, burying his memory like something inconvenient. Jamess death in the army had been a tragedybut in rare, honest moments, Edward admitted it had also been a release. No more comparisons, no more shadow of the cleverer, stronger brother their mother had loved more.
“To the matrons office,” a womans voice called. A young nurse in a white coat peered over the cluttered reception desk. “Shes busy now. You can waitor give the paperwork to me.”
“Janet, take our new arrival,” the nurse said. The next door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped outtired but kind-faced, short-haired, with warm brown eyes. Her pressed medical scrubs stood out against the grime of the building.
“Come in,” she said, nodding at Edward and Margaret. Her gaze flicked over the old woman with professional sympathy, then settled on Edward. There was no judgment, just quiet sorrow.
The office was small but unexpectedly cosya potted geranium on the windowsill, a kitten calendar on the wall. A tiny island of life in this kingdom of decay.
“Sit down,” Janet invited, gesturing to the chairs by her desk. “Ill be your mothers primary nurse.” Margaret obeyed, clutching her handbag. Edward stayed leaning against the doorframe, feeling like an intruder.
“Documents, please.” He handed over the folderpassport, medical records, referral. Janet filled out the admission form, asking the usual questions. Date of birth. Blood type. Chronic conditions. Allergies. Edward answered for his mother, who seemed lost in herself. He spoke curtly, eager to end the humiliating process.
Then Janet turned directly to Margaret, her voice softening. “Dont worry. Its no luxury resort, but we take care of our residents. No one will hurt you here.” Margaret looked up, and something like gratitude flickered in her eyes.
Edward felt a stab of jealousy. This stranger had reached his mother in minutessomething hed failed to do the entire ride.
“Nearly done,” Janet said, flipping the page. “Just formalities now. Marital statuswidow. Children…” She glanced at Edward. “One son. Edward Whitmore. Correct?”
“Correct,” he muttered.
She made a note, her pen moving in neat, precise strokes. Edward watched her handswell-kept, out of place in this wretched building. There was something refined about her, an incongruous dignity.
Then Janet looked up again. This time, her gaze lingered on Margarets face with an odd, intent curiosity. For a second, Edward thought she might ask somethingthen hesitate. He chalked it up to professional habit, doctors seeing puzzles in every patient.
He had no idea her next words would shatter his world, sending the carefully constructed pieces of his life crashing down around him.
“Last thing,” Janet said, her voice suddenly hollow. “Maiden name. For the records.”
The simple question made Margaret stiffen. Her fingers fidgeted with her handbags clasp. Edward sighed impatiently.
“Come on, Mumwhats the hold-up? What was your name before you married?”
