Tell my daughter Im gone: a woman chooses a retirement home so she wont be a burden
Tell my daughter Im no longer here, declared a woman who moved into a care home to stop troubling anyone.
A heavy hush filled the lobby. Only the clock on the wall ticked away, as if to remind everyone that time kept moving no matter what. Anne carefully pulled her passport and medical file from her handbag, gathered them together, and handed them to the young woman behind the desk. The clerk glanced at the papers, then at Anne. A flicker of concern crossed her eyes, but she said nothing, took the documents, and wrote something in a ledger.
Do you have any family? she asked softly, looking down.
Anne let out a weary sigh, the sigh of someone who had heard that question a thousand times and answered it just as often.
I had a daughter. But it would be easier for everyone if I told her Im dead. It would simplify things and be more practical.
The clerk lifted her gaze, surprised. She wanted to object, but Annes expression stopped her. There was no pain or anger there, only a deep fatigue the kind that isnt contested, isnt treated, is simply lived with.
Annes earlier life had been entirely different. It smelled of pastries, diapers, childrens laughter and endless chores. Her husband died in a car crash when their daughter Claire was barely four. From then on Anne was alone widow, mother, housewife and pillar of the family. She had no help, no support, but she held an unwavering belief that she would manage, for Claires sake.
And she did. She taught at a school, graded papers in the evenings, washed and ironed at night, baked pies on weekends and read stories aloud. Claire grew up smart, gentle and loved. Anne never complained. Occasionally, late at night after the house fell silent, she would retreat to the kitchen and let a few tears fallnot out of weakness, but out of solitude.
Later Claire married, had a son and moved to Lyon. At first she called every evening, then once a week, then monthly, and finally the calls stopped. There was no argument, no resentment just a simple Mom, you understand, we have a mortgage, a job, school for the little one were short on time. Sorry. We love you, really, but its not easy right now.
Anne always nodded. She had always understood.
When climbing stairs became hard, she bought a cane. When sleepless nights multiplied, she saw a doctor and was prescribed sleeping pills. When silence grew absolute, she bought a radio. When loneliness settled in, she accepted it. Claire sent occasional moneynot much, just enough to cover medication.
Anne herself arranged the move to the retirement home. She called, inquired about the conditions, packed her belongings, folded her favorite sweater, a warm scarf, and took a photo album. She closed the door behind her without looking back. Before leaving, she slipped a letter into her daughters mailbox, free of blame or accusation.
Claire, if one day you come and Im no longer there, know that I havent gone far from you. Ive gone toward myself.
I dont want to be a burden. I dont want you to choose between conscience and comfort.
May it be simpler for you, for me.
I love you. Mom.
In the pension, Anne didnt complain. She read, tended the plants, and sometimes baked cookies when she was allowed into the kitchen. She didnt lament, didnt whine, and expected nothing. Yet each night, when the hallway lights dimmed, she opened a box, took out a photograph Claire as a child, wearing a red coat with tiny white barrettes.
She ran a finger over the image, closed her eyes and whispered:
Good night, my little bird. May everything go well for you
Then she fell asleep, hoping that somewhere else, in another city, another life, someone still thought of her.
Three years passed. One day Claire did show up, unannounced, clutching the unopened letter she had never read. Tired, disoriented, eyes full of remorse, she stepped into the facility and asked, Is Anne Dupont still here?
The young nurse nodded and led her to the garden. Under a pear tree, in a rocking chair, a silverhaired woman slept, a photograph clutched in her hands. The wind brushed her fine hair, and her face was peaceful.
Overcome, Claire fell to her knees, sobbing:
Mom Im sorry I understand everything now. I love you so much.
Anne never woke. Yet in her sleep she smiled, perhaps dreaming that a little girl in a red coat ran toward her down an autumn lane, shouting, Mom!
Because, even if no one else hears, a mothers heart always hears.
