“Mum, maybe she should go to the care home,” whispered the daughter in the hallway.
“Emily, what’s taking you so long? Dinner’s getting cold!” came the disgruntled voice of Simon from the kitchen.
Emily Wilson adjusted her mother’s pillow, tucked the blanket snugly around her, and only then answered, “Coming, just coming! I was getting Mum her water for her tablets.”
“Same thing every day,” muttered her husband when she finally sat at the table. “Medicine, doctors, changing beddingas if there’s nothing else to do.”
Emily said nothing and began her soup. What was there to say? It *was* the same, day after day. It had been eighteen months since theyd taken her mother in after the stroke. Back then, it had seemed temporaryjust until she got back on her feet. But time passed, and Annabelle Whitaker only grew weaker.
“Listen,” Simon ventured carefully, “what if we actually considered the care home? Theyve got round-the-clock care, doctors, everything”
“Stop it!” Emily cut him off sharply. “How can you even say that? Shes my *mother*!”
Simon sighed and let the matter drop. Emily finished her soup in silence, knowing he was right in a way. She felt the exhaustion deepening with each passing day. Teaching at the school drained her, and at home, her ailing mother couldnt be left alone for even a moment.
Later, when Simon had gone to tend the garden, Emily sat beside her mother. Annabelle lay with her eyes closed, breathing steadily. Emily took her handthin, cool.
“Mum, how are you feeling? Fancy some tea?”
The old woman opened her eyes slowly, studying her daughter with a long, knowing look.
“Emily, love I know Ive become a burden.”
“Mum, dont say that! Youre no burden.”
“No need to pretend, dear. I see how tired you are. And Simonhes a good man, putting up with me, but its hard for him. Youre still young, you ought to be living, not nursing an old woman.”
Emily felt the lump rise in her throat. Her mother had always been sharp, and illness hadnt dulled that.
“Mum, dont think like that. Well manage.”
Annabelle gave her daughters hand a faint squeeze.
“Remember when you had scarlet fever as a child? Fever so high you were deliriousI didnt leave your side for three weeks. Your father said we ought to take you to hospital, but I wouldnt hear of it. Thought youd only get better at home, with me.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“And when you went off to university, I worried youd forget me. But you came home every weekend, always with little treats.”
Emily stayed quiet. The memories washed over her painfully. Her mother *had* always been her anchor, working two jobs just to put her through school, denying herself everything so Emily would want for nothing.
“Mum, lets not talk about this. You should rest.”
“No, Emily, listen. Ive had a lot of time to think these past months. Real love isnt about clinging on. Sometimes, its knowing when to let go.”
Just then, little Sophie from next door peeked in. “Auntie Em, can I see Granny Ann? I picked her some flowers.”
“Of course, darling.”
Sophie bounded to the bedside, holding out a clutch of golden marigolds. “For you, Granny! Theyre like tiny suns.”
Annabelle struggled to sit up, accepting them with a smile. “Thank you, sweetheart. 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 fast.”
After Sophie skipped off to play, Emily stayed with her mother, turning the marigolds in her hands.
“See how bright she is?” Annabelle murmured. “Her parents arent afraid to let her go, to trust her. Thats how she grows.”
“What are you saying, Mum?”
“Too much coddling does harm. Remember Mrs. Higgins down the lane? Sheltered her boy so much he couldnt even boil an egg at forty.”
Emily smiled faintly. Poor Timothy had been hopeless until his mother passed.
That evening, after Annabelle slept, Emily found Simon at the kitchen table, reading a pamphlet.
“Whats that?”
“Just information. About a care home. In case.” He quickly tucked it away. “Emily, dont be cross. But I spoke to Mr. Thompson todayhis mothers in one. Said the cares excellent”
“Simon, stop!”
“Hear me out!” he insisted. “Im not heartless. I care about Annabelle too. But look at youyoure worn to the bone. Works noticing youre distracted. When did you last sleep properly? Or talk to me like we used to?”
Emily set the kettle on the stove, leaning against the counter. Outside, the leaves were turning. Autumn, her mothers favourite seasonthough this year, she hardly saw it.
“Im afraid shell be miserable there,” Emily admitted quietly. “Her whole lifes been in her own home, her own things. There, its all strangers.”
Simon came over, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Dont you think it hurts her, seeing you like this? Women understand these things. Maybe she *wants* you to think of yourself?”
The next day, Emily came home early to find their neighbour, Mrs. Clark, in the hall.
“Emily, your mothers been so down today. Wouldnt even chat.”
Emily found Annabelle turned to the wall.
“Mum, how are you? Fancy some tea?”
“Dont want any,” came the muffled reply.
“What *do* you want? Shall I put the telly on?”
“Nothing. Just lying here like a log, ruining everyones lives.”
Emily sat on the beds edge.
“Mum, whats wrong? We talked fine yesterday.”
Annabelle turned slowly. “I heard you and Simon last night. About the home.”
Emily flushed.
“It was just talk”
“Im not blind, love. Or daft. Ive run you ragged. Simons rightsomethings got to change.”
Emilys eyes stung.
“Youre not going anywhere. Well manage.”
“Manage? And be happy? Emily, Im seventy-eight. Ive lived my life. Yours is ahead of youdont waste it on me.”
“Dont say that!”
“Its the truth. Youre young, lovely. You and Simon ought to be traveling, spoiling grandchildren. Not changing my sheets.”
Emily broke, tears falling. Annabelle handed her a handkerchief.
“Dont cry, love. Youve been so good to me. But sometimes loving someone means letting go.”
“Letting go? Youre my *mother*!”
“Exactly. So let me do whats best for you.”
That night, Emily lay awake, Simon breathing steadily beside her. She replayed her mothers words. Was she being selfish? Keeping her close not for Annabelles sake, but her own?
In the morning, she paused at her mothers door.
“Sleep well?”
“Barely. Been thinking. Emily, lets at least look at that home.”
“Mum”
“Just look. Then well decide.”
After work, they went. The home stood in a leafy part of town, modern and bright. The manager, a kind woman, showed them around.
The rooms were small but cozyeach with a bed, a nightstand, a chair. Windows overlooked the gardens.
“Our residents form lovely friendships,” the manager explained. “They stroll, play chess. Weve a library, a lounge. The doctor visits daily, and nurses are always here.”
In the dining room, elderly folk chatted over meals. They looked content.
“How often do families visit?” Emily asked.
“Some weekly, some monthly. The main thing is theyre not forgotten.”
On the way home, Annabelle was quiet. Only at their doorstep did she speak.
“Its nice there. The people seem decent.”
Upstairs, Annabelle took Emilys hand.
“Ive made up my mind. Im moving there.”
“Mum”
“Its my choice. I wont feel like a burden. And youll visitI know you will.”
“Of course. Tomorrow.”
“Good. Now let me rest. Call them in the morning.”
In the hall, Emily wept silently. Simon found her, holding her close.
“Its the right thing.”
“I know. But it hurts.”
“Let her go,” Emily whispered the next morning as Simon left for work.
He kissed her forehead. “Youll see. Itll be better for everyone.”
They moved Annabelle a week later. Emily helped arrange her thingsphotos, her favourite teacup, a warm shawl.
“All set, Mum?”
“Of course. Im not helpless. Now you look after yourself. And that good husband of yours.”
As Emily left, Annabelle waved from the windowfrail, silver-haired, but somehow lighter than shed been at home.
Time passed. Emily visited every weekend, sometimes with Simon. Annabelle spoke of new friends, garden walks, books from the library. Shed come alive again.
“You know,” she confessed once, “I feel useful here. I read to Mrs. Greeneher eyes are going. Yesterday, I helped Miss Dawson write to her grandsonher hands shake.”
Emily listened, understanding. Her mother had been right. Here, she wasnt a burdenshe could still give.
At home, life changed too. Emily slept properly again, threw herself into teaching, even went to the theatre with Simon. They took a seaside holidayfirst in years.
One visit, Emily met a familiar face in the hallMrs. Hartley from down the road.
“Emily! I had no idea your mother was here. Weve become thick as thieves!”
“How is she?”
“Wonderful! Better than most here. Always helping, cheering everyone up. The life of the place!”
Emily smiled. Her mother had always been lively, and here, she could be herself again.
That evening, as they said goodbye, Emily admitted, “You were right, Mum. This was the best thing.”
Annabelle patted her hand. “I knew youd see. Real love isnt chains, Emily. Its setting someone free to be happy.”
Walking home, Emily turned the words over. This lesson wouldnt just shape how she cared for her motherone day, shed need to let her own children go too.
The autumn leaves glowed gold, and for the first time in years, Emily truly saw their beauty.
