**Diary Entry 21st October**
“Mum should go to the care home,” my daughter whispered in the hallway.
“Emily, whats taking so long? Your dinners getting cold!” came my husband Johns impatient voice from the kitchen.
Emily Wright adjusted the pillow behind her mothers head, tucked the blanket tighter around her, and only then replied, “Coming, just getting Mum her water for her tablets.”
“Same thing every day,” John muttered when she finally sat down. “Pills, doctor visits, changing sheetsas if weve nothing else to do.”
Emily ate her soup in silence. What was there to say? It *was* the sameday after day, for a year and a half since her mother had the stroke. Back then, theyd taken her in just until she recovered. But time passed, and Margaret only grew weaker.
“Listen,” John ventured carefully, “maybe we should consider a care home? Round-the-clock care, proper doctors”
“Stop it!” Emily cut him off sharply. “How can you even suggest that? Shes my *mother*.”
John sighed and dropped the subject. Emily finished her soup, knowing deep down he was right. She was exhausted. Teaching drained her, and at home, her mother couldnt be left alone for a minute.
That afternoon, after John left for the allotment, Emily sat by her mothers bedside. Margaret lay with her eyes closed but breathing steadily. Emily took her thin, cool hand.
“Mum, how are you? Fancy some tea?”
Margaret slowly opened her eyes and gave her a long look.
“Emily… I know Im a burden.”
“Mum, dont say that!”
“I see how tired you are. And Johnhes a good man, putting up with me, but its hard on him. Youre still young; you should be living, not looking after an old woman.”
Emilys throat tightened. Her mother had always been sharpillness hadnt dulled that.
“Well manage, Mum.”
Margaret gave a weak squeeze of her hand.
“Remember when you had scarlet fever? Forty-degree fever, deliriousI didnt leave your side for weeks. Your dad said hospital, but I refused. Thought youd only get better with me.”
“I remember.”
“And when you left for university, I worried youd forget me. But you came home every weekend, brought treats.”
Emily stayed quiet. Memories flooded inher mother working two jobs to put her through school, never spending a penny on herself.
“Lets not talk about this. Rest now.”
“No, listen. Ive thought a lot these past months. Real love isnt just keeping someone close. Sometimes its letting go.”
Just then, little Sophie from next door peeked in.
“Auntie Emily, can I see Grandma Maggie? I picked her flowers!”
“Of course, love.”
Sophie bounded over, holding out marigolds. “For you! Theyre like tiny suns!”
Margaret struggled to sit up, taking them.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Hows school?”
“Good! I can read now! Yesterday Mum gave me money, and I bought bread and milk all by myself!”
“Well done! Growing up so clever.”
After Sophie skipped off, Emily stayed, turning the flowers in her hands.
“See how bright she is?” Margaret murmured. “Her parents trust her. Thats why shes confident.”
“Whatre you getting at?”
“Too much coddling does harm. Remember Mrs. Clarks boy? Sheltered him so much he couldnt boil an egg at forty.”
Emily smiled faintly. Poor Tom had only learned to fend for himself after his mother passed.
That evening, while Margaret slept, Emily made tea. John was back, reading a brochure.
“Whats that?”
“Just… looking into care homes. In case.” He tucked it away. “Em, dont be angry. But Dave at work said his mums place is decentproper care, good staff”
“John, stop!”
“Hear me out!” he snapped. “Im not heartless. But look at youexhausted. Works noticed youre distracted. When did you last sleep properly? Or just *talk* to me?”
Emily leaned against the counter. Outside, autumn leaves turned gold. Her mother loved this seasoncalled it the prettiest. Now she barely saw it.
“Im scared shell be miserable there,” Emily admitted. “Shes lived in her own home her whole life. Strange place, strange people…”
John hugged her. “You think its easy for her, watching you struggle? Women understand these things. Maybe she *wants* you to think of yourself?”
Next day, Emily came home early. Neighbour Mrs. Harris met her in the hall.
“Your mums been down all day. Wouldnt even chat.”
Emily found Margaret turned to the wall.
“Mum, want some tea?”
“Dont want anything. Just lying here, useless.”
Emily sat on the bed. “Whats wrong? We talked fine yesterday.”
Margaret turned slowly. “I heard you and John. About the care home.”
Emily flushed. “It was just a conversation”
“Im not deaf. Or daft. Ive run you ragged. Hes rightsomethings got to give.”
Eyes stinging, Emily protested, “Youre not going anywhere!”
“Will you be happy, though? Ive had my life. Yours is aheaddont waste it on me.”
Emily broke down. Margaret handed her a tissue.
“Dont cry. Im not blaming you. But sometimes loving someone means letting go.”
That night, Emily lay awake, John snoring beside her. Was she being selfish? Keeping her mother near for *her* sake, not Margarets?
Next morning, dressing for work, she checked on her.
“Sleep alright?”
“Hardly. Been thinking. Lets visit that home John mentioned.”
“Mum”
“Just look. Then well see.”
After work, they went. The place was modern, set in leafy grounds. The managera pleasant womanshowed them around. Small but tidy rooms, windows overlooking gardens.
“Residents make friends here,” she explained. “Library, dominoes, doctor visits daily.”
In the dining room, elderly folks chatted over meals, content.
“How often do families visit?” Emily asked.
“Varies. Some weekly, some monthly. Just dont forget them.”
On the drive back, Margaret was quiet. Then: “Its not bad. Folk seem nice.”
At home, as Emily tucked her in, Margaret held her hand.
“Emily, Ive decided. Im moving there.”
“Mum”
“Its my choice. I wont feel a burden. Youll visitI know you will.”
“Every weekend.”
“Good. Now let me rest. Call them tomorrow.”
In the hall, Emily wept. John hugged her.
“Dont cry. Its the right thing.”
“I know. But it hurts.”
Next week, they moved Margaret in. Emily arranged her photos, favourite teacup, warm blanket.
“All settled, Mum?”
“Course. Now you take care of yourself. And Johngood man, that.”
Leaving, Emily saw her at the window, wavingfrail, silver-haired, but calmer than shed been at home.
Weeks passed. Emily visited every Sunday, sometimes with John. Margaret thrivedmade friends, joined book club, even read to a near-blind neighbour.
“Feel useful here,” she admitted once. “Helping others again.”
Home life improved too. Emily slept properly, focused at work, even went to the theatre. They took a seaside tripfirst in years.
One visit, Emily bumped into Mrs. Green from their street.
“Didnt know your mum was here! Were thick as thievesshe cheers everyone up!”
That evening, leaving, Emily said, “You were right, Mum. This was best.”
Margaret patted her hand. “Real love isnt chains, Emily. Its setting someone free to be happy.”
Driving home, Emily realised this lesson stretched beyond parentsone day, shed have to let her own children go too.
Golden leaves fluttered past the window. For the first time in years, she truly saw their beauty.
