**Diary Entry**
The air in the reception was heavy, broken only by the steady tick of the clock on the walla quiet reminder that time moves on, no matter what. Margaret carefully pulled her passport and medical records from her handbag, smoothed them out, and handed them to the young woman behind the desk. The clerk glanced at the papers, then at Margaret, her brow creasing briefly before she turned her attention to the register.
“Do you have any family?” she asked softly, eyes downcast.
Margaret sighed, the weariness of someone whod answered that question too many times settling in her bones.
“I had a daughter. But tell her Im gone. Simpler for everyone and easier.”
The young woman looked up, startled, but the words died on her lips when she saw Margarets face. There was no pain there, no angeronly exhaustion. The kind you dont argue with, cant fix. The kind you just live with.
Margaret had known a different life once. One filled with the smell of baking, nappies, childrens laughter, and endless chores. Her husband, William, had died in a car crash when their daughter, Eleanor, was barely four. After that, she was alonewidow, mother, housekeeper, pillar. No help, no support. Just quiet determination that shed manage. For Eleanor.
And she had. She worked at the school, marked papers late into the night, did the laundry, pressed clothes, baked pies on weekends, read bedtime stories. Eleanor grew up clever, kind, and loved. Margaret never complained. Sometimes, in the silent hours before dawn, shed sit alone in the kitchen and let the tears fall. Not from weaknessjust loneliness.
Later, Eleanor married, had a son, and moved to Manchester. At first, she called every evening. Then once a week. Then once a month. Then silence. No argument, no bitterness. Just, “Mum, you understandthe mortgage, work, the little ones school time just slips away. Sorry. We love you, really. Its just not easy right now.”
Margaret nodded. She always understood.
When the stairs grew too much, she bought a walking stick. When sleepless nights piled up, she asked the doctor for sleeping pills. When the quiet pressed too close, she bought a radio. When loneliness settled in for good, she made peace with it. Eleanor sometimes sent money. Not much. Just enough for the prescriptions.
Margaret arranged the care home herself. Made the calls, read the brochures, packed her thingsher favourite cardigan, a warm scarf, the photo album. She closed the front door without looking back. Before leaving, she dropped a letter through Eleanors letterbox. No blame, no reproach.
*”Darling, if you ever come looking and Im not there, know I havent gone far from you. Ive gone towards myself.*
*I wont be a burden. I wont make you choose between guilt and comfort.*
*Let this be easier for youfor both of us.*
*I love you. Mum.”*
In the home, Margaret never complained. She read, tended to the plants, sometimes baked biscuits when allowed in the kitchen. No fuss, no bitterness, no expectations. But each night, when the lights dimmed, shed open a small box and lift out a photoEleanor as a child, in a red coat with little white clips in her hair.
Shed trace a finger over the image, close her eyes, and whisper,
“Sweet dreams, my little sparrow. Be safe out there.”
Then shed sleep, hoping that somewhere, in another city, another life, someone still thought of her.
Three years passed. Then, one day, Eleanor came. Unannounced. The unopened letter clutched in her handshe hadnt been able to read it when it arrived. Exhausted, lost, eyes brimming with regret, she stepped inside and asked, “Margaret Hayes is she still here?”
The nurse nodded and led her to the garden. There, beneath an apple tree in a rocking chair, sat a silver-haired woman, asleep. A photograph in her hands. The breeze stirred her thin hair, and her face was so peaceful.
Eleanor couldnt hold back. She fell to her knees beside her and sobbed,
“Mum Im so sorry I understand now. I love you so much.”
Margaret didnt wake. But in her dreams, she smiled. Perhaps she saw a little girl in a red coat running down an autumn lane, calling, “*Mummy!*”
Because even if no one else hears ita mothers heart always does.
