Long ago, when my son, Oliver, said to me, “Father, I’ve set aside money to refurbish your flat. But for now, you’ll need to stay in a care home,” I could scarcely believe my ears. My wife, Margaret, and I had devoted our lives to our only child. Every spare moment, every penny we had, we poured into him. We dreamed he’d grow into a decent man, a comfort to us in our twilight years. Yet his words about the care home struck me like a bolt from the blue.
Our lives had never been easy. I worked at a factory, Margaret taught at the local school. Our wages were modest, but we made sure Oliver wanted for nothing. I recall staying up late, mending neighbours’ appliances just to afford his new trainers. Margaret went without new dresses so he could join his classmates on school trips. We wanted him to study, to flourish, so his life wouldn’t be as hard as ours. And for a time, he seemed grateful. Oliver did well in his studies, graduated from university, and found work in the city. We were proud, though we saw him less—his own life kept him busy.
When Margaret fell ill, Oliver seldom visited. He’d say work kept him, that he’d come soon, that he’d help. I never blamed him—the young live at a different pace. But after Margaret passed, I was left alone in our old flat. It was small, but it held memories—Oliver’s childhood drawings still on the walls, the worn sofa where we’d gathered to watch films, the scuffed table where Margaret had marked her pupils’ work. I wished to keep it all untouched, but one day Oliver arrived and declared the place a shambles. “Dad, this is no way to live. I’ll arrange everything—fresh paint, new floors. It’ll be as good as new,” he insisted. I was glad, thinking he cared for my comfort.
Then he added, “While the work’s being done, you’ll need to stay in a care home. I’ve found a decent one; it’s all paid for.” I froze. A care home? I never thought it would come to this. I’m only 67—I manage well enough, do my own shopping, cook my meals. The flat may be worn, but it’s my home, the last place I feel like myself. I tried to protest, but Oliver wouldn’t yield. “It’s temporary, Dad. I’m doing this for you.” His voice was steady, but his eyes held something distant, as if the matter were already settled.
I trusted him then. I believed he meant well. Yet the more I pondered, the more unease crept in. Why was he so set on the care home? Why refurbish my flat if I was content as it was? I began to wonder if there was more to it. Perhaps he meant to sell the place—or let it out? Neighbours had spoken of such things: children bundling parents off to homes while pocketing the profit. Surely my Oliver wouldn’t do such a thing?
I rang him, resolved to ask plainly. “Son, what’s your aim here? What’s truly on your mind?” He grew cross, called me ungrateful, said he was spending his own money and time while I doubted him. But his anger only deepened my suspicions. I refused to move, declaring I’d stay in my flat, come what may. Oliver slammed down the phone, and we haven’t spoken since.
Now I sit in my quiet room, sifting through old photographs, wondering where we went wrong. Margaret and I gave Oliver all we had. Did we spoil him, fail to teach him family’s worth? Or did life in the city change him, make him a stranger? I don’t know. But one thing I’ve decided: I won’t leave my home. It’s all that’s left of the life Margaret and I built. And if my son wishes to alter things, he must first look me in the eye and tell me why.
Each evening, I pray Oliver will come to his senses. That he’ll remember how happy we once were—how he’d run to me with his drawings, how Margaret and I beamed at his first steps. I still believe the boy we raised is in him somewhere. But if he doesn’t return, I’ll bear it. I’ve lived an honest life; I can face myself in the mirror. The question is—can he?
