Tears at Sunset
Margaret Whitmore sat on a bench in the hospital garden, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She had just turned eighty, but it was the saddest birthday she’d ever known. Neither her son nor her daughter had visited or even called. The wind swirled fallen leaves around her feet as her heart ached with loneliness.
Her roommate, Dorothy Harper, had wished her well and gifted her a delicate, hand-embroidered hankie. The carer, Lucy, gave her a crisp apple and smiled, “Happy birthday, love.” The care home in the quaint town of Willowbrook was decent enough, but the staff, with few exceptions, remained indifferent. Everyone knew—this was where children dropped off their elderly parents when they became a burden. Margaret’s son, Edward, had brought her here under the pretence of “rest and recovery.” But she knew the truth—his wife found her inconvenient.
The flat had been hers. Years ago, Edward had convinced her to sign it over to him, swearing nothing would change—that she’d always have a home. But the moment the papers were signed, everything turned upside down. Edward and his family moved in, and the arguments with his wife began. Nothing Margaret did was right—the food, the mess, even the noise of her shuffling slippers. At first, Edward stood up for her, but soon, he joined in the scolding. She’d catch them whispering behind her back, falling silent the moment she entered the room.
One morning, Edward broached the subject. “Mum, you need a proper rest, some care.” She looked him in the eye and asked, voice trembling, “You’re putting me in a home, aren’t you?” He flushed, stammering, “Don’t be daft! It’s a nice place—just a short stay, then you’ll come back.”
He drove her to Willowbrook, signed the forms in a hurry, and left with a promise to visit soon. He came just once, bringing a few apples and a banana, asked how she was, and dashed off before she could finish answering. Two years had passed since then.
When a month went by without word from Edward, Margaret phoned the flat. Strangers answered—her son had sold it and vanished. She cried herself to sleep for weeks before resigning to her fate. No one was coming back for her. The bitterest pill? She only had herself to blame. For her son’s sake, she’d once turned her back on her daughter.
Margaret had grown up in the countryside, married her childhood sweetheart, John, and lived in a cosy cottage with chickens and a vegetable patch. Comfortable, if not rich. Then a neighbour returned from London, boasting of good wages and council housing. John convinced her to move. They sold the cottage, packed up, and left. The new flat was small, but they made do—until John crashed their rickety old Morris Minor and died in hospital two days later.
Margaret was left with two children. To feed them, she scrubbed floors at night, dreaming they’d grow up to be her pride. But Edward fell in with a rough crowd. To keep him out of prison, she took loans, spending years repaying them. Her daughter, Eleanor, married young and had a son. For a year, all was well—until the baby fell ill. Margaret quit her job to take him to specialists. The diagnosis took ages—a rare condition treated only at a London clinic, with a waiting list as long as the Thames.
While Eleanor raced between hospitals, her husband left, keeping the flat. At the clinic, she met a widower whose daughter had the same illness. They grew close and moved in together. Five years later, he needed surgery. Margaret had savings—meant for Edward’s mortgage deposit. When Eleanor begged for help, she refused. How could she spend it on a stranger when her own son needed it? Eleanor stormed out. “You’re no mother to me. Don’t expect help when you’re old.”
Twenty years passed without a word. Eleanor healed her partner, and they moved to the seaside with the children. If Margaret could turn back time, she’d do it all differently. But the past was set in stone.
She rose slowly from the bench, leaning on her stick, and shuffled towards the care home—when a voice called out, “Mum!”
Her heart skipped. She turned so fast she nearly toppled. Eleanor. Her daughter rushed over, catching her. “Finally found you… Edward wouldn’t give me the address. But I threatened legal action over the flat—he caved straight away.”
They settled in the lounge, Eleanor holding her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mum. The anger festered, then shame took over. But last week, I dreamt of you—wandering a field in tears. I woke up heartsick. My husband said, ‘Go, make peace.’ I went to the flat, but strangers lived there. Tracked Edward down. And here I am. Pack your things—you’re coming with us. We’ve a big house by the sea. My husband insisted: ‘If your mum’s suffering, bring her home.’”
Margaret clung to her daughter, tears streaming—but this time, they were tears of relief. She remembered the scripture: “Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land.” Maybe it wasn’t too late after all.