Tears at Sunset
Margaret Whitmore sat on a bench in the hospital garden, her face buried in a handkerchief. She’d just turned eighty, but it was her bitterest birthday yet. Neither her son nor daughter had visited or even called. The wind swirled fallen leaves around her, and her chest tightened with loneliness.
Her wardmate, Evelyn Thompson, had wished her well and gifted her a small, hand-embroidered handkerchief. The carer, Lydia, offered her a ripe apple with a warm smile: “Happy birthday, love!” The care home in the village of Birchwood was decent enough, but most of the staff kept their distance. Everyone knew—this was where families left their elderly when they became a burden. Margaret’s son, Oliver, had brought her here, insisting it was just for “rest and recovery.” But she knew the truth—she’d become a problem for his wife.
The flat had been hers. Years ago, Oliver had persuaded her to sign it over to him. He’d promised nothing would change, that she’d always have a home there. But the moment the paperwork was done, everything shifted. Oliver and his family moved in, and the quarrels with her daughter-in-law began. Nothing was ever right—the food, the mess, even the noise Margaret made. At first, Oliver defended her, but soon he joined in, snapping at her too. She’d catch them whispering, only for the conversation to die the second she walked in.
One morning, Oliver broached the subject. “Mum, you need a proper rest, some care,” he’d said. She’d looked him in the eye, her voice trembling. “So, you’re putting me in a home, then?” He flushed, stumbling over his words. “Don’t be silly, it’s a lovely place—just a short stay. You’ll be back before you know it.”
He’d driven her to Birchwood, signed the papers in a rush, and left with a vague promise to visit. He came just once—dropped off some apples and a banana, asked how she was, then left before she could finish answering. Two years had passed since then.
When a month went by without word, Margaret called her flat. A stranger answered. Oliver had sold it and vanished. She’d cried for nights, but eventually, she accepted it—no one was coming for her. The worst part? She only had herself to blame. She’d pushed her daughter away for Oliver’s sake.
Margaret had grown up in the countryside, marrying her childhood sweetheart, John. They’d lived in a big farmhouse, raising animals, never rich but never wanting. Then a neighbour who’d moved to the city told John about better wages and housing. John convinced her to sell up and go. They bought a modest flat, a used Rover. It was that car that took John’s life when he crashed on the motorway.
Left with two children, Margaret scrubbed floors at night to feed them. She hoped they’d grow up to be her pride. But Oliver fell in with a rough crowd, got into trouble. To keep him out of prison, she borrowed money, spent years repaying it. Her daughter, Claire, married young and had a boy. For a year, life was sweet—until her grandson fell ill. Margaret quit her job to take him to specialists. The diagnosis took ages—a rare condition, treated only at one London hospital with a waiting list miles long.
While Claire raced between hospitals, her husband left her, though he let her keep the flat. At the clinic, she met a widower whose daughter had the same illness. They grew close, moved in together. Five years later, he needed surgery. Margaret had savings—meant for Oliver’s house deposit. When Claire asked for help, she refused. How could she spend it on a stranger when her own son needed it? Claire had stormed out. “You’re no mother to me. Don’t expect help when you’re old,” she’d spat.
Twenty years passed without a word. Claire healed her husband, and they moved to the coast. If she could go back, Margaret would’ve done things differently. But the past doesn’t bend.
She gripped her walking stick and stood slowly, shuffling toward the care home. Then—
“Mum?”
Her heart lurched. She turned so fast she nearly stumbled. Claire. Her daughter rushed forward, catching her. “Finally found you… Oliver wouldn’t give me the address. Threatened legal action over the flat—that loosened his tongue.”
They sat in the lounge, Claire holding her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mum. Anger kept me quiet, then shame. But last week, I dreamt of you. Walking through a field, crying. I woke up aching. Told my husband, and he said, ‘Go make it right.’ I went to the flat—strangers lived there. Took ages to track Oliver down. Now I’m here. Pack your things—you’re coming with us. Big house by the sea. My husband insisted: ‘If your mum’s struggling, bring her home.’”
Margaret clung to her daughter, tears streaming down her face. But now, they were tears of relief. She thought of the old verse: “Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land.” Maybe it wasn’t too late after all.