Anna Parker sat on a bench in the hospital garden, wiping away tears. Today she turned seventy, but …

Dear Diary,

Today is my 70th birthday. I found myself sitting on a bench in the hospital garden, quietly crying. Not a single call, not a cardneither my son nor my daughter remembered or came to visit. Strangely, it hurts even more than Id expected. Still, my roommate, Margaret Harrison, gave me a warm hug and a little scented candle, and kind-hearted Nurse Rosie offered me an apple with a sweet happy birthday wish. The care home is clean and decent enough, but most of the staff are distant, doing just whats required and no more.

We all know what this place really is. Children bring their parents here to live out their final days, once theyve become too much of a burden. My own son told me he was bringing me for a bit of a rest and some treatment, but I knew, deep down, that I was simply in the way at homeespecially with his wife. You see, it had been my flat. He was the one who convinced me to sign it over to him, promising Id live just as I always had. But it didn’t work out like that. His family moved in almost immediately. What followed was a cold war with my daughter-in-lawnothing I did was ever right. The way I cooked, the mess in the bathroom, the tiniest of things drew her scorn. My son tried defending me, for a little while, but soon even he began snapping at me. I noticed them whispering often, falling silent the minute I walked in.

One morning, he sat me down with a serious look and told me I needed a break, that some time in a care home would do me good.

Are you sending me to a home, David? I asked, looking him right in the eyes, voice trembling.

He flushed and mumbled, No, Mum, its just a bit of respite. Only for a monthyoull be back home before you know it.

He dropped me off, quickly signed the papers, then dashed off saying hed visit soon. Only once did I see him againhe brought two apples and two oranges, asked how I was, but was gone before I could finish my sentence. Ive been here ever sincetwo years now.

A month after arriving, when he hadnt returned, I phoned the old number. Strangers picked up; turned out theyd bought the place. My son had sold my home, and no one knew how to contact him. I cried a few nights, but, in truth, I already knew Id never be allowed home. The deepest pain, however, remains: I had wronged my daughter, Victoria, for the sake of my son.

I was born in a little English village, married my childhood friend, Peter. We had a sizeable cottage and a modest farmnever rich, but there was always food on the table. One summer, a city friend of Peters visited and sang the praises of life in Londonthe salaries, the immediate housing. Peters eyes sparkled at the stories, and soon, he convinced me: wed sell up and start afresh. The city didnt disappointwe were given a flat straightaway, bought some sturdy furniture, and even a battered Mini Cooper.

Then Peter crashed that car. Two days later, I lost him in hospital. After the funeral, I was left alone, two young children to raise. To put food on the table, I cleaned building stairwells in the evenings, telling myself that one day, the children would repay the effort. But life has a way of unravelling plans.

David, my son, got himself caught up in a mess. I took out loans so he wouldn’t end up in prison, struggling for years to pay it back. Then Victoria married, had a child of her own. All was well for a brief time, until her son became ill. She had to quit work to care for himdoctors struggled to diagnose the problem, and when they finally did, the only specialist was in Oxford with an endless waiting list. Her husband left, though mercifully he let her keep the flat. Somehow, in those hospital halls, she met a widower whose daughter shared her sons rare illness. They became close and started living together.

Five years later, he fell ill and needed an operation. I had some savingsI’d promised them to David for a deposit on a house. When Victoria asked for help, I hesitated. I told myself I couldnt spend my savings on someone elses partner; David needed them more. I refused her. She was crushed and left, telling me I was no longer her mother and not to seek her out when times got tough.

Its been twenty years since we spoke.

Victoria pulled through; she helped her partner recover, and they moved, with the children, to the seaside. If only I could turn back timehow different I would do everything. But the past is fixed.

With a heavy heart, I rose from the bench and began walking back towards the home. Suddenly, I heard, Mum! The familiar voice made my heart skip a beat. Turning slowly, I saw Victoria. My knees almost buckled, but she rushed over and held me firm.

I finally found you, Mum… David wouldnt give me the address at first. I threatened legal action over the flathe quieted down and gave it to me at once.

We went inside and sat together on a settee in the lounge, where she took my hands.

Im so sorry, Mum, for staying away all these years. At first I was angry, then it became habit, and so much time passed I was ashamed to reach out. Last week, I dreamt I saw you wandering through a forest, crying. I woke up feeling haunted, so heavy-hearted. I told my husband everything, and he told me to find you and make it right. When I arrived at your old address, strangers were living there. It took some time to find Davids new number, but I did. And now, here I am. Pack your things, Mum. You’re coming home with me. The house is huge, right by the sea. My husband said if my mother is ever in need, bring her to us.

I clung to my daughter, tears streaming down my cheeks. But these, at last, were tears of joy.

Honour thy father and thy mother, so your days may be long upon the land which the Lord, your God, has given you.