**Diary Entry**
When my son, Oliver, said, “Dad, I’ll fix up your flat—I’ve even set aside the money. You can stay in a care home while the work’s being done,” I couldn’t believe my ears. My wife, Margaret, and I had given our only child everything—our time, our energy, every penny we had. We dreamed he’d grow into a good man, someone who’d stand by us in our old age. But his words about moving me into a care home hit me like a bolt out of the blue.
Life was never easy for us. I worked at the factory; Margaret taught at the local primary school. We scraped by on modest wages, but we made sure Oliver wanted for nothing. I remember fixing neighbours’ appliances late into the night just to afford his new trainers. Margaret went without new dresses so he could go on school trips. We wanted him to study, to have a better life than the one we’d known. And for a while, it seemed he appreciated it. Oliver did well in school, graduated from university, and found a job in the city. We were proud, though we saw him less—he was wrapped up in his own world.
When Margaret fell ill, Oliver rarely visited. “Work’s mad at the moment,” he’d say. “I’ll come soon, I promise.” I never blamed him—young people have their own pace. But after Margaret passed, I was left alone in our little flat, surrounded by memories: Oliver’s childhood drawings still pinned to the walls, the worn-out sofa where we’d watched telly together, the scuffed table where Margaret marked her pupils’ work. I didn’t want anything changed. Then Oliver came round one day and declared the place “unliveable.” “Dad, it’s a dump. I’ll sort it—get it fixed up proper,” he insisted. I was chuffed—my son, looking out for me.
Then he added, “You’ll need to stay in a care home while the work’s done. I’ve already found a place, all paid for.” I froze. A care home? I never thought it’d come to this. I’m only 67—I can still shop, cook for myself. The flat’s seen better days, but it’s my home, the one place I feel like myself. I tried to argue, but Oliver wouldn’t budge. “It’s temporary, Dad. I’m doing this for you.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were cold, like the matter was already settled.
I wanted to believe him. But the more I thought, the more uneasy I felt. Why was he so set on a care home? Why fix a flat I’m perfectly happy in? I began to wonder if there was more to it. Did he want to sell? Rent it out? I’d heard stories from the neighbours—kids packing off their parents and taking over their homes. Surely my Oliver wouldn’t do that?
I rang him, asked him outright. “Son, what’s this really about?” He flew off the handle, called me ungrateful, said he was spending his own money and time for my sake. But his anger only made me more suspicious. I refused to move. “I’m staying in my home, no matter its state.” Oliver hung up, and we haven’t spoken since.
Now I sit in my armchair, flipping through old photos, wondering where we went wrong. Margaret and I gave Oliver everything—maybe too much. Did we spoil him? Fail to teach him the value of family? Or did the city change him, turn him into a stranger? I don’t know. But one thing’s certain: I won’t leave this flat. It’s all I have left of the life Margaret and I built. If Oliver wants to change things, he’ll have to look me in the eye and tell me why.
Every night, I pray he comes to his senses. That he remembers running to me with his drawings, how Margaret and I beamed at his first steps. I still believe the boy we raised is in there somewhere. But if he doesn’t come back, I’ll accept it. I’ve lived honestly, and I can face myself in the mirror. The question is—can he?