**Diary Entry – 12th April**
I arrived in Manchester at twenty-seven, leaving behind my mother in Wales, who was due for surgery soon, along with a mountain of mortgage debt. I promised myself I’d work hard, stay no more than eighteen months, and return home.
Finding work was easy—a placement agency offered me a job as a carer for an elderly woman. The flat’s owner, Eleanor Whitmore, needed someone to look after her eighty-four-year-old mother, Margaret Dawson. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady, so I took it.
From the start, Margaret treated me with contempt. “Where are you from?” she demanded the moment I walked in. I told her. Her face twisted. “Another Welsh girl. First the Roma, now you. They send me nothing but rubbish.” It only got worse.
Every morning brought fresh complaints—porridge made wrong, dust left on the shelves, doors shut too loudly, even my breathing annoyed her. Once, I overheard her whisper to Eleanor on the phone: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Watch her.” It made me sick. I washed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicines, and in return, got nothing but icy disdain.
I endured it for six months. The thought of my mother kept me from walking out. Then one day, Margaret accused me of stealing fifty pounds. We searched everywhere—and found the notes tucked in her own handbag. No apology, no remorse. Just that same cold stare.
I packed my things. Told her I was leaving. She stood by the door, smirking. “Go on, then. You’ll come crawling back—just like the rest of your lot.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said softly. “Even without you.”
Then—completely unexpected—her voice changed. No malice. Just confusion.
“You… put up with all this for your mother?”
I froze, then nodded. I told her everything—the surgery, the debts. She listened in silence. Then, slowly, she sat beside me, took my hand, and… wept. No words. Just tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Forgive me… I was cruel. Not to you. To Eleanor. She abandoned me. I thought if you left, she’d come back. But you… you endured it all. For your mum.”
From that day, everything shifted. We talked properly—she shared her life, I shared mine. She even gave me money to visit my mother. When I returned, she greeted me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she passed—peacefully, in her sleep. I wept as if she were family.
A week after, Eleanor arrived with a solicitor.
“I’m here to read the will,” the man said. “Margaret left you… a substantial sum.”
Eleanor went pale. “She’s lost her mind! What did you do to my mother? Bribe her?”
I just looked at her. Then, suddenly, I stepped forward and hugged her.
“That’s what I did. I just hugged her.”
