Choose: Your Mother or Me
The phone rang at half past ten in the evening as Eleanor was already lying in bed with a novel, the kind without a name. In the lounge, Victor was camped before his laptop, a soft mutter of a newsreader floating from some serious business channel.
The caller ID was unfamiliar but wore the area code of her hometown, Hawthorne.
Hello, Eleanor said, her voice a hush, that tight feeling already drawing beneath her ribs.
Its Mrs. Hall, Gwendoline Hall, across the road from your mother. The voice was dry, background crackling with the static of old landline wires. You probably dont know me. Its about well. Margaret, your mum, she took a fall this morning. I popped in just now and she was still on the floor, couldnt speak properly, one side of her face
Eleanor was already half-sitting, fishing for slippers with her toes.
Shes in hospital?
They took her an hour ago. Ambulance came, said it looks like a stroke. I found your number in her mobile, took me ages
Thank you, Mrs. Hall. Thank you so much.
She hung up, stood in the bedroom for a moment holding the phone tight. Then she walked to Victor.
He lounged in his favourite armchair, crisp navy loungewear, a cut-glass tumbler perched on the table, brimming with sparkling water and lemon. Fifty-six, skin polished, hair cropped at the temples. Every bit the successful gent, right at home in his glossy London flat.
Vic, my mum its bad. Shes had a stroke. Theyve taken her into Hawthorne General.
He half-turned, thumbed the remote, muting the TV.
When?
This morning. The neighbour found her on the carpet shes been there all day, just lying alone
Victor put his glass down, leaving a neat ring.
Well. Now what?
Eleanor looked right at him.
I need to go. First thing tomorrow.
Go, I wont stop you.
Vic, we need to be serious about this. Mums seventy-eight. If this stroke is as bad as it sounds, she cant be left by herself in the old place. We need to decide.
Victor flicked the TV back on, slightly louder than before. A silent gesture: not now.
Ellie, weve talked about this. More than once.
We only ever talked about it in theory. Now its happened.
So whats different? You know my view. She cant come here. We dont have the space or the right, er environment.
Eleanor sat on the sofa facing him, willing her voice not to crack.
The flat has four bedrooms, Victor.
Four, and Im planning to finally get a proper renovation done on two weve discussed this. I want a proper study, you wanted a walk-in wardrobe. Where am I supposed to put her, the hallway?
One room could be hers. The new wardrobes can wait.
Im not putting off the work. The builders booked for March, the deposits paid. You know this.
Its not about wardrobes, Vic. Its about caring for my mother. Someone whos had a stroke.
Ellie, he said, pinning her with that unwavering look. I am sympathetic, truly. But this is the reality a frail stranger, ill, possibly with incontinence, maybe struggling to speak. I cant deal with it. Dont I get a say?
Shes not a stranger. Shes my mother.
For me, she is. Weve met four times in ten years. She never made any effort.
Because you
Lets not, Ellie. Blame games pointless. I work full on, stressful contracts I need peace when Im home. I can’t live in a makeshift care home. It’s my home, too, by the way.
Eleanor was silent for a long time. Outside, the city blurred on traffic, lights smeared against the windows.
What about a carer? she asked quietly. A good one, in Hawthorne. We can afford it.
Yes. Do that.
But Ill need to be there. Often.
Thats up to you. Suit yourself.
Vic, do you understand what Im saying? Ill need to be there regularly. Thats a three-hour drive.
I understand. Go as much as you like. Im not stopping you.
That not stopping you was so easy, so soft, that Eleanor felt something shift, deep below her feet not a shock, more a slow slide, earth crumbling unexpectedly.
She went back to the bedroom and lay awake until two, tracing patterns in the ceiling.
Morning she drove to Hawthorne alone.
The hospital met her with that old English bleach-and-paint tang. Margaret lay in a bay for six, her bed by the window. Right side of her face drooping, right hand folded limp on the blanket. She stared at Eleanor and didnt speak, just the left side of her mouth twitching.
Mum. Eleanor took her hand, papery-cool. Im here, Mum. Im here.
Margaret tried to say something. It came out as a tangle, words lost.
Dont try. Im here. Youre not alone.
A doctor, older and worn, told Eleanor the important bits, quick and smooth: A big stroke. Right side paralysed. Speech impaired. The future uncertain could be months, maybe better, maybe not. Six months of heavy care, physio, speech therapy, constant watchfulness.
She cant live alone, no way, the doctor finished, are you her only child?
Only one.
The doctor gave her that medics stare not pity, not judgement, just a hard-nosed acceptance of how these things go.
Eleanor stayed by her mothers bed all day. Feeding her thin porridge from a spoon, talking (to herself, mostly), burbling little stories. Margaret listened with clear, bright eyes, unable to answer.
Come evening, Eleanor stepped outside and phoned Victor.
Hows it there? His voice was clipped.
Not good. Paralysis, speechs gone. She wont manage by herself.
Pause.
I see.
Vic, Im staying. Here. For as long as it takes. I cant leave.
His tone grew taut.
Ellie, youve got a job. Youve got your life here.
Ill sort things remote, shift hours, whatever. I cant leave her.
I thought you said carer.
A carers not the same as a daughter. You know that.
He was silent.
You understand this wont be quick?
I do.
And youre alright with living there? In that house?
Yes. I am.
A longer pause.
Fine, he said at last, not warm, not cold, just stated. Let me know if you need something.
She pocketed the phone, watched the Hawthorne street darken lamp-posts flickered, pavement crumbling under the thin soles of an old womans shoes. Somewhere, a chimney smoked, damp and sweet.
Her mothers house, end of Orchard Close, stood aspeckled, hunched wood, front step sagging with age, small sashed windows edged in peeling white. Eleanor let herself in, key fitted by old habit, though shed rarely used it.
Inside, breath fogged in the chill. Margaret hadnt lit the fire for days. Eleanor found logs in the shed, wrestled the range into life, awkward with long-unpractised hands. The memory was old and knotted, from a vanished time.
She walked round the house. The small kitchen, cracked lino. Narrow hallway. Two bedrooms: her mothers bed in one; an old settee in the other, Eleanors childhood nest. Everything ordered, sparse every object recalled, every space uncluttered, cleaned to the bone.
She messaged Victor. Im staying. Not sure how long. Will come to London for things.
Twenty minutes later: Understood. As you wish.
That was all. That, and perhaps the whole of their marriage.
The coming days collapsed into something long and heavy. Eleanor spent dawn to dusk at the ward. She learnt each dull ritual: rolling Margaret to stop bedsores, coaxing fingers to move, feeding slow, steady spoons, hiding her own tiredness. Speech lessons were agony mother, once a teacher, reduced to fumbling for easy words.
Ellie, said Margaret, very clear for once, a fortnight later, Ellie. Go home.
I am home, Mum.
No. A gesture, the left hand, pale and ragged. There. Husband.
Dont, Mum. Not now.
Victor She stumbled, searching, not happy?
Eleanor adjusted the covers.
Its alright, Mum. Really.
Margaret stared at her a long time, something sharp behind her eyes. Eleanor turned away, staring at uncertain clouds.
Margaret came home just shy of four weeks later, a taxi bumping over the close, the driver and a neighbour-lad carrying her up the step. Eleanor tucked her into bed, raked the fire, made a thin soup.
A new life began.
When people talk about care, they dont really know. Its turning frail bodies through the night, washing, feeding, cleaning. Its exercise every morning with a slack arm and a stubborn leg, three small meals, spoon by spoon. Its tablets by alarm clocks, speechwork three times a week, Margaret biting her lip, refusing to give up.
Eleanor worked remotely as a part-time accountant, her manager generous, the money tight Victor sent odd transfers, barely commented on. They rarely spoke now.
One rainy November, Eleanor was attacking a loose step on the porch a right bother, with the old handrail shaky when a man from across the way appeared.
She knew his look, vaguely: strong build, greying, cord jacket. Fifty-five, perhaps, plain and weathered.
Not like that, he said, nails got to go in angled. Wont pull free then.
She looked up.
Im Nicholas. The house down the lane. Youre Margarets girl?
I am. Eleanor.
She doing any better?
Some, slowly.
He grabbed the hammer, dropped to his haunches, fixed the step in five minutes flat.
If you need anything, let me know Im always about.
Dont want to impose.
Not an imposition, he shrugged. Margaret helped my mum once, years back. Ive not forgotten.
He walked off down the lane.
Eleanor watched, thinking how little impose really matters. Thered been more discomfort in the city flat, knowing her mother had lain daylong on that battered bed.
November bit cold. The chimney clogged one night smoke billowed, forced her to fling open windows, coughing, lost at what to do.
She knocked on Nicholass door, embarrassed.
He came, quickly, steady, no hint of annoyance. Up on the roof with a torch, found the blockage, showed her the ropes about autumn cleaning. Refused payment, outright and final.
Fancy a cuppa? she asked.
If its no trouble.
They sat at the kitchen table shop biscuits, wind soughing in the apple tree. Eleanor asked how long hed lived here.
All my life. Apart a few years in London, factory job. Came back.
Why?
He paused.
This place is home. Didnt suit me, the city. Some like it, I dont.
She cradled her mug, warmth in the kitchen new-made.
I lived in the city nearly twenty years. Thought Id got used to it. Being back I cant believe I visited so seldom. How?
Nicholas didnt console, just nodded.
Youre here now. Thats what counts.
That December, Margaret managed to sit upright in bed. A triumph. Her speech returned, stilted but growing.
Youve lost weight, Margaret commented.
Have I?
You have. Victor does he call?
Sometimes.
He coming?
Dont know, Mum.
Long pause.
He wont, Margaret said. Not bitter, just knowing. Like someone with nothing left to hope or lose.
Victor never came. He rang once weekly, asked hows things, keep going, mentioned his renovations still on track, or that hed attended a glittery work do. Eleanor listened, feeling the Atlantic widen between them, not angry just apart.
In January, Eleanors friend Melanie visited from town, came bearing cake and helpfulness. But the talk stumbled.
Ellie, dont you think this is a bit much? Melanie said over tea. A month, fine. But how long? Youll break yourself.
What would you have me do?
Get a proper carer, a professional. Or a care home, there are decent ones.
Mum was always scared of care homes.
They dont know best, Ellie. She doesnt see what this costs you.
She does, Eleanor said softly. Her minds sound.
Melanie was silent.
Victors not coming, I suppose?
No.
And so what, forever?
I dont know.
Ellie, youre clever. Dont throw away your husband over this. Hes your support, your flat, your life
Eleanor looked at her friend.
My mum lay on the floor, alone. Shes seventy-eight.
Melanie left that day, slightly aggrieved. They made it up over messages, but something shifted for good.
Older neighbours, however, gave Eleanor a different sort of nod not pity, something close to respect. Mrs. Hall left jars of homemade chutney or apple cake by the door. Another neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, seventy herself, sat with Margaret when Eleanor ran to the chemist. Were proper mates, your mother and I, she said matter-of-factly.
Her own generation, the city wives and classmates, watched with something uneasy a tinge of pleasure, perhaps, at her fall. One asked, in the Tesco, how Victor was getting on, if hed visit, what Eleanor did with herself. Eleanor kept her answers brief.
Nicholas helped out as if hed always done so mending fences, bringing logs, shovelling snow. When Eleanor fell ill, he brought soup, kept the fire going, even changed Margarets sheets, with calm efficiency, unbothered.
Nicholas, I cant thank you enough.
Come off it. Were neighbours.
There are neighbours, and then there are neighbours.
He grinned. True enough.
They sat, Margaret dozing, as Februarys bare wind rattled the windows.
Got family? Eleanor asked.
Did. Wife died, eight years now. Daughter in Manchester, barely calls. Used to it.
Not lonely?
Sometimes. Not much, though. Do the work, keep busy. Days go quick.
She thought of Victor, glossy and alone in his leather flat.
She called Victor that evening.
Vic, we should talk.
Has something happened?
No, just its been a while.
Long pause.
Go on.
How are you?
Fine. Renovations nearly finished. Theres a new project at work. He paused. When will you be back?
Vic, I I dont think I will.
Pause. Stretched long.
Not at all?
No.
He didnt shout, just asked:
Because of your mother? Or me?
She took three seconds.
Mostly myself, actually.
His breathing, crackling in the line.
Alright, he said. Do you want a divorce?
Yes.
Alright. Divorce it is.
And that divorce it is, flat as all Victors decisions: a contract, not a heartbreak.
In spring, Margaret began to walk first with a frame, then carefully, to the kitchen, then porch. Slow, hard, sometimes in tears, but stubborn. Her speech returned, mostly, and her therapist a jolly woman named Pamela praised her in bright tones.
Motivations half the cure, Eleanor. She has someone to get better for.
Eleanor wasnt always sure it was her, but it helped to believe it.
May evening. Eleanor and Nicholas, perched on the garden bench. Margaret getting herself to bed, small victories won.
Think youll leave? Nicholas asked.
No, she said, after a time. I thought of it, but I dont want to. Strange, isnt it? After all those years wanting London now Im here and I cant bear the thought of leaving.
Not strange at all. Takes some of us years to find the right spot.
Not always easy, though.
Easy isnt the same as right, Nicholas quietly. Rights not effortless. Just honest.
She looked sideways at him. A simple man; weathered hands, lines deep at his eyes. He didnt say much, but his words curled in her thoughts, like woodsmoke.
Nicholas, she said, you know Im divorcing Victor?
Word gets round. Small place.
Do you judge me?
He turned to her.
For what?
Well, you know. Leaving a marriage.
He weighed the word.
Marriage is sharing the load, good and bad. If its just two people under one roof well, thats not family, is it?
She didnt answer. There was nothing left to say.
The divorce was straightforward, solicitors swift. Victor kept the flat, offered a tidy sum. She took it. Needed it for repairs: rotten floorboards, leaking roof, tangled wiring.
Summer, Nicholas brought two mates, and together in three weekends, the house was mended. No charge beyond materials.
Why? Eleanor asked, straight.
Neighbours.
Not only that.
He caught her gaze.
No. Not just that.
Margaret watched it all from the porch, face uneven, voice seventy-per-cent back, but eyes bright. One evening:
Hes a good man, she said.
Yes, Mum.
You see it, dont you?
I do.
Margaret nodded. Nothing more.
Victor called in July, first time since the papers. His voice had changed, softer round the edges.
How are you both? Really.
Were well. Mums walking. House is fixed up.
Im glad. Ive been thinking I ought not to have handled it that way. In autumn.
Eleanor didnt flatter, didnt console.
Probably, yes.
You angry?
No. Not for a while.
Are you happy?
She gazed out the window. Margaret was reading in a tatty armchair Nicholas had carried out. The apple trees were late to blossom, heavy with small green fruit; a starling gawped from the fence.
I dont know if happy is the word, Eleanor said. But Im alright here. Really alright.
Good, Victor said. And she knew, by the way he said it, he understood something now hed never understood before.
They made their farewells lightly.
Eleanor stepped out onto the porch.
Mum, fancy a cuppa?
Love one.
She set the kettle. The old brown one, handle chipped. Her mothers geraniums beamed from the sill, the scent of mown grass and warm wood drifting through the window.
At half five, Nicholas arrived, knocking at the doorframe.
Margaret, evening. Brought you some raspberries. First of the season.
Thank you, love. Come in, Margaret called.
Eleanor heard their voices, soft and easy in the kitchen, and paused, cradling the mugs. Just for a moment, she listened the voices, the warmth, the smell of tea and flowers, knowing that somewhere in a perfect London flat, someone had chosen the right furniture and the wrong life.
Shed chosen her life. Or was choosing, every day.
She walked in with the mugs.
Nicholas, stay for tea?
Wouldnt say no.
Margaret looked at her daughter the left corner of her mouth curling in a real, lopsided smile.
Sit down, both of you, Margaret said.
And they did.
The sun slipped behind the rooftops, long shadows tumbling across the lawn, the starling singing something strange and borrowed, the raspberries glowing with July warmth.
And there was nothing else that needed to be said.
