**Diary Entry – 15th May**
I was walking home after a long day at work when I spotted my neighbour, William, sitting on the bench by the front door. His head was in his hands, shoulders shaking—a grown man of forty-five, crying like a child. Though we’d never been close, I couldn’t just walk past.
“Everything alright, Will?” I asked carefully.
He lifted red-rimmed eyes to mine. “No one can help me now,” he whispered. “I’ll never forgive myself. Never.”
I sat beside him. He was silent for a long moment before exhaling, as if confessing. “Mum’s dying. In hospital now. Doctors say there’s almost no hope… and I… I wasn’t even there.”
Five years ago, he’d moved her into a private care home near Bristol. She hadn’t been helpless, but age had taken its toll—aching legs, struggling with shopping, cooking. Will was a senior executive by then, buried under endless meetings, clients, business trips. He convinced himself the care home was better: round-the-clock help, meals on schedule, doctors nearby.
“I thought it was the right thing. That I was caring for her. Told myself the high fees meant I’d done my best. But really… I just passed off the responsibility.”
The first year, he visited twice a month. Then less. The last year, not at all.
“Always something—work, women, trips. Everything felt more urgent than the woman who’d once held my hand walking to school.”
That morning, a nurse called. His mother had been rushed to hospital. Critical condition. Please come. He dropped everything and went.
“When I walked in… she looked so small. Fragile. Eyes closed, breathing ragged, skin like ash.” His voice cracked. “I said, ‘Mum, I’m here.’ She opened her eyes, smiled, and whispered, ‘Hello, love…'”
He recounted every word, etched into his memory.
“‘Don’t be cross I didn’t tell you I was ill. I knew how busy you were. Didn’t want to trouble you. The doctors wouldn’t say, but I knew my time was short. That’s why I asked them to call. I just wanted to say goodbye… to see you one last time, know you were alright.’”
His voice faltered. “She said, ‘I’m not afraid. I’m used to being alone. But I fear for you—that you’ll end up like me. That your children might forget you. Promise me you’ll always keep family close.'”
Her last words: “I wish I’d lived to see you marry, watch my grandchildren grow. Don’t wait, love. Build a family. It’s all we truly have.”
Then she worsened. He ran for the doctors. She never woke.
We sat in silence. No wind, no rustling leaves. I didn’t know what to say, just rested a hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes.
“Every day I swear I’ll change. That if she opens her eyes, I’ll do it all differently. But she won’t. And her words… they’ll haunt me till my last breath.”
**Lesson learnt:** Time with family isn’t a debt to pay, but a gift to cherish—before it’s gone.