It isn’t the place I would have chosen for you, my beautiful mum. You were always so particular about neatness and niceties, you who once loved books and beauty, flowers and friends. Now, surrounded by tattered Readers Digests and plastic flowers, with urine smells assailing our nostrils and old Mrs Jamison yelling from the next room, this is your home.

I toss the plastic flowers into a corner replacing them with your namesakes, the beautiful violets you loved so much. Not that you notice. In your mind you are a child, still playing with Betsy. I remember your doll Betsy from the stories you once told as I played with my dolls. Betsy with her ceramic face and cracked smile.

I envy you the beauty in your face, Violet; the worries and cares of the present no longer reach you. I wish I could play dolls with you, ignoring my many decades and your many more.  Instead I sit here alone, screaming inside while you play. It isn’t you who is trapped here.

Yesterday you came back to me – a few magical hours where I existed again and my children were remembered.  It felt like heaven. I prayed for you to stay, but you began to notice the plastic flowers in the corner. I tried to direct your eyes to the living ones sitting in front of you, their stems already counting down their hours, their perfume not enough. I saw you trying to find the source of other odours, turning your head at noises from next door. Instead of my heart’s cry of ‘stay with me mum’, I prayed for you to return to your imaginary nursery with Betsy.

Today as I flick through the Readers Digests, I watch the play of light on your happy face. How lovely you are, as lovely as the fresh violets unnoticed by you on the bedside table. I will never ask for those magical hours again, mum. Stay with Betsy. There is no reason for you to know the truth.