Mum's in a care home. Dad has a new girlfriend

Times

6 hours ago

I watched my mum's face beam as she read her retirement cards, each one urging her to embrace freedom, explore hobbies and savour the best years of her life. Just eight months on, she was sat staring at the television, silent. When I asked what she was watching, she hesitated — then smiled as if to cover the fact that she didn't know the answer. Something was wrong.
Mum was diagnosed with early onset dementia at 64. The celebration of her retirement had barely faded before she began withdrawing. Less eye contact. Short answers. Smiling and scoffing before walking away. Within a few months, my dad, my brother and I knew what life had in store for Mum, and it was far from anything in those retirement cards.
At the same time, my wife was expecting our first child —Mum's first grandchild. We had decided to name her after Mum. The announcement was met with silence. No flicker of emotion from a woman who had always been so sentimental, so affectionate — never short of happy tears, even at corny adverts on TV.
Dementia tightened its grip. Within three months, Mum became adamant nothing was wrong. She refused to see professionals, shutting us out with stubborn silence. Dad took over all housekeeping duties while Mum sat quietly, emotionless, staring into space. When she became doubly incontinent and suffered recurring infections, we accepted we needed help. After she was found in her nightgown down the road, Dad called a family meeting. We made the painful decision to move Mum into a local residential home. Then Covid hit, and for the next 12 months we waved at our despondent, rapidly declining mum — now a grandmother — through a window.
I knew the adjustment would be hard. For me it meant losing the family unit I had always known. For Dad it meant the end of a 40-year marriage as he'd known it. But what none of us could have prepared for was how quickly life would shift once Mum was in the home. And how, in the midst of our grief, Dad would find love again.
Out of the blue, Dad announced he was going on holiday. 'That's brilliant,' my wife said, nodding at me to agree. I did, half-listening as they chatted about the details. That night, she turned to me. 'Did you hear him say 'we'?' I hadn't. But now I couldn't stop hearing it. We speculated. Had he met someone? Could it be a catfish after his retirement fund?
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It wasn't a fraudster. It was Carol — Mum's best friend. The woman who had lived over the road for as long as I could remember.
Mum and Carol had met when my parents moved to the street aged 29. Unlike Mum, who was quite shy, Carol was the wild one, the party girl. She told stories of nudist beaches and reckless adventures that made Mum giggle. Their friendship was built on shared experiences, always being there for one another, and a general mutual love of all things 'good housekeeping'— they were the typical Tupperware partygoers.
Carol and her husband had been there for all of Mum's milestones. But shortly after Mum's 60th birthday, Carol's husband died suddenly. Carol and her two grown-up daughters were devastated. From this point on, Carol often came over, escaping the silence in her now-empty house. And when Mum started forgetting things, mixing up days and names, it was Carol who first suggested something might be wrong. She knew Mum so well — probably better than Dad did.
After Mum moved into the care home, I would visit Dad and Carol would be there, drinking tea, just as she always had. It felt normal. She was family. I never imagined there was anything more to it.
The holiday made it official. When Dad returned, tanned and relaxed, he told us he'd been away with Carol. He explained they had found comfort in each other's company and that they felt it was right to tell us. I was in shock. My wife did all the talking. All I could hear was Mum, in my head, scoffing: 'Carol? Dad and Carol? No.'
The next time Dad came over, Carol was with him. She had always been around, yet suddenly everything was different. They sat closer to each other than before. Dad looked at her the way he used to look at Mum. And when Carol played with our daughter — her natural ease from raising two of her own — it hit me. Dad was happy. Wasn't that the point? Whether it was because he wanted an extension of Mum to live on in Mum's place, or just have a great companion, I'll never know. Dad was happy and that was all that mattered.
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Five years later, Mum is still here, though bedbound, unable to move or recognise any of us. Twice a week she gets visits from not one but two of her best friends: Dad and Carol. They care for her as a husband and a best friend would. They talk about Mum all the time, reminiscing about their memories together. Dad's attention sometimes drifts in the absence of Carol, and I know he's thinking about Mum. I have two daughters now, and one is an absolute double of my mum — Dad comments on it all the time. Carol smiles when he does. They both love and miss Mum just as much as I do.
I'm not denying the fact that there have been uncomfortable moments. When Dad and Carol cleared out Mum's wardrobe, he brought a bag of her hats, scarves and handbags for my wife. I bristled. It felt too soon — she was still alive. But the truth is, she's never going to wear them again. She's not coming back.
Without Carol, Dad would have been lonely, eating microwave meals for one, sitting by Mum's bedside having a one-way conversation. That's no life. If Dad had met a stranger, it would have been harder to accept. But Carol? Someone who had loved Mum too? It made sense.
At first, friends and family were intrigued, full of questions. Some expected us to be upset, to reject Carol. We never felt that way. And as time passed, we realised this situation wasn't so unusual. It's common, in fact. One of my colleagues had family friends in an identical situation, and I've heard of many more too. People gravitate towards those they trust, those who understand their grief, those who are just as lonely but share the same experiences and values. And why shouldn't they?
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Life doesn't follow the rules we expect. Grief and happiness can exist side by side, intertwined like the past and present. And if I've learnt anything, it's this — sometimes, the best way to honour someone you love is to keep living.