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Застрягши в ліфті, Вика почула таємниці, які не повинні були б бути почутими

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– Нічого не вирішується миттєво, усе потрібно робити поступово… Підготуватися, аби не втратити півжиття.

Я йшла додому, у сумці лежала невеличка коробочка. Всередині були годинники для Кості – елегантні, дорогі, які я вибирала з особливим трепетом.

Довгі місяці я відклажувала гроші з кожної зарплати, щоб зробити йому особливий подарунок.

Завтра у чоловіка день народження. Сорок два – дата не кругла, але мені хотілося перетворити цей день на щось незабутнє. Ми разом вже п’ятнадцять років.

Пам’ятаю, як зустрілися на святі в нашого спільного друга, як заговорили й говорили до глибокої ночі, стоячи у під’їзді.

Ліфт у нашому будинку завжди був примхливим. Старий, ще радянських часів, з фанерними стінками, списаними графіті.

Я натиснула кнопку виклику. Кабіна повільно спускалася, скриплячи так, ніби їй було важко виконувати свою справу.

Нарешті двері відкрилися, світло всередині мигнуло. Я увійшла й натиснула на стерту кнопку з цифрою «8».

Двері закрилися, ліфт повільно поповз угору.

Я уявляла, як завтра проведу весь день з чоловіком. Вечором зберуться друзі та батьки.

Раптом ліфт різко дёрнувся й зупинився.

Я знову натиснула на вісімку. Потім спробувала інші кнопки. Безрезультатно.

– Тільки цього не вистачало! – пробурчала я, зітхнувши. – Ось невдача.

Натиснула кнопку зв’язку з диспетчером. З динаміка почулося шипіння, а потім молодий жіночий голос:

– Диспетчер слухає.

– Я застрягла в ліфті між першим і другим поверхами.

– Повідомила майстру. Чекайте, скоро прибуде допомога.

– А коли саме? – спитала я, але у відповідь почула лише тишу. Зв’язок розірвався.

Я дістала телефон. Сигнал ловив погано – одно ділення.

Телефонувала Кості, але він не відповів. Напевно, був зайнятий на нараді чи в метро. Зазвичай у цей час він якраз повертався додому.

Пройшло близько двадцяти хвилин. Я сиділа на корточках, спираючись до стіни ліфта.

Телефон майже розрядився, і я вирішила його вимкнути.

Раптом почула голоси за дверима.

Жіночий, дзвінкий, з легким хрипом.

Це була Інна – сусідка з другого поверху. Молода, яскрава, завжди на високих підборах. Ми вітаємося при зустрічах, але близькими знайомими не були. Одного разу я допомогла їй донести пакунки, вона пригостила мене чаєм, однак далі цього наші стосунки не просунулися.

– Ти обіцяв! – казала вона наполегливо. – Скільки можна відкладати? Я більше не можу терпіти!

Чоловічий голос щось відповів, але занадто тихо. Я не розібрала слів, лише інтонацію – виправдовуючу, трохи роздратовану.

– Твої обіцянки нічого не варті! – продовжила Інна. – У мене більше немає сил це слухати! Ти ж дорослий, а ведеш себе як дитина!

Мимоволі я прислухалася. Сімейний конфлікт?

В іншій ситуації мені було б незручно підслуховувати, але зараз, через нудьгу й безвихідь, я мимоволі стала свідком чужої розмови.

– Що ти від мене хочеш, Інночко?

Чоловічий голос став голоснішим, і я завмерла.

Тембр, інтонації… Це був Костя?

Я притиснулася до дверей ліфта. Не може бути.

Костя повинен бути на роботі. Або вдома. Але ніяк не в квартирі нашої сусідки.

– Я хочу, щоб ти вже сказав їй правду, – голос Інни тремтів від обурення. – Ти повинен розлучитися. Скільки ще це триватиме? Скільки можна тягнути час?

– Нічого не можна вирішити одразу, зрозумій, – тепер я точно впізнала голос чоловіка. – Потрібно підготуватися. При розлученні я втрачу половину майна: квартиру, автомобіль, дачу…

– А як же наш син? Ти хоч трішки про нього подумав?

Світ навколо мене закрутився, ніби я втратила опору. Син? Про що вона говорить?

– Йому скоро рік, – продовжила Інна з явним докором у голосі. – Він бачить батька тільки по вихідних, та й то не завжди. Як ти можеш називати себе батьком, якщо тебе ніколи немає поруч?

Я хотіла кричати, стукати в двері ліфта з усієї сили. Хотіла закричати, що чую кожне слово. Але тіло, неначе окаменіло, не хотіло підкорятися.

Я застигла, наче провалилася в крижану безодню. В голові металися обривки думок, спогадів, запитань.

– Підожди ще трохи, – голос Кості звучав втомлено й безсильно. – Я все вже продумав. Скоро все вирішиться.

– Що саме ти продумав? – Інна хмикнула недовірливо. – Ти завжди говориш одне й те саме. У тебе завжди є відмовки.

– Я почав переводити гроші на інший рахунок, – відповів він діловим тоном. – Автомобіль оформив на брата. Скоро скажу, що їду в відрядження, а сам подам на розлучення. Так буде простіше для всіх.

– Чому не зараз? – у її голосі звучало явне недовіра.

Я повільно опустилася на підлогу ліфта, стискаючи коробочку з годинниками так міцно, наче це могло утримати мене від падіння в безодню.

Думки плуталися, стикалися, рвалися одна за одною. Як це сталося? Коли? Адже ми були так щасливі! Навіть планували побудувати нову лазню на дачі цим літом.

Костя завжди здавався таким уважним, таким дбайливим. Чи ж не все це було просто маскою?

І тут згадалися слова матері. Перед весіллям вона взяла мене за руки й серйозно сказала:
«Костя – помітний чоловік. За такими завжди дівчата ходять. Будь обережна, щоб не зруйнував ваш шлюб».

Я тоді тільки засміялася. Її застереження здалося мені смішним і недоречним.
Як же я помилялася…

Голоси за дверима стихли. Здавалося, весь цей величезний будинок погрузився в тишу, залишивши мене одну.

У голові крутилося тисячі питань: як давно це почалося? Чи знають інші сусіди? І найголовніше – що мені тепер робити?

Якщо Костя задумав так зробити зі мною, то я зроблю перший крок. Вирішила розкрити його в власний день народження. Нехай дізнається, чим обернеться його обман.

Через кілька хвилин пролунав стук у двері ліфта.

– Ей, там хтось є? – почувся чоловічий голос.

– Так, я тут! – відповіла я, важко піднімаючись. Ноги затекли від довгого сидіння на корточках.

– Зараз відкрию, не хвилюйтеся!

Почувся скрегіт інструментів, і через кілька хвилин двері ліфта, нарешті, відкрилася.

На майданчику стояв літній майстер у синьому комбінезоні з емблемою управляючої компанії. Сиві волосся, зморшкувате обличчя, грубі руки.

– Ну ось, – він усміхнувся, – свобода! Давно сидите?

– Не знаю точно. Телефон розрядився, а годинників у мене немає, – відповіла я, виходячи з ліфта.

З полегшенням вирівнялася, відчуваючи, як напруга покидає моє тіло.

– Ці старі ліфти зовсім ні до чого, – зітхнув майстер. – Але міняти їх ніхто не поспішає. Грошей немає, кажуть.

Я кивнула, подякувала йому й повільно піднялася пішком на восьмий поверх.

Відкрила двері квартири. Костя вже був вдома, сидів у вітальні з ноутом на колінах. Окуляри сповзли на кінчик носа, волосся розпатлане – він завжди так робив, коли зосереджувався.

– О, ти повернулася! – він усміхнувся своєю звичною теплою усмішкою. – Я телефонував тобі, але ти не відповідала.

– Застряла в ліфті, – відповіла я, намагаючись, щоб голос звучав звично. – Телефон майже розрядився.

– Знову цей ліфт, – похитав головою Костя. – Треба вже писати колективну скаргу. Скільки можна терпіти?

Я дивилася на нього й не могла зрозуміти, як він навчився так вміло брехати. Кожен його жест, кожна інтонація здавалася тепер фальшивою, наиграною.

– Ужинати будеш? – спитала я, прямуваючи на кухню. – Приготую пасту.

– Звісно, – відгукнувся він. – Допомогти?

– Ні, впораюся, – відмахнулася я і почала діставати продукти з холодильника.

Вечір пройшов як завжди. Ми вечеряли, обговорювали новини, дивилися серіал. Костя розповідав про робочі моменти, я уважно слухала, кивала, сміялася над його жартами.

А всередині зростав мій план.

Ранок наступного дня почався з мого нарочито бадьорого:

– З днем народження, любий!

Костя відкрив очі, потягнувся й усміхнувся.

– Дякую, люба.

– У мене для тебе сюрприз, – загадково усміхнулася я. – Але спершу тобі потрібно закрити очі.

– Що ти задумала?

– Усі дізнаєшся, – я дістала з шафи його темно-синій краватку. – Повороти, зав’яжу тобі очі.

Костя послухався. Я акуратно зав’язала краватку на його очах, перевіривши, щоб він нічого не бачив.

– Куди ти мене ведеш? – спитав він, коли я вивела його з квартири.

У його голосі звучали цікавість і легка тривога.

– Сподіваюся, не на стрибок з парашутом? Я ж висоти боюся, ти знаєш це.

– Скоро дізнаєшся, – відповіла я, направляючи його до ліфта. – Просто довірся мені.

Ми спустилися на другий поверх. Я вивела Костю з ліфта і підвела до дверей квартири Інни.

Я натиснула кнопку дзвінка.

Кожна секунда очікування тяглася безкінечно.

У голові малювалися картини: ось двері відкриваються, а на обличчі Інни з’являється вираження шоку. Я уявляла її здивування.

Нарешті двері приоткрилися. На порозі стояла сусідка в домашньому халаті, з рушником на ще мокрих волоссі. Її обличчя відображало лише легке недоуміння.

— Забирай його, — произнесла я та трохи підштовхнула Костю вперед.

— Що? — Інна дивилася на нас з явним непорозумінням.

Я провела чоловіка всередину квартири. Він ще нічого не зрозумів, але слухняно рухався за мною.

— Можеш зняти пов’язку, — сказала я впевнено.

Костя зняв краватку з очей, поморгав і почав озиратися.

— Де ми? Що відбувається? — він переводив погляд з мене на Інну, явно не впізнаючи обстановку. — Чия це квартира?

Я скрестила руки на грудях, готуючись до розв’язки.

— Запитай у своєї Інни, — холодно кинула я.

Костя вглядівся на сусідку з таким щирим недоумінням, що на мить я засумнівалася.

— Про що ти взагалі говориш? — він питаннями дивився то на мене, то на Інну. — Віка, поясни, будь ласка.

Інна також виглядала озадаченою.

— Ви що, зовсім зумерли? — спитала вона.

— Досить прикидатися, — прошипіла я. — Я все чула вчора. Вашу розмову у ліфті.

Інна насупилася.

— Яка ще розмова? Вчора я весь день була на роботі. Вернулася тільки о дев’ятій вечора. У мене зміна в магазині до восьмої.

Я відкрила рот, щоб відповісти, але в цю мить з кухні вийшов чоловік.

На руках у нього сидів маленький хлопчик, який з апетитом гриз печиво.

— Що тут відбувається? — спитав він, і я застигла.

Його голос… Цей тембр, ці інтонації… Майже точна копія голосу Кості. Навіть манера вимови здавалася знайомою.

Мені стало гаряче. Чоловік зовсім не був схожий на Костю зовні, але їх голоси… Вони були практично ідентичні.

Я розсміялася, взяла Костю за руку й потягнула до виходу.

— Перепрошую, будь ласка, — звернулася я до сусідки. — Це непорозуміння. Ми вже йдемо.

Дома я розповіла чоловіку всю історію. Костя слухав мене з інтересом, неначе спостерігав за розвитком сюжету у фільмі.

Потім покачав головою й обняв мене.

— Віка, як ти могла подумати, що я здатний на таке? Після п’ятнадцяти років разом? Ти ж знаєш, як сильно я тебе люблю.

— Повіриш, коли сама опинишся в такій ситуації, — усміхнулася я. — Пробач за цей спектакль.

— Нічого страшного, — Костя усміхнувся в відповідь. — Тепер у нас є весела історія для сімейних вечорів.

Нарешті я дістала з сумки коробочку й простягнула її йому.

Костя був у захваті від подарунка, одягнув годинники відразу й весь день милувався ними.

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This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house she’d grown up in since childhood. At eighteen, she was already disillusioned with life. Why did fate have to be so cruel? Her grandmother had died, she’d failed to get into university because the girl sitting next to her during the entrance exams had copied all her answers—then was first to hand in her paper, and whispered something to the examiner. He frowned, checked Alena’s work, and announced she was being expelled for cheating. There was no way to prove her innocence. Later, she learned that very same girl was the daughter of the local bigwig. How could an ordinary girl like Alena possibly win such a fight? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother suddenly arrived—with two half-brothers in tow and a new husband. Where had they all been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had disappeared after she turned four. 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His reaction surprised and cheered her: “I’m not having strange old blokes leering at you or trying to put their hands on you!” he said firmly, despite being only nineteen. “I’ll ask Dad. We have a one-bedroom flat on the edge of town. He promised I could live there once I got into uni—well, I kept my end of the bargain, now it’s his turn.” “I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Alena stammered. “What do you mean? We’ll live there—together!” “Do you really think your parents will agree?” “They won’t have a choice! As of today, I’m officially proposing—will you be my wife and live with me?” Alena almost burst into tears of joy. “Of course—yes!” Aunt Gail was delighted about the wedding, but Alena’s mother nearly ground her teeth to dust: “Getting married, are you? Clever girl! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re using your wiles instead! Let me tell you, I’m not giving you any money—and that house is mine! You’re getting nothing!” Her mother’s spiteful words wounded Alena deeply. Paul could barely make sense of her tearful explanation, but he took her home, where his parents comforted her with tea and sympathy. Paul’s father, Andrew, listened carefully to her story, astonished by all she’d endured in a few short months. “Poor thing! What sort of woman is that?” Paul’s mother exclaimed horrified by Tamara’s behaviour. “What intrigues me,” mused Andrew, “is why she’s so obsessed with claiming the house, if she really has the will.” “I don’t know,” Alena sobbed. “She always fought with gran about this house. She wanted it sold and the money given to her, then she demanded gran sign it over. Gran always refused, saying if she did, we’d end up on the street.” “Strange. Tell me, did you go to the solicitor after your granny died?” “No, why should I?” Alena was surprised. “To establish your right to inherit.” “But the heir is my mum—I’m just the granddaughter. Mum has a will. She showed me.” “It’s not that simple,” Andrew replied. “After the weekend, we’ll go down to the solicitors together. For now, try and rest.” Meanwhile, Tamara brought some papers round and tried to force Alena to sign, but Paul intervened: “She’s signing nothing!” “And who are you to tell her what to do?” Tamara retorted angrily. “I’m her future husband and I think this could be harmful to her. So for now, no signing.” Tamara exploded with insults, but left empty-handed—making Andrew even more suspicious. A few days later, as promised, Andrew accompanied Alena to the solicitors. “Listen carefully, but double-check everything before signing,” he advised. But the solicitor was scrupulous. He accepted Alena’s application and the next day informed her that inheritance proceedings were open in her name. Raissa Petrovna had left a small savings account for her granddaughter’s studies, which Alena had never known about. “And what about the house?” Andrew inquired. “The property was transferred to the girl as a gift some years ago. There are no other documents.” “A gift deed?” Alena gasped. “Your grandmother came to the office some time back to make sure the house would be yours when you turned eighteen.” “And the will?” “It was drawn up seven years ago but cancelled thereafter. Your mother probably doesn’t know. The house is yours. You have full right to live in it.” Andrew’s suspicions were confirmed. “So, what now?” Alena asked, bewildered, outside the solicitor’s office. “What else? Tell your mother this is your house, and she has to leave.” “She’ll never do it! She’s already packed my things to throw me out!” “Well, that’s what the police are for.” Tamara wasn’t pleased to hear the news. “You little wretch! You mean to throw your own mother out? You get out! Who put this nonsense in your head? That fiancé of yours and his old man? No way! I’ve got a paper giving me the right! Your grandma wrote a will making me the heir!” “Exactly!” Oleg chipped in, glaring hatefully. “Get out now, or I’ll make sure you do! The house is being sold! Buyers are coming!” But instead of buyers, the police turned up. After hearing the story, they ordered the trespassers out, warning of prosecution if they refused. Tamara and her family were furious but could do nothing. Alena was finally able to return to her home. Paul moved in with her, fearing her mother’s husband might threaten her. He was right. Tamara and Oleg wouldn’t leave Alena alone for some time. Upon realising Raissa had left a bank account, Tamara tried to claim a share—which was legally possible. Part of the money ended up with her, but the house she never managed to win, no matter how hard she tried. She only gave up after seeing every lawyer she could find. Only then did she pack up and leave for good. Alena never saw her again. Alena and Paul married. The following summer, Alena enrolled in her dream course at university, and by her third year, she had their first child. She was grateful to her husband and his family for supporting her during a difficult time, and went on to live happily ever after. Author: Odette

This Isnt Your Home Emily looked around the house shed grown up in, overcome with sadness. At eighteen, she already...

З життя2 години ago

Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a gentle chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but a booming, belly-clutching roar wholly inappropriate for a hospital ward, a sound she’d despised all her life. The culprit: her bed-neighbour, phone pressed to ear, waving her free hand in the air as if her caller could see the gesture. “Len, you’re having a laugh! Seriously, he actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Fifteen precious minutes of peace before the day’s bustle—a last chance to gather herself for surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, the neighbour was already here, briskly tapping at her phone. A curt “good evening” was their entire exchange. Helen had been grateful for the quiet—until now. “Excuse me,” she said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down?” The neighbour swiveled. Round face, short grey hair unapologetically natural, a garish red-polka-dot pyjama set—honestly, in hospital! “Oh, Len, I’ll ring you back—someone’s schooling me in manners.” She popped her phone away, beamed. “Sorry. I’m Kate. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before surgery. That’s why I ring round everyone.” “Helen. If you can’t, others might still want to rest.” “But you’re not sleeping now, are you?” Kate winked. “Right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She didn’t. By breakfast she’d made two more loud calls. Helen buried herself under her blanket, furious. “My daughter rang,” Kate explained over uneaten porridge. “Poor thing—she’s worried silly. I have to calm her down.” Helen stayed silent. Her own son hadn’t called. She hadn’t expected it—he’d said he had an early meeting. It was how she’d raised him: work first, work is responsibility. Kate went in for surgery first, breezing down the corridor and waving, cracking jokes at the nurses. Helen rather hoped she’d be in a different room after the operation. Helen’s own surgery was difficult, as always. She woke aching, sick. The nurse reassured her: all went well, it would pass. Helen was stoic; she always was. By evening, Kate was back, ghostly pale, silent for once, drifting between sleep and pain. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking. Kate managed a wan smile. “Alive. You?” “Same.” They drifted into silence. The IV dripped. The light faded. “Sorry about this morning,” Kate whispered into the dusk. “It’s nerves—I babble when I’m nervous. Drives people mad.” Helen wanted to retort but was too tired. “That’s all right.” Neither slept that night—the pain was too much for both. Kate stayed hushed, but Helen could hear her sniffling. Once, she might have been crying into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor came, checked their wounds, declared them both model patients. Kate immediately grabbed her phone. “Len! I’m fine, honestly. How are my lot? Kirky still got a temperature? Oh, it’s gone? See, I told you it wasn’t serious.” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My lot” meant grandkids, she realised. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s things?” and “Text me when you’re up to it.” Last night, when she’d still been too dizzy to reply. She texted: “All fine.” Added a smiley. Her son liked those; said messages came off as cold without them. Three hours later, a reply: “Great! Big hugs.” “Your family not coming?” Kate asked after lunch. “My son’s working. Lives miles away. And really, there’s no need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Kate nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll cope.’ Why bother visiting if all’s well, right?” But her eyes were strangely sad behind the smile. “How many grandkids have you got?” Helen asked. “Three. Kirky’s the oldest—he’s eight. Then Mash and Leo—three and four.” She fished for her phone. “Want to see photos?” For twenty minutes, Kate scrolled through snaps—kids at the beach, at home, with cake. In all of them, Kate was there—hugging, pulling faces, part of the action. Her daughter was never in a single pic. “She takes the photos,” Kate explained. “Hates being in them.” “Do you see them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter works, my son-in-law too, so I…well, I help. School runs, homework, dinner.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same in the early days with her own grandson. Now visits were infrequent, maybe once a month—if schedules aligned. “And you?” “One grandson, nine. Bright, sporty. I see him…sometimes Sundays. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Right,” Kate murmured, turning to stare out the rainy window. “Busy.” Later, Kate said quietly: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Kate sat, knees hugged to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve been thinking, and I don’t.” She faltered. “Why would I? I get there, and it’s Kirky with his homework, Masha with her sniffles, Leo’s torn his trousers, daughter working late, son-in-law away as always. And then it’s: cook, clean, fetch, fix…and they don’t even—” she paused, voice cracking, “don’t even say thank you. Because it’s just Grandma—it’s her job.” A lump formed in Helen’s throat. “Sorry,” Kate wiped her eyes. “I’m being silly.” “Don’t apologise,” Helen whispered. “I… when I retired five years ago I thought at last, time for me. I wanted the theatre, exhibitions, signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “Daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, asked for help. I’m Gran, I don’t work, it’ll be easy. I couldn’t say no.” “And then?” “Three years, every weekday. Then nursery—every other day. Then school—once a week. Now… Now I’m hardly needed. They’ve got a nanny. I’m just at home, hoping they’ll ask. If they remember.” Kate nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit last November. I scrubbed the house, baked. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kirky’s got club, can’t come.’ Didn’t come. Gave the cakes to my neighbour.” They sat in a hush as the drizzle tapped the glass. “You know what hurts?” Kate murmured. “Not that they don’t come. That I still wait. Clutching the phone, hoping—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need a favour.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Whenever the phone goes, I hope…maybe he just wants a chat. But it’s always for something.” “We always say yes,” Kate smiled ruefully. “Because we’re mums.” The next days passed in pain and slow recovery. Dressing changes were brutal; both lay silent afterward. Then Kate said: “I always thought I had the perfect family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, happy grandkids—I was needed. Irreplaceable. Turns out, they manage just fine. My daughter’s chirpy, not complaining. They’re just…fine. A granny is simply convenient—free childcare.” Helen pushed up on her elbow. “Know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son Mum’s always available, always waiting, her plans don’t matter, yours are everything.” “I did the same. Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Helen said slowly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Kate let that sit. “So what now?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Helen was up unaided. Day six she made it down the corridor and back. Kate was always a day behind but stubbornly kept up. They shuffled together, clinging to the rails. “When my husband died, I felt so lost,” Kate admitted. “My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids.’ So I made that my purpose. Only…it’s a one-way street. I’m there for them; they’re there for me only when it suits.” Helen talked about her divorce—thirty years ago, raising a boy alone, studying at night, working two jobs. “Thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. Give everything, he’d be grateful.” “He grew up, got his own life,” Kate finished. “Yes. Maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel this lonely.” “Me neither.” Day seven, Helen’s son turned up, unannounced. Tall, well-coiffed, smart coat, bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! The doctor says you’ll be discharged in a few days. Fancy staying with us? Guest room’s free, Olesia says.” “Thanks—but I’ll be fine at home.” “As you like. But ring anytime; we’ll fetch you.” He talked about work, grandson, a new car, offered money, promised to visit next week. Left briskly—almost relieved. Kate pretended to sleep through it all. When he’d gone: “That was yours?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as marble.” Helen couldn’t reply. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Kate whispered, “I reckon we need to stop waiting for their love. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, got their lives. And we need to find our own.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what else is there? Keep sitting, hoping they’ll remember us?” “What did you tell your daughter?” Helen found herself switching to ‘you’, as if an old friendship had begun. “Told her I’d need at least two weeks’ rest after discharge—doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “How did she react?” “Furious at first. I said, ‘Len, you’re an adult, you’ll cope. I can’t right now.’ She sulked.” Kate grinned. “But you know what? I felt lighter. Like dropping a heavy load I never wanted.” Helen closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no and they get offended—they’ll stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “See? Can’t get worse. Might get better.” On day eight they were discharged—together, as if fate had arranged it. They packed in silence, as if saying a final farewell. “Let’s swap numbers,” Kate suggested. Helen nodded. They tapped contacts into their phones, gazed at each other. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “And you. I’ve not had a heart-to-heart with anyone in thirty years,” Kate smiled. “Not like this.” “Me neither.” They hugged, awkwardly, careful of the stitches. The nurse brought discharge forms, called a taxi. Helen left first. The house was quiet, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Ring when you get in”, “Don’t forget your meds.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set her phone aside. Rising, she opened a folder untouched for years: French course brochure, a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the flyer, thinking. Her phone rang. Kate. “Hi. Sorry I’m ringing so soon. Just—I wanted to hear your voice.” “I’m glad. Really glad.” “Listen, fancy meeting up? When we’re up for it. Coffee, or just a walk.” Helen eyed the course brochure, then her phone. Back to the brochure. “I’d love that. Actually…let’s not wait. How about Saturday? I’m sick of this sofa.” “Saturday? Are you sure? Doctors said—” “They said. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to do something for me.” “Then it’s a date. Saturday.” Helen ended the call and picked up the French flyer again. Classes started next month. Enrollment was still open. She opened her laptop and started filling in the registration form. Her hands trembled, but she kept typing, right to the end. Outside, the rain still fell—but a pale shaft of autumn sun broke through the clouds. And for the first time, Helen thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. She clicked ‘submit’.

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