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’.

Reliable Grandmas

Margaret Wakefield woke to the sound of laughter. Not a subtle chuckle or a polite titter, but a loud, raucous cackle that seemed wholly out of place on a hospital ward, and which shed loathed her whole life. It was coming from the woman in the next bed, who was clutching her phone to her ear and waving her free arm as if her friend on the other end might be able to see her.

Lin, youre mad! He actually said that? In front of everyone?

Margaret glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Another fifteen minutes before the usual morning call. Fifteen minutes shed hoped to spend in silence, collecting herself before her operation.

Last night, when shed arrived in the ward, the other woman was already sprawled out in bed, hammering away on her phone. A curt Good evening was exchanged and nothing more. Margaret had appreciated the quiet. Now it felt more like a circus.

Excuse me, she said, voice low but firm. Could you keep it down, please?

The other woman turned. A round face, cropped grey hair not even attempted to be coloured, and a bright spotty red pyjama setbright enough that Margaret thought it hardly suitable for hospital.

Oh, Lin, Ill ring you back, looks like Ive been told off, she said, sliding her phone away and turning to Margaret with a grin. Sorry! Im Julie Andrewswhat about you? Did you sleep alright? I never manage a wink before an op. So I end up ringing everyone.

Margaret Wakefield. Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean everyone else wants to sit wide awake.

But youre not asleep, are you? Julie winked at her. Alright, Ill whisper, cross my heart.

She absolutely did not whisper. By breakfast, shed managed two more phone calls, getting louder each time. Margaret turned away to face the wall and pulled the duvet over her head, but it was useless.

My daughter called, Julie confided over the untouched breakfast. Shes in bits, bless her. I told her not to worry.

Margaret didnt reply. Her own son hadnt called, though she hadnt expected him to; hed said there was an early meeting, importantshed taught him that herself: work came first.

Julie was taken for surgery first. She swept down the corridor, waving goodbye, calling something ridiculous to the nurse, who just laughed. Margaret could only hope theyd put her in a different room after the operation.

She was taken in an hour later. Anaesthetic never sat well with her. She woke groggy, with a grinding pain in her side and waves of nausea. All went welljust hold on, itll pass, the nurse assured. Margaret possessed a lifetimes practice in holding on.

Julie was already back in bed when Margaret returned that evening. Her face had gone ashen, eyes closed, an IV in her hand. Quiet, for perhaps the first time.

How are you? Margaret found herself asking, despite meaning not to.

Julies eyes opened, tired but warm. Still alive. You?

The same, Margaret replied.

They fell silent. Evening closed in, the thin light fading beyond the windows. The steady drip of fluids filled the quiet.

Im sorry about this morning, Julie said suddenly. I go into overdrive and cant help babbling when Im scared. I know Im annoying.

Margaret thought of retorting sharply, but she hadnt the energy. She simply squeezed out, Its fine.

Neither of them slept much that nightboth in pain, both restless. Julie didnt call anyone, but Margaret could hear her shifting, sighing. Once, she thought she caught the sound of subdued crying, muffled by a pillow.

The doctor was in by morning, quick to check their stitches and temperature. Well done, both of you, she declared. Keep resting. Julie snatched up her phone at once.

Lin! Morningstill here, still in one piece, dont worry. How are the kids? Did Sam really have a fever? Already gone? See, told you it was nothing.

Margaret listened despite herself. Kids, thengrandchildren. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son: Mum, how are you? and Let me know when you can. Sent the previous evening while shed still been groggy.

She typed: Alls fine. Added a smiley faceher son always said messages without one sounded stilted.

Three hours later: Brilliant! Love you.

Do yours come to visit? Julie asked that afternoon.

My sons busy. He lives quite far. No point, reallyI can manage.

Exactly, Julie agreed. My daughters the same. Says, Mum, youre an adult, youll cope. Whats the use in coming if everythings alright anyway, right?

But her voice had a note that made Margaret look up. Julie was smiling, but her eyes were far from cheerful.

How many grandchildren do you have? Margaret asked.

Three. Sams the eldest, eight. Then theres Millie and Jackjust a year apart, three and four. Julie was rummaging for her phone. Want to see some pictures?

She spent twenty minutes showing photos: kids in the garden, by the seaside, with cake. In every picture, Julie was right therehugging, kissing, pulling silly faces. Not a sign of the daughter.

Shes always behind the camera, Julie explained. Doesnt like being photographed.

Do your grandchildren visit much?

I practically live at theirs. My daughter works, so does her husband, so well, I help. Collect them from school, help with homework, cook tea.

Margaret nodded. It was much the same for herthe first few years after her grandsons birth, shed helped daily. Then, as he got older, less sonow it was more like once a month, if plans allowed.

And you?

One grandson. Nine. Does well at school. Into football.

Do you see him often?

Occasionally. Sundays, sometimes. Theyre busy. Its understandable.

Yeah, said Julie, turning to gaze outside. Busy.

They fell silent. The rain had begun, pattering against the glass.

That evening, Julie spoke up: I dont want to go home.

Margaret glanced up. Julie was sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the floor.

I really dont. I kept thinking I did, but I dont.

Whys that?

What for? Ill go back and Sam wont have finished his homework, Millie will be full of cold, Jackll have torn his trousers again. My daughterll be working late, her husband always away. Itll be: cook-clean-wash-help. They wont even they never say thank you. Because Im GrandmaIm meant to.

Margaret stayed quiet. Her throat felt tight.

Sorry, Julie sniffed. Ignore me. Im falling to pieces.

Dont apologise, Margaret whispered. Five years ago, I finally retired. Thought at last Id do something for myselfgo to the theatre, visit art galleries. I even signed up for French classes. Managed two weeks.

And then?

My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked if Id help out. After all, I was the gran, I wasnt workingI said yes, couldnt say no.

And?

Three years, every single day. Then when my grandson went to nursery, every other day. Then he started schoolonce a week. Now? Now they barely need me. Theyve got a nanny. I just wait to be called. If they remember.

Julie nodded.

My daughter was meant to visit in November. Just her. I scrubbed the house, baked cakes. She calledSorry, Mum, Sams got football club, cant make it.

And she didnt come?

No. I gave the cakes to my neighbour.

They sat in a silence broken only by the rain.

Do you know the worst part? Julie murmured. Its not that they dont come. Its that Im still always hoping theyll ring, just wanting to say they miss me. Not just when they need help.

Margaret felt her nose sting.

I wait, too. Every time the phone rings, I hope its just my son, wanting to chat. But it never is. Always something to sort out.

And we do it, Julie gave a wry smile, because thats what mums do.

Yes.

The next day brought fresh dressingsand pain for both. They lay quietly until Julie suddenly ventured, I always believed I had a happy family. Loved my daughter, shes good to me, her husbands fine, the grandkids are adorable. I thought I was needed. That they couldnt do without me.

And?

And being here I realise they manage perfectly well. My daughter hasnt once complained about coping alone. In fact, she sounded chirpy. So they can manage. They justwell, its easier if Grans free childcare.

Margaret propped herself up.

You know, I realise Im to blame. I taught my son that Mums always there, always comes running, her life comes second.

I did the same. Every time my daughter called, I dropped everything.

We taught them we dont have our own lives, Margaret said slowly. That were just there.

Julie fell quiet, then asked,

So what now?

I dont know.

By the fifth day, Margaret could get up without help. By the sixth, she made it to the end of the corridor and back. Julie was a day behind, but insisted on trying. They shuffled up and down together, steadying themselves along the wall.

After my husband died, I was lost, Julie confided. My daughter told me, Mum, now youve got the grandchildren to live for. So thats what I did. But somehow its all one way. Im there for them and theyre only there for me when it suits.

Margaret spoke of her own divorce, thirty years before, her son just five. The double shifts, the evening classes. I thought if I gave everything, hed be grateful. If I was a perfect mum, hed be a perfect son.

And now he has his own life, Julie finished gently.

Yes. Which is probably as it should be. I just never expected to feel so alone.

Neither did I.

On the seventh day, her son arrived with no warning. Margaret was sat reading when he appeared: tall, smartly dressed, holding a bag of fruit.

Mum! You alright? Feeling better?

Much better.

Good! The doctor says theyll discharge you in a few days. I wonderedmight you stay with us for a bit? Rachel says the guest rooms empty.

Thank you, love, but Id rather be at home.

As you like. Just call if you need anything.

He stayed a short whiletalked about work, her grandson, the new car. Offered money. Promised to pop in again soon. He left briskly, with a hint of relief.

Julie feigned sleep during the visit, but opened her eyes once hed gone.

That yours?

Yes.

Handsome chap.

Yes.

And cold as ice.

Margaret didnt respond. Her throat ached.

Do you know, Julie said softly, maybe we have to stop waiting for their love. Just let go? Accept theyve their own lives. Maybe its time we found ours.

Easier said than done.

But what choice have we got? Sit here forever, waiting for a phone call that never comes?

What did you say to your daughter? Margaret surprised herself by slipping into you.

Told her the doctor said I needed a couple weeks rest after discharge. That I couldnt look after the kids.

And her reaction?

At first, she was cross. But I said, Lin, youre an adult, youll cope. I just cant at the moment.

She was annoyed?

Oh, very. Julie laughed. But you know, I felt lighter after. Like Id heaved off a heavy load.

Margaret shut her eyes.

Im scared. If I say no, if I push back, maybe theyll stop calling entirely.

Do they call much now?

Silence.

Exactly. It cant get worse, can it? Might as well hope for better.

On the eighth day, they were both discharged. They packed in silence, as though it might be forever.

Shall we swap numbers? Julie suggested.

Margaret nodded. They exchanged details. They stood, awkward, eyes meeting.

Thank you, Margaret said. For being here.

Thank you. I havent talked like this with anyone in thirty years. About real things.

Me neither.

They managed a nervous, gentle hug, careful not to knock their stitches. The nurse arrived with discharge papers, then called a taxi. Margaret went home first.

The house was still and empty. Margaret sorted her bag, took a shower, lay on the sofa. She picked up her phone. Three messages from her son: Mum, are you home yet?, Ring me when youre in, and Dont forget your tablets.

She replied: Home safeall fine. Set the phone down.

She got up and opened the wardrobe, pulling out a folder she hadnt buried into for five yearsinside, a printed course guide for French at the local college, and a leaflet with the concert listings at the Philharmonic. She stared at the guide, deep in thought.

The phone rang. Julie.

Hi! Sorry, I know its soon. I just wanted to call.

Im glad you did. Really glad.

Fancy meeting uponce were both fully back on our feet? In a café, or just for a walk. Only if youre up for it.

Margaret looked at the course guide. Then her phone. Then back again.

Id love that. Actuallyhow about this Saturday? Im sick of sitting at home.

Saturday? Are you sure? Werent the doctors

Ive spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I did something for myself.

Then its a plan. Saturday it is.

They said their goodbyes. Margaret put down the phone and picked up the course guide again. Classes started in a month. Places still available.

She turned on her laptop and filled in the registration form. Her fingers trembled, but she finished it.

Outside, the rain kept falling. But sunlight glimmered through the heavinessmuted, wintry, but sunlight nonetheless.

And for the first time, Margaret thought, perhaps her life was only just beginning. And she pressed send.