The Carer for the Widower A month ago, she was hired to look after Regina White—an elderly woman re…

The Carer for a Widower

A month ago she was hired to care for Margaret Westbrooka woman left bedbound by a stroke. For four weeks, Helen turned her every two hours, changed sheets, checked the drips. Day and night, she watched over her.

Three days ago, Margaret passed away. Quietly, in her sleep. The doctors signed the report: a second stroke. No one at fault.

No oneexcept the carer. Or so thought the deceaseds daughter.

Helen absently rubbed the thin white scar on her wrista burn from her first job at the NHS clinic, fifteen years ago. Shed been a naive girl then. Now she was nearing forty, divorced, her son living with her ex-husband. She had a reputationone under threat of ruin now.

Youve even come here?

Emily appeared as if from nowhere, her hair pulled back so tightly her temples paled. Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. For the first time, she looked older than her twenty-five years.

I wanted to say goodbye, Helen said, keeping her voice calm.

Goodbye? Emily hissed, lowering her voice. I know what you did. Everyone will know.

She walked away, heading towards the chapel, towards her father, who stood by the coffin, face set in stone, right hand buried deep in his blazer pocket.

Helen didnt follow. She didnt offer an explanation. She knew already: whatever happenedblame would fall on her.

…Emilys post appeared online two days later.

My mother died under mysterious circumstances. The carer we hired may have hastened her death. The police refuse to investigate. But I wont stop until I get justice.

Three thousand shares. Dozens of commentsmost offering sympathy. A handful urging to find that wretch.

Helen read it on the bus returning from the GP surgery. Or rather, from where her temp job had been.

Helen West, you do understand, the practice manager said, unable to look her in the eye. The attention patients are worried. Staff are anxious. Just for nowuntil it quiets down.

Just for now. Helen knew what that meant. Never.

Her bedsita room with a kitchenette and combined bathroomgreeted her with silence. Her kingdom since the divorce: twenty-eight square metres on the third floor, no lift. Barely enough to survive. Not enough for a life.

The kettle had only just started to boil when her phone rang.

Miss West? Its Edward Westbrook.

The kettle nearly slipped from her hand. His voice was low and hoarseshe remembered it, though hed rarely spoken to her in the month she nursed his wife. But each word stayed with her.

Yes, Im listening.

I need your help. Margarets things I cant. Emily even less so. Youre the only one who knows where everything is.

Helen hesitated. Then asked, Your daughter accuses me of murder. Are you aware?

A pause. Long, heavy.

Yes.

And youre still calling?

I am.

She should have said no. Any rational person would. But there was somethingnot in the words, but the strained plea in his voicethat made her say,

Ill come tomorrow. Two oclock.

The Westbrooks house stood just outside towna two-storey, spacious, and now empty home. Helen remembered it differently: bustling with nurses, the drone of medical devices, the TV humming from Margarets room. Now, silence settled over the place like dust.

Edward opened the door himself. Nearing fifty, grey streaks at his temples; broad-shouldered but now hunched in a way he hadnt been a month ago. Right hand in his pocketshe noticed the metallic outline. A key?

Thank you for coming.

No need to thank me. Im not doing this for you.

He raised an eyebrow.

Oh? For whom then?

For myself, she thought. To find out whats actually going on. Why are you silent? Why wont you defend me, when you know Im innocent?

Out loud, she said, For the sake of order. The key to her room?

Margarets room smelled of lily of the valleysweet, heady perfume deep in the walls. Helen got to work: sorting through wardrobes, folding clothes into boxes, tidying up documents. Edward stayed downstairs, his footsteps pacing from corner to corner.

On the bedside table, a photo. She picked it up to pack it awaythen froze. Edward, youngnot much older than twenty-five. Beside him a fair-haired woman, beamingnot Margaret.

Helen flipped it over. On the back, faded ink: Eddy & Laura, 1998.

Curious. Why would Margaret keep a picture of her husband with another woman by her bed?

She slipped the photo into her handbag and carried on. When she knelt by the bed to reach for another box, her fingers brushed against something wooden.

A small box. Unlocked. She pulled it out, the lid fell back.

Insideenvelopes. Dozens, stacked neatly by a careful hand. All in the same rounded, feminine handwriting. All opened and resealed.

Helen picked up the top envelope. Recipient: Edward Andrew Westbrook. From: L. V. Anderson, Manchester.

DateNovember 2024. One month prior.

She sifted through the pile. The oldest dated to 2004. Twenty years. For two decades, someone had written to Edwardand Margaret intercepted the letters.

But she never threw them awayshe kept them. Why?

Helen sniffed the envelope. That same lily of the valley. Margaret had held each one, read and reread themthe folds worn soft.

She took the box to the bed and sat. Her hands shook.

This changed everything.

Mr Westbrook.

He looked up. Hed been sitting at the kitchen table, untouched mug before him.

Well?

Not finished. She placed an envelope in front of him. Who is Laura Anderson?

Something changed in his facenot paleness, but a hardening. His hand in the pocket gripped tighter.

Where did you find this?

Box under the bed. There are hundreds. Twenty years worth. All opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.

He said nothing. An age passed before he rose, turned to the window, back to her.

You knew? Helen asked.

Found out three days ago. After the funeral. Sorting her belongings. I thought I could handle it. I found the box.

And you kept silent?

What am I supposed to say? He spun around. My wife spent twenty years stealing my post. Letters from the woman I loved before her.

Saved themfor trophies, or as punishment for herself, I really dont know. And nowshould I tell my daughter, who adored her mother?

Helen stood up.

Your daughter accuses me of ending your wifes life. Ive lost my job. My names been dragged all over the internet. And you keep quiet, out of fear of the truth?

He stepped closer. His eyes dark, exhausted.

I keep quiet because I dont know how to live with it. Twenty years, Helen. Laura wrote to me for twenty yearsI thought shed forgotten, moved on, married, raised children. Yet

He didnt finish.

Helen lifted the envelope.

A Manchester return address. Ill go.

Why?

Because someone needs the truth. If not youme.

Laura Anderson lived in a first-floor flat on the outskirts of Manchester. Geraniums in the window, a tabby cat sprawled across the sill. Helen rang the bell, uncertain what shed say.

A woman about Edwards age answered. Fair hair in a loose knot; laughter lines framing cautious eyes.

Youre Laura Anderson?

I am. And you are?

Helen offered over the envelope.

I found your letters. Every last one. Opened, readthen hidden away.

Laura looked at the envelope as if it might bite, then met Helens gaze.

Come in.

The kitchen was as tiny as Helens own. Tea went cold in their mugs.

I wrote every month for twenty years, Laura faltered. Sometimes more. Never a reply. I thoughthe must loathe me. For letting him go.

Let him go? Helen prompted.

Laura gripped her mug with both hands.

We were together three years, from university. He wanted to marry. I I got scared. I was twenty-two. I thought I had foreverwhat was the rush?

Told him to wait. He did, for half a year. Then Margaret turned upconfident, knew exactly what she wanted. I I lost him.

Helen stayed silent.

After they married, I moved to my aunts in Manchester. Thought itd help me forget. But I didnt. Five years on, I started writingnot to get him back, just so hed know I was here. That I still thought of him.

And he never replied?

Not once, Lauras smile was bitter. Now I know why.

Helen took the photograph from her bag.

This was on her nightstand. ‘Eddy & Laura, 1998.’

Laura took it, her fingers trembling.

She kept itby her own bed?

Yes.

Silence.

You know, Laura said at last, I hated her my whole life. The woman who took my love away. But now I just pity her.

To be frightened every day that your husband will remember another. Reading my letters, hiding them. Thats hell. Hell of her own making.

Helen rose.

Thank you for telling me.

Wait Laura stood too. Why are you doing this? Youre not family, not a friend.

Helen hesitated.

Im accused of killing her. Edwards daughter thinks I hurried her end, to take her place.

And you want to prove your innocence?

Helen shook her head.

I want to understand the truth. The rest will follow.

On the train back, she called Edward. He waited on the porch. The sun was low, long tree shadows across the lawn.

You were right, Helen said as she approached. She wrote for twenty years. Never married. She waited.

He didnt reply. The hand in his pocket clenched and unclenched.

Youre guarding something in your safe, Helen said. You touch the key constantly, afraid it will go missing.

A beat.

Come with me.

The safe was in the studyold, heavy, grey with age. Edward unlocked it and produced an envelope. The handwriting was sharp, unevenMargarets.

She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while looking for funeral papers.

Helen read:

Edward

If you have found this, then I am gone and you have found the box. I always knew you might one day. I just couldnt stop myself.

I started intercepting her letters in 2004. Five years after our wedding. You became distant, withdrawn. I thought youd fallen out of love with me. Then I found the first letter in the post. Then I knew.
She never let you go. Never.

I should have shown you that letter. I should have asked. But I was frightenedfrightened youd leave, that youd choose her. So I hid the letter. And the next. And the next.

For twenty years I stole your post. For twenty years I read another womans love for you. And hated myself every day for ityet I couldnt stop.

I loved you so much, I destroyed everything: your choice, her hope, my conscience.

Forgive me, if you can. I know I do not deserve it.

Margaret

Helen let the letter fall into her lap.

Does Emily know?

No.

She needs to. You know it.

Edward looked away.

She worshipped her mother. This would break her.

Shes already broken, Helen said quietly. She lost her mother, and now she fears losing youso she seeks to blame someone. To fight grief with an enemy. If you tell the truthshe might hate you, at first. But shell understand, in time. If you dontshell never forgive either of you, or herself.

His eyes were wet when he faced her.

I dont know how to talk to her. Not after Margarets illnesswe stopped talking.

Then start. Today.

Emily arrived within an hour. Helen watched from the window as she stepped out of her car, snapped her hair tie, faltered seeing her father at the door.

They talked for ages. Helen couldnt hear the wordsonly voices. At first, Emily yelled. Then she cried. Then all went quiet.

When the door opened, Emily emerged with Margarets letter in her hand. Her face was swollen from weeping. But her eyesstripped of anger, simply lost.

She approached Helen, who braced for blame, accusation, anything.

I took down the post, Emily said. I wrote a correction. And Im sorry. I was wrong.

Helen nodded.

I understand. Grief makes us cruel.

Emily shook her head.

Not grieffear. I was terrified of being left alone. First Mum left, then Dad turned distant. And you were there, you saw her final days, saw her differently. I convinced myself you wanted to replace her. Take my father.

I dont want anything from you.

I know. I do, now.

She reached outawkward, like shed forgotten how. Helen took her hand.

Mum she was unhappy, wasn’t she? Emily asked softly. Her whole life?

Helen thought of the letter. Of twenty years of fear and jealousy. Of love that had become a cage.

She loved your father. In her own way. Not the right way. But she loved him.

Emily nodded. Then sat on the porch steps, weeping quietly, no sound.

Helen sat next to her. She didnt touch herjust sat, present.

Two weeks passed.

Helen was reinstated in her jobafter Emily herself rang the practice manager. Reputation is fragile, but sometimes it can heal.

Edward phoned early one eveningjust as he had the first time.

Helen. I wanted to thank you.

For what?

For the truth. For not letting me hide.

A pause.

Im going up to Manchester, he said. Tomorrow. To see Laura. Ive no idea what Ill say. Dont know if shell want me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long to stay silent.

Helen smiledhe couldnt see but perhaps he sensed it.

Good luck, Edward.

Edward, he said. Just Edward.

A month on, he came backnot alone.

Helen found out by chancespotting them at the market. Edward carrying bags, Laura choosing tomatoes. An everyday pairand yet something in their ease together spoke of something more.

Edward saw her. Raised a hand in greetinghis right, no longer secretive.

Helen waved back and walked on.

That evening she opened her window in the small flat. The May air carried the scent of lilac and distant car exhaust. An ordinary smell. Alive.

Helen thought of Margarether lily of the valley, her box of letters, her love that became a cell. Of Lauratwenty years of hope, letters unread, a stubborn spark of faith. Of Edward his silence, the key always in his pocket, the man who at last had chosen.

Then she stopped thinking. Just sat by the window, listening to the city, waitingnot even knowing for what.

Her phone rang.

Helen? Its Edward. Just Edward. Were having teaLauras making pie. Will you join us?

Helen looked around her flattwenty-eight square metres of hush. Then at the open window.

Ill be there in an hour.

She hung up, picked up her keys, and left.

The door closed with a gentle click. Overhead, the sunset shimmeredwarm, promising peace for tomorrow.