Every Tuesday Liana hurried through the London Underground, clinging to an empty plastic bag. It wa…

Every Tuesday

I hurried down the steps into the Underground, clutching an empty supermarket bag. It seemed almost like a small flag of todays defeattwo hours wandering the aisles of shopping centres, and still no spark of inspiration for a present for my goddaughter, my best friends daughter. Sophie, at ten, no longer adored ponies; now it was all about the planets and constellations. Yet finding a decent telescope within a sensible price in pounds was proving more difficult than rocket science.

Evening was settling in, and there was a certain tiredness that filled the air down here at the end of the day. I let the crowd shuffle out and slipped my way towards the escalator. And just then, my weary mindtuned out to the citys hummingcaught a snatch of conversation that rang clear and sharp.

I honestly never thought Id see him again, truly, drifted a young, wavering voice from behind. But now, every Tuesday he picks her up from nursery. Himself. Comes in his own car, and they go straight to the park with the merry-go-rounds

On the moving stairs I stood frozen for a moment, glancing over my shoulder. I glimpsed the speaker: a woman in a striking red coat, her face lit with emotion and sparkling eyes. Her friend stood beside her, listening intently, nodding at all the right moments.

Every Tuesday.

Once, Id had a day like that. Not a Monday, heavy with the weight of beginnings, nor a Friday filled with the weekend’s promisebut Tuesday. The linchpin of my world, three years ago.

Every Tuesday, precisely at five, Id dash out of the school where I taught English. Id cross townsometimes nearly runningto the old brick music institute on Marlborough Street. There, Id collect Nathan: sturdy little seven-year-old Nathan with his violin as tall as he was, my nephew. Not my own childmy brother Andrews son. Andrew, who was taken from us in a senseless accident three years back.

Especially in those first bleak months after the funeral, Tuesdays were our ritual for keeping afloat. For Nathan, who closed in on himself and practically stopped speaking; for his mum, Julia, who crumpled under the weight and could barely rise from bed. For me, desperate to hold our battered family together, a makeshift anchor in the storm.

I remember every detail. Nathan would emerge from his lesson, eyes lowered to the battered wooden floor. Id take his heavy case, and wordlessly hed let me. Wed walk through Leicester Square to the Tube, and Id tell him odd little storiesabout a spelling mistake in year eight, or the time a magpie snatched a sausage roll from a lad on the playground.

One bleak November, as cold drizzle settled in, he suddenly asked, Auntie Helen, did Dad hate the rain too? My heart squeezed, wrapped tightly in love and pain. He hated it, I said softly. If he saw as much as a drop, hed dash for the nearest shelter. Nathan took my hand then. Not like a boy needing to be ledinstead, as if to grasp some part of his dad not yet lost. In the pressure of his tiny fingers, I felt the full force of a childs mourning, cut through with something newthe knowledge that his father was real. This wasnt just a shadow in memories; he was with us in the grey air, on that rain-dark street.

For three years, life was divided into the Before and After. But the day that truly still felt alive, real, was Tuesday. The other days blurred together, passing in anticipation. I prepared for them: always buying Nathan his favourite apple juice, loading my phone with silly cartoons in case the Tube journey dragged, hunting for new things to talk about.

Then time shifted. Julia began to heal, found a job again. Latershe found someone, ready to start over, far from these memories. I helped them pack, zipped Nathans violin into its padded case, clung to him at Euston station. Write to me, call anytime, I managed through tears. Ill always be here.

At first, he did. Every Tuesday at six, Nathan would ring. And Id become Auntie Helen again, racing to fill our allotted fifteen minutes: school stories, music practice, new mates. The sound of his voice was a slender thread, tying us through so many miles.

Then the calls dipped to every other week. Schoolwork and after-club rehearsals and video games with friends took their place. Sorry, Auntie, missed our chat last Tuesday, had a big test, hed message. I always replied: Dont worry, sunshine. How did it go? My Tuesdays quietly shifted from the sound of his voice to waiting for a textsometimes it came, sometimes not. I didnt mind. If he was silent too long, Id write first.

Eventually, only the big holidays. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year. His voice deeper now, more certain. He spoke less of himself, more of life in general: Fine, All good, Still at school. His stepdad, David, turned out to be kindnever trying to replace Andrew, just there. That was enough.

Recently, Nathans baby sister arrivedAlice. In the photos online, Nathan clumsily cradled her, all stiff arms and fragile gentleness. Life, cruel and generous, kept moving. Its wounds covered over by nappies and bedtime stories, buses to school, plans for tomorrow. For me, the place as Auntie from another lifetime became tidier and smaller each year.

Now, shielded by the echoing hum of Londons Underground, that strangers wordsevery Tuesdaydrifted past not as judgement, but as a quiet echo. It was a signal from that Helen who, for so long, carried burning responsibility and fierce love, painful yet precious, a wound and gift alike. Shed known exactly who she was: the anchor, the lighthouse, the essential name in the diary of a lost little boy. Shed mattered.

The woman in the red coat had her heartbreak too, her own fragile balance between then and now. But that steady ritualevery Tuesdaywas universal. Its the language of being there; of telling someone quietly: Im here. You can count on me. Today, just this once, you matter most. I used to speak that language fluently. Now, it came to me faintly, almost forgotten.

The train rumbled off. Straightening, I caught my reflection in the dark glass.

At my stop, I stepped out, already knowing what to do next. Tomorrow, Id order two of the same telescopesnot fancy, but good. One for Sophie. The other shipped straight to Nathan. When it arrived, Id text: Nathan, this is so we can look at the stars together, even if were in different towns. What do you saynext Tuesday, six oclock, if its clear, shall we both search for the Plough at the same time? Lets compare clocks. Love you, Auntie Helen.

Climbing the escalator to the chilly city air, I felt lighter. Tuesday wasnt empty anymore. It was backthis time not as duty, but as a gentle promise between two people, woven with memory, gratitude, and the steadfast thread of family.

Life carries on. And among its busyness, I still have days in my diary I can claimnot just to live through, but to set apart as something rare. Days for miracles on schedule; for memories that stop aching, and only warm; for love that, stretched out by distance, becomes quieter, wiser, stronger.