Oxana

З життя32 хвилини 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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З життя3 години ago

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house where she’d grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she had lost all faith in life. Why was fate so cruel to her? Her grandmother had died, she’d failed to get into university because of a girl who had sat by her side during exams, copied her answers, and then whispered something to the examiner as she handed in her sheet. The examiner frowned, checked Alena’s answers, accused her of cheating, and removed her from the exam. She couldn’t prove her innocence. Later, it turned out that the girl was the daughter of a local bigwig—how could anyone stand up to that? Now, after all those failures, her mother had suddenly reappeared in her life, bringing along two brothers and a new husband. Where had they been all these years? Alena’s grandmother had raised her, and her mother was only present until she turned four—which left no pleasant memories. While her father was at work, her mother would leave her alone and go out partying. Even when married, she kept hunting for a “real man,” and never hid it, not even after Alena’s father died suddenly. When she was widowed, Tamara grieved only briefly. She packed up, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat inherited from her first husband, and vanished. Grandmother Raya had pleaded in vain for her conscience. Tamara only visited rarely and showed no interest in Alena. When Alena was twelve, Tamara showed up with a seven-year-old Svyatoslav and demanded her mother sign the house over to her. ‘No, Toma! You’ll get nothing!’ her mother refused. ‘Once you die, it’ll be mine anyway!’ Tamara shot back cruelly, glancing with irritation at her daughter, who watched from another room, collected Svyatoslav, and slammed the door on her way out. ‘Why do you always fight when she visits?’ Alena asked. ‘Because your mother’s a selfish woman! I didn’t raise her right! Should’ve been stricter!’ Raissa Petrovna snapped. Grandma’s illness came out of nowhere. She’d never complained about her health, yet one day, Alena came home from school and found her ever-busy grandmother pale, sitting in a chair on the balcony—something she’d never seen before. ‘Is something wrong?’ Alena asked anxiously. ‘I’m not feeling well… Call an ambulance, Alenushka,’ Grandma replied calmly. Then hospital wards, IV drips… and death. Raissa Petrovna spent her last days in intensive care—no visitors allowed. Distraught, Alena called her mother. At first, Tamara refused to come, but when told her mother was critical, she finally relented and arrived just in time for the funeral. Three days later, she thrust a will in her daughter’s face: ‘The house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be here soon. I know you don’t get along, so stay at Aunt Gail’s for a while, okay?’ Her mother didn’t sound even slightly sorrowful. It seemed she was almost glad Raissa Petrovna was gone—now she was the heir! Alena, overwhelmed by grief, couldn’t stand up to her mother—especially since the will was clear. So she lived for a while at Aunt Gail’s—her father’s sister. But Gail was flighty, still hoping to marry well, which meant there were always loud, half-drunk guests, and Alena couldn’t stand it—especially when some started taking an interest in her, which terrified her. She told her boyfriend Paul everything, expecting the worst, but was surprised by his response: ‘I won’t have creepy old men leering at you or touching you!’ he said seriously, despite his nineteen years. ‘I’m talking to Dad today. We have a spare flat on the edge of town. He promised I could live there once I got into uni. I kept my word, now it’s his turn.’ ‘But what does that have to do with me?’ Alena asked, confused. ‘How can you ask? We’ll both live there!’ ‘Would your parents agree?’ ‘They have no choice! Consider this my official proposal: will you marry me and share a flat?’ Alena almost wept with joy. ‘Of course—yes!’ Aunt Gail was thrilled at the news, but Alena’s mother almost gnashed her teeth: ‘Getting married, are you? How quick off the mark! Couldn’t get into university, so you found another way! I won’t give you a penny! And that house is mine! You’ll get nothing!’ Her mother’s words cut deep. Paul struggled to decode Alena’s sobbing that night. He carried his tearful fiancée to his home, where his parents comforted her with tea and sympathy. Paul’s father, Andrew, listened carefully to the avalanche of misfortunes Alena had endured in just a few months. ‘Poor girl! What sort of mother is that?’ Paul’s mother exclaimed. ‘I’m wondering…’ Andrew mused. ‘Why is she so obsessed with the house, waving that will at you all the time?’ ‘I don’t know…’ Alena sniffled. ‘She always fought with Grandma over the house, asking her to sell it and give her the money, or transfer it to her name. Grandma never agreed. She said if she did, we’d both end up on the street.’ ‘It’s odd! Have you seen a solicitor since your grandmother died?’ Andrew asked. ‘No, why?’ ‘You need to assert your inheritance rights.’ ‘But my mother’s the heir. I’m just a granddaughter—and she showed me the will.’ ‘It’s not that simple,’ Andrew replied. ‘We’ll go to the solicitor together on Monday. For now, get some rest!’ Later, Alena met her mother, who tried to get her to sign some papers. Paul intervened: ‘She’s not signing anything!’ ‘And who are you to say so? She’s an adult!’ Tamara snapped. ‘I’m her fiancé, and I think this could harm her. She won’t sign anything for now.’ Tamara exploded with insults but left empty-handed, which only made Andrew more suspicious. Days later, as promised, Andrew accompanied Alena to the solicitor: ‘Listen closely to everything, but double-check what you sign!’ he said. The solicitor was diligent—it turned out a probate case had already been opened in Alena’s name. Raissa Petrovna had also left a savings account to fund her granddaughter’s education, about which Alena knew nothing. ‘What about the house?’ Andrew asked. ‘The property was gifted to the girl some time ago. There are no other documents.’ ‘Gifted? How?’ Alena was stunned. ‘Your grandmother came here years ago to deed the house to you. Now you’re eighteen, it’s yours outright.’ ‘But what about the will?’ ‘That was made seven years ago and later revoked. Your mother probably doesn’t know. The house is yours—you are free to live in it.’ Andrew’s suspicions proved justified. ‘So now what?’ Alena asked in bewilderment as they left. ‘Now? You tell your mother the house is yours and she must move out.’ ‘But she never will! She’s already packed my things!’ ‘That’s what the police are for!’ When Alena announced the news, Tamara was furious: ‘You schemer! Throwing your own mother out! Get lost! You think I’ll believe your lies? Did your fiancé and his dad put you up to this? I have a document—I own this house!’ ‘Yeah, so get out! Or I’ll break your legs so you can’t come back!’ her brother Oleg chimed in with venom. Andrew stood calmly beside Alena. ‘Sir, I warn you—that’s a criminal threat!’ Andrew said pointedly. ‘Who the hell are you? Get out! I’m selling this house! Buyers are on their way!’ But instead of buyers, the police showed up. Once the facts were clear, they ordered Tamara and her clan to vacate at once or face prosecution. Furious but helpless, Tamara and her family had no choice. Alena, finally, returned to her home. Paul refused to leave her alone, worried her stepfamily might threaten her, so he moved in with her. And he was right—Tamara and Oleg continued to harass her. When Tamara found out about Raissa Petrovna’s savings, she tried to claim them, and though she managed to get some of the money as a legal share, she never did get the house. Eventually, after countless failed legal attempts, Tamara gave up and left with her family for good. Alena never spoke to her again. Alena and Paul married. The following year she was admitted to university to study her dream subject, and in her third year had her first child. She remained grateful to Paul and his family for helping her in her darkest hour, and lived out her life in happiness. Author: Odette — — The Puzzle The cottage was old but well tended. It hadn’t stood empty long—no time to grow wild or decay. ‘Thank goodness!’ thought Mary. ‘I don’t have a man about these days—not sure I ever will. And I’m certainly not one of those legendary British women who can handle everything: hang shelves, chase off burglars, and rescue cats from burning houses all on my own!’ She climbed the front steps, fished the heavy key from her bag, and unlocked the sturdy padlock. *** For some reason, this house had been left to Mary by Granny Lucy—an elderly woman Mary hardly knew, though the family tree said they were related. Strange, but who can fathom what goes on in the minds of those aged relatives? By Mary’s reckoning, Granny Lucy must have been about a hundred. Mary was either her great-niece or distant cousin. In short, a relation, albeit faint. Mary had visited Granny Lucy in her youth, back when Lucy already seemed ancient. But Lucy had always insisted on living alone, never imposing on kin or asking for help. Then, just recently, she passed away. When the call came that ‘Grandma’ from the village of Mystery had died, Mary struggled to place Granny Lucy—never expecting to inherit her cottage and a third of an acre. ‘A little early retirement gift,’ joked Mary’s husband, Michael. ‘Oh, retirement’s still light-years away for me,’ Mary laughed. ‘I’m only fifty-four. By the time I make it to sixty-five, the government will probably have pushed it further. But a gift’s a gift, no point complaining—though I can’t imagine why she chose me. I didn’t even realize Granny Lucy was still alive! I thought she’d gone to the great beyond ages ago. But fine—who am I to refuse?’ ‘Or sell it!’ Michael rubbed his hands gleefully. *** Thank goodness we didn’t sell! Just a few months after Mary officially became a lady of the (modest) manor, a much less pleasant surprise came her way. She found out her beloved Michael was cheating. Yes, just like that. A silver-haired rogue; an itch he couldn’t ignore…

This Isnt Your House Helen looked around the house where she had spent her childhood, her heart heavy with sadness....

З життя4 години ago

The Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter. Not a soft chuckle, nor a discreet giggle, but a booming, uninhibited guffaw completely out of place in a hospital ward—exactly the sort of laughter she couldn’t stand, and had avoided her entire life. It was coming from her bedmate, who was clutching a mobile to her ear, gesturing flamboyantly as if her conversation partner could see her antics. “Oh Len, you’ve got to be joking! Really? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven—fifteen precious minutes left before the nurses would rouse everyone, fifteen minutes that could have been spent in blissful silence, collecting her thoughts before surgery. The previous evening, when Helen had been wheeled into the ward, the other woman was already there, tapping rapidly on her phone. Their greetings had been concise. “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then each had retreated into her own thoughts. Helen had been thankful for the quiet. Now, all she could think was that the ward had turned into a circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you keep it down?” The other woman spun around. A round face, a short grey haircut that wasn’t hiding the silver, and a shockingly vibrant red polka-dot pyjama—hospital, of all places! “Oh, Len, I’ll catch you later—someone’s set on giving me a ticking-off,” she said, tucking her phone away and flashing Helen a broad smile. “Sorry about that! I’m Cath. Did you manage to get any sleep? I can never sleep before an operation, so I just call everyone I know.” “Helen. And just because you can’t sleep, doesn’t mean the rest of us want to be kept awake.” “You’re not asleep now though,” Cath winked. “All right, I promise—I’ll whisper.” She didn’t. By breakfast, she’d been on the phone twice more, and her voice was only getting louder. Helen ostentatiously turned to face the wall, blankets over her head, but it made no difference. “My daughter rang,” Cath explained over breakfast, though neither of them ate. “She worries, bless her. I try to calm her down as best I can.” Helen said nothing. Her son hadn’t phoned—not that she expected him to; he’d warned her he had an early, important meeting. She’d taught him herself: work is serious, work is responsibility. Cath was the first to be taken to theatre. She marched off down the ward, waving flamboyantly and shouting something that made the nurse laugh. Helen hoped they’d find her a new bed after the operation. Helen was wheeled off an hour later. Anaesthetic always hit her hard—she came round with nausea and a dull ache in her side. The nurse told her everything had gone well. She only needed to be patient. Patience was Helen’s forte. By evening, when she was brought back to the ward, Cath was already lying quietly, face ashen, eyes closed, a drip in her arm—the air of boisterousness gone. “How are you feeling?” Helen found herself asking, though she hadn’t meant to start a conversation. Cath opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still here. You?” Helen nodded. “Same.” Twilight gathered outside, and the drips ticked quietly. “Sorry about this morning,” Cath said suddenly. “Whenever I’m nervous I just can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying—I honestly can’t help it.” Helen wanted to snap, but she was just too tired. She managed, “It’s all right.” That night, neither of them slept. They both hurt—Cath didn’t phone anyone but Helen could hear her tossing and sighing. Once, it sounded like she was crying—softly, into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor did her rounds, checked dressings and temperatures, declared them both ‘doing brilliantly’, and Cath immediately grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! Yes, I’m fine! Alive and well—you can stop worrying. How are the kids? Kieran still feverish? What? Oh, he’s better? Told you there was nothing to fret about.” Helen couldn’t help but listen. “The kids”—her grandchildren, clearly. Daughter checking in. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son, time-stamped the evening before. “Mum, how are you?” and, “Text me when you can.” She replied: “All fine,” adding a smiley. He liked emojis, said messages seemed cold without them. Three hours later: “Great! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t coming in, then?” Cath asked later. “My son works. Lives far. No need—I’m not a child.” “Too right,” Cath nodded. “Mine says the same—‘Mum, you can manage, you’re a grown-up!’ Why come round if I’m fine, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closely. Cath was smiling, but her eyes weren’t cheerful at all. “How many grandchildren have you got?” “Three. Kieran’s eight, then Maisie and Louis—they’re three and four.” She took her phone from the locker. “Want to see photos?” She showed photo after photo: kids in gardens, at the beach, with cakes—and on every one, she was there, arms round them, pulling faces. The daughter was missing from all pictures. “My girl takes the photos—she hates being on camera.” “Do your grandkids stay over much?” “I practically live with them! My daughter works, her husband too, so…I help—pick them up, check homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d been much the same—those early years, always helping out. Now she visited maybe once a month, on Sundays—if it suited everyone’s schedule. “And you?” “One grandchild. Nine. Very bright, into sports.” “See him often?” “Sundays, sometimes. They’re very busy. I do understand.” “Yeah,” Cath turned towards the window. “Busy.” Silence. Outside, rain streaked the glass. That evening, Cath muttered, “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cath was sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chin, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought and thought—and I don’t.” “Why ever not?” “What’s the point? I’ll get back, and Kieran’s not done his homework, Maisie’s snotty again, Louis has torn his trousers—my daughter’s at work till late, her husband’s always away. It’s just wash, cook, clean, help … and they don’t even—” She faltered. “They don’t even say thank you. Because I’m Nan, aren’t I? That’s what Nan is for.” Helen said nothing; there was a lump in her throat. “Sorry—” Cath wiped her eyes. “I’m coming apart, aren’t I?” “Don’t apologise,” Helen murmured. “I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally do something for myself—go to the theatre, exhibitions. Even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity. Asked me to help out. I’m the granny—at home all day, must be easy. I could never say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. School—once a week. Now…now they’ve got a nanny. I just sit at home waiting for the call—if they remember.” Cath nodded. “My daughter was going to visit in November. I scrubbed the house, baked pies. Then she rang—‘Mum, sorry, Kieran’s got football, we can’t come.’” “And she didn’t?” “She didn’t. I gave the pies to a neighbour.” They lapsed into silence. Outside, rain drummed on the glass. “Do you know what hurts?” Cath said suddenly. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I clutch my phone, thinking—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Just for me, not because they need something.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Every time the phone rings, I hope…maybe my son just wants to chat. But he never does. Always something practical.” “And we jump to help,” Cath managed a wan smile. “That’s what mums do.” “Yeah.” The next day, it was time for dressings—painful. Afterwards, both women lay in silence, until Cath suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Beloved daughter, decent son-in-law, lovely grandkids. I thought they needed me. That they couldn’t cope without me.” “And?” “And I realised in here—they cope just fine. My daughter hasn’t once said she’s struggling. In fact, she seems fine. It’s just easy when there’s a granny-nanny around.” Helen propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault. I taught my son that mum would always help, always drop everything, always wait. That my plans didn’t matter, but his were sacred.” “I did the same,” Cath sighed. “Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we’re not people,” Helen said quietly. “That we don’t have our own lives.” Cath nodded, silent. “And now?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day, Helen was getting out of bed unaided. By the sixth, she could walk to the end of the corridor. Cath lagged a day behind, but persisted. Together, they shuffled along the ward, gripping the handrail. “After my husband died, I lost all direction,” Cath said. “My daughter said—‘Mum, you’ve got a new purpose: the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. But it’s one-way traffic—I give everything, they only give back when it’s convenient.” Helen told her about her own divorce, thirty years earlier. Bringing her son up alone, studying at night, juggling two jobs. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, my son would be a perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up and got on with his own life,” Cath finished. “Yes. Which is normal, I suppose. I just didn’t expect to be so lonely.” “Neither did I.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son visited. No warning, just appeared at the door—tall, expensive coat, bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doctor says just a few more days. Thought you might come stay with us awhile? The guest room’s free.” “Thanks, but I’ll be better off at home.” “Whatever you think. Just shout if you want collecting.” He stayed twenty minutes—chatted about work, the car, the grandchild, asked if she needed money. Promised to call by next week. Left—relieved, it seemed. Cath was lying on her bed, pretending to sleep. After he’d gone, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” Helen nodded. “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Mm.” “And cold as ice.” Helen couldn’t answer. Her throat ached. “You know,” Cath said gently. “Maybe we need to stop waiting for them to love us. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, have their own lives. And we need to find ours.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what’s the alternative—waiting endlessly for them to remember us?” “What did you tell them?” Helen said, switching to ‘you’ without realising. “My daughter? I said after discharge I’d rest for a fortnight. Doctor’s orders—no childcare. She protested, but I told her—‘Len, you’re grown up, you can manage. I can’t help just yet.’” “She was upset?” “Sulking, yes!” Cath chuckled. “But you know what? I felt lighter. As if I’d shed something heavy.” Helen shut her eyes. “I’m afraid. If I say no, if I refuse, they’ll take offence. Might stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much as it is?” Silence. “Exactly. It can only get better.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed in silence, as if for ever. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cath suggested. Helen nodded. They put each other in their phones. Stood awkwardly. “Thank you,” said Helen. “For being here.” “And thank you. You know … I’ve not talked like this in thirty years. About real things.” “Me neither.” They hugged, carefully, wounds wary. The nurse brought their papers and called taxis. Helen went first. Home was silent and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Her phone had three texts from her son: “Mum, home yet?”, “Call when in,” “Don’t forget your tablets.” She texted, “Home. Fine.” Set her phone down. She got up, opened the cupboard, took out a folder untouched for five years. Inside, a French course pamphlet and a season ticket schedule for the Philharmonic. She stared at the leaflet. Considered. The phone rang—Cath. “Hi. Sorry, is this too soon? Just—felt like calling.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “How about we meet up? Once we’re strong again. Two weeks maybe—tea somewhere? Or just a walk? If you’d like to.” Helen looked at the leaflet, then at her phone, then back again. “I’d love to. I don’t want to wait two weeks. Saturday? I’m tired of staying in.” “Saturday? You sure? Doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years putting everyone else first. Time to think of myself.” “Saturday, then.” They said their goodbyes. Helen picked up the brochure again. French classes started in a month—enrolment still open. She opened her laptop and started filling out the application. Her hands trembled, but she kept going. All the way. Outside, the rain had stopped; pale autumn sun was peeking through the clouds. Helen suddenly thought—maybe life was only just beginning. And hit ‘Submit’.

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