Heat It Up Yourself

“Heat It Yourself”

So, Barbara put a big pot of stew on the kitchen table and glanced over at her husband. Peter was already sat down, phone in hand, not even looking up as she moved about.

No spoon, he muttered, eyes still fixed on the screen.

Theyre in the cutlery holder, like always.

I can see that. Pass me one.

Barbara picked up a spoon and set it by his plate. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. Thirty-one years, and shed long since stopped expecting to hear those words. Still, today it felt different. Not the vague, dull ache shed grown used to, but a sharp little jab, as if a tiny shard of ice had chipped off and was now melting its way right into her heart.

This stews cold, Peter suddenly complained, putting his phone down.

I just took it off the hob.

Its cold, I said. Dyou not believe me?

Barbara didnt answer. She walked to the window instead. Outside, snow was falling thick and slow. One of those proper December days. She always thought snow on New Years Eve looked differentmore deliberate, softer somehow, as if the world itself was waiting for something to end and something else to begin.

Heat it up again, came Peters voice.

She turned. He was back to scrolling his phone.

You can chuck it in the microwave yourself.

There was a long pause. In it, Barbara heard the ticking of the hall clock, a clatter of dishes from next door, a distant slam of the downstairs front door.

What did you say?

I said you can heat it up. Start button, two minutes. I think you can manage.

Peter lifted his head, eyes wide as if shed said something outrageous, unreal.

Barbara.

Yes?

Are you alright?

Quite.

He watched herhis usual way, like a man checking if all his tools were in order.

Go on, heat up the stew.

Barbara stood by the window another moment. Then she turned, went to the cooker, and flicked the gas on under the pot. Because after thirty-one years, habit is stronger than one mornings twinge in the heart. But the little shard of ice, she knew, was still melting away inside her.

Theyd met when she was twenty-two. Barbara worked in the accounts department at a small factory, Peter managed the floor. Tall, confident, with a grin that seemed to say, I know whats what. Back then, she thought his confidence was about himselfnot realising it was more about believing he had every right to decide things for others. She cottoned on to that latermuch later.

The first three years werent so bad. Then their son, Jamie, was born, and Peter quietly shifted everything onto her shoulders: the baby, the house, the cooking, the cleaning, his family, birthdays, illnesses, parents eveningsthe lot. Peter had work. It was always the trump card. I graft all day and you want me to do the dishes as well? Barbara worked toojust that somehow never seemed to count.

Shed stopped calling it a relationship long ago. It was just life. Days strung together, one after another, in each she cooked, cleaned, ironed, shopped, visited his mum, picked Jamies son up from nursery when his wife asked. And she even managed to keep a piece of herself: books, her mate Liz, evening phone chats after Peter drifted off to the telly.

Liz was her best friend since Year 8. Liz married late, at thirty-eight, to a widower with two kids, turns out hes a proper gent. Barbara, though there was no biting jealousy, always felt a gentle, understanding envylike you might feel if someone pulled off what you never managed.

How many times, Babs? Liz would sigh down the line. Thats the fifth time this month youve told me about stew, or soup, or dinner Always some new twist, but same old story really.

Its different every time

Not really, love. Its just the same stew, reheated with a fresh moan. Can you not hear the difference?

Barbara did. But she didnt know what to do about it. At fifty-three, with three decades of, as Liz put it, a toxic marriage under her belt, its not easy to just change course. Whered she even go? Jamie, now married, had his own flat, his own life. The flat she and Peter lived in was in both their names. But at least she had work. Barbara was a bookkeeper at a little building firmher boss, Mr. Paulson, valued her, often said, Barbara, you keep the whole companys accounts straight. That meant something. That was real.

But today, things had shifted. She felt it, as real as a change in the weather. Something had definitely clicked. That mornings icy jab in her heart had melted by midday and left a little pool of warmth she didnt quite recognise.

After lunch, Jamie rang.

Mum, you coming over for New Years?

Im not sure, Jam.

What dyou mean, not sure? Its New Years Eve! Kates making salads, baking piescome round.

Ill check with your dad.

Mum, Jamie hesitated, are you okay?

Im fine.

Youre certain?

Barbara looked out at the white world. It was still snowing.

Im certain, she said, and hung up.

Peter was sprawled on the sofa, telly murmuring about the weather. Barbara walked in, stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Jamies invited us for New Years.

Too far to go.

Forty minutes on the Tube.

Itll be late getting back.

I could stay over.

Where? On the floor? Isnt young Tom on the put-up bed in their living room?

Kate says they got a sofa bed now.

Not going. My backs bad.

Barbara nodded. His back always played up when it was time to visit family, or do someone a favour. Never on fishing trips, though. Those he managed every summer, and came back chipper.

Alright. Ill go, she said.

What?

I said, Ill go. On my own. You stay, since your backs no good.

That look came back. The familiar one.

What dyou meanalone? Its New Years!

Yes. I want to see my son and grandson. You can come too, if you fancy.

She went to the hallway, reaching for a bag on the top shelf. Her hands shook a bit, but it wasnt nerves. It was something new. Something like resolve.

Barbara, are you mad?

He was in the hall now, blocking the doorwaybig, arms folded across his chest, with that face he wore when he wanted to say, Thats the end of it.

No, she replied, not turning. Im perfectly fine.

Walk out on New Years? On your own?

Im going to see Jamie. Not quite the same.

Barbara!

She turned then and looked at him. Thirty-one years, and every time she gazed at this man, shed seen things that probably never were: care where there was only habit, love where there was just a need to own. Now she just saw an older man, cross, set in his ways, and used to the world revolving around him.

Ill be back tomorrow, she said, or the day after. Havent quite decided.

She got her coat on, wrapped her scarf, picked up her bag. Peter was muttering behind her, words like selfish, old enough to know better, shameful, always the same. She recognised them all by heartlike a nursery rhyme thats lost any meaning long ago.

She opened the door and stepped into the stairwell.

The snow welcomed her at once. Light and festive, it had that crisp smell, mingled with someones oranges from down the hall. Barbara stood on the steps, face turned upwards. Cold flakes settled on her cheeks and melted instantly.

She couldnt recall the last time shed stood somewhere doing nothing. Not for anyone else.

Liz answered on the third ring.

Babs? Whats happened?

Nothings happened. Im off to Jamies for New Years. On my own.

Long pause.

On your own?

Peters stayed in. Bad back.

Oh, Barbara. There was tentative joy in Lizs voice. Barbara, is it really true?

It is.

Youre brilliant.

You say it like Ive done something special.

You have, love. You have. Maybe you don’t see it, but you have.

The Tube took her nearly an hour, with a change at Kings Cross. The whole city, it seemed, was outpeople carrying bags, boxes, all in good spirits, a bit frazzled, but bright with anticipation. Barbara watched and reflected that New Years had never been her favourite. Not because there was anything wrong with the holiday, more that it always meant the same: another table to set, salads to chop, guests to welcome, and Peter making a remark at the end that would ruin the mood.

Last year, he told her friend Vera, Still not found yourself a fella, eh, Vera? Vera managed a smile, but Barbara noticed her back stiffen. She asked Peter afterwards not to make those comments. He shrugged: “It was just a joke, don’t you get humour?”

His jokes were the sort you didn’t laugh atbut shrank from.

Kate opened the door. Young, pretty-eyed, with flour dusting her hand.

Mrs. Baker! Thank goodness youre here! And Peter?

He couldnt make itso Ive come alone.

Kate glanced at her, quick but attentive. Then she hugged her, quick and warm.

Come in, dont mind us. Bit of a mess in herebut festive!

Little Tom, five years old, tore in from the living room with a roar, wrapping himself around Barbara.

Nan! Nans here! I wrote to Father Christmas, Nan!

Did you? What did you ask him for?

A building set! With a motor and gears! You know, for building stuff?

Good choice.

And I asked him if you could come. Youre here, so it works!

Barbara laughed as she hadnt done in agesgenuinely, not just because she should, but because it was funny.

Jamie came out of the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder.

Mum! He hugged her tight, just like he used to as a boy. How was the journey?

Alright. Havent done New Years Eve on the Tube in years. Everyone looks so smart.

Come on, Ill get you a coffee. Or tea? Katemums usual?

Coffee pleasestrong, Barbara smiled.

They sat in the kitchen, Kate pottering between the oven and cupboards, little Tom zooming about with a toy car. Jamie watched his mum properly, more intent than usual.

Mumbe straight with me. You okay?

Tom, careful in that doorwayor youll fall, she replied, as her grandson swept a bit too near the corner.

Mum.

Jamie, dont look at me like that.

Like what?

Like you want to explain something to me.

He turned his mug in his hands.

I just want you to be happy, mum.

I know.

Are you?

Barbara looked out the window. Still snowing; dogged, steady.

Im thinking about it, she said at last. Thats something.

It was a lovely, lively evening. Kate was a brilliant cookthe pies so tasty that Barbara asked for the recipe. Tom conked out on the sofa, clutching his new building set, just before midnight. As Big Ben chimed, they raised their glasses of sparkly lemonade, and Barbara made a wish. She didn’t say what it was, but for the first time in years, it was just for herself.

She stayed till the second of January. Jamie asked her to stay longer, Kate agreed, Tom wept and begged for Nan to move in. But Barbara went home. No point running from life; it needed changing, not escaping.

Peter met her in the hallway, wearing the sulky look that said he wanted to seem wounded, but wouldn’t admit to feeling lonely.

Youre back.

I am. How are you?

How dyou think? Spent New Years on my own.

I did say we could go together.

My back hurt.

I remember.

She went into the living room, set down her bag, began to sort out her things. He lingered by the door.

Youre not even going to apologise?

Barbara didnt turn immediately. She hung her coat, took off her boots, finally faced him.

For what, exactly?

For leaving your husband on his own at New Year.

Peter, you could have come. You chose not to. Im not accountable for your choices.

His mouth opened, shut, opened again.

Whats going on with you?

With me? To her surprise, Barbara felt herself smilegenuinely. Its called New Year, Peter. Just a bit late.

In early January, Barbara thought a lot. She was the quiet, inward sortdidnt journal or talk unnecessarilyjust sat with the thought, turned it about, as if it were a pebble shed found in a pocket.

And this was the thought: shed spent thirty-one years beside a man who didnt respect her. Not that he was evil, just that he never saw respect as necessaryas long as he provided, sheltered, that was enough, and anything else was poetry. And had she ever demanded respect? Spoken up about it? Not really. Shed kept quiet, hid everything behind an internal wall, because it seemed better to suffer than to make a fuss or walk away.

Who told her that? No one outright, but shed caught it on the breeze as a child. Mum would say, Family is everything. Her mother-in-law, Look after your husband. Neighbour, Dont air dirty laundry. So Barbara built those walls and stuffed everything behind them.

Now, the walls were starting to crackquietly, gently, like March ice.

On the eighth of January, Liz rang.

Babs, let me tell you something. No interruptions.

Go on.

Remember Natalie Carter? Lived in my old block?

Tall, red hair?

Thats her. She left her husband three years ago. She was fifty-six. Got herself a one-bed flat, started work in a florists. Now shes running her own wedding arrangements business. She told me, Liz, I can’t think why I didnt do it sooner. I was worried everything would collapse. Only the things that should collapse, collapse. The rest stays put.

Barbara was silent.

You hear me, Babs?

I do.

Im not saying do what she did, love. Im just telling you Natalie’s story.

I get it.

Barbara, you deserve better. Do you know that?

I know it. But knowing and feelingdifferent things.

Then start feeling.

Easy to say. Harder to carry into practice, when every morning began the same: coffee, toast, Peter lost in his phone, the news blaring, and a flat whats for lunch?no good morning to go with it.

Something was shifting, though. Barbara noticed small changes. Previously, when Peter was mean, shed retreated to the kitchen to cry in silence. Now, she stood her ground, met his gaze, said nothing unnecessary but didnt flinch. Sometimes, Peter would trail off mid-sentence, unsettled by her calmness.

Once, at dinner, he grumbled, Youre different these days.

How do you mean?

I dunno, you look at me different.

How?

He frowned. Its not nice.

Not nicebeing looked at?

Nonot that. Its just different.

Maybe youre not used to me actually looking at you, Peter.

He didnt reply. Got up, took his plate away. She could hear him poking about in the kitchen, then nothing, then the telly came on.

Mid-January, something unexpected happened at work. Mr. Paulson called her incompany was opening a second office in another part of town, and he wanted her as head bookkeeper there. Promotion, more money, flexible hours.

Barbara, youre the best Ive gotno exaggeration.

She sat opposite, feeling as if shed stood up straight for the first time in years.

When do you need to know by?

Weeks time, ideally. But Im hoping for a yes.

At home, she didnt say anything straight away. She thought it through. The new office was forty minutes away. The pay would be a third better. Opportunities shed never had before.

Three days later, she called Liz.

Liz, Ive been offered a promotion.

Babs! Lizs glee burst through. Thats marvellous!

Im still thinking.

About what?

Peterll object. Other side of town, new hours

Dyou need his permission?

Long pause.

No No. I suppose I dont.

Exactly. Youve worked there eight yearsthey value you. Dont pass on it just because itll put Peter out a bit.

Next day, Barbara texted her boss: Yes pleasethank you for trusting me. Then tucked her phone away, and set about stewing up dried fruit compoteher grandson Toms favourite for his visit tomorrow.

She told Peter at supper.

Ive got some news. Got a promotionhead of accounts at the new office.

Far?

Forty minutes.

Whats the point?

Its more money, more responsibilities, and actually, I find it interesting.

You earn enough.

Well, now Ill earn better.

He stared at her.

Whos going to sort lunch, then?

Barbara pausednot for lack of a reply, but to choose her words.

Peter, youre fifty-eight, fit as a fiddle. I think you can manage to feed yourself.

I cant cook.

Thats just because you never learnt. Anyone can learn.

Barbara!

Im taking the promotion, she said with quiet firmness. End of story.

He went off, the telly ratcheted up. Barbara washed the dishes, made Toms compote, and put the towels out. Then she stood out on the little balcony in the cold, her breath vanishing into the dark.

She thought of Natalie Carter and her wedding flowers. Of Lizs husband, whod once turned up at her birthday with a massive bouquet and said, Liz talks about you all the timeso pleased to finally meet you. Barbara had cried on the way home, and when Peter asked, shed said, Just tired. He nodded, said no more.

February brought something Barbara had never expected. She was hunting for some old paperwork in the bottom drawer when she found an envelopeold, no stamp. Inside, a letter in Peters handwriting, dated years ago when Jamie was about seven.

She didnt want to read it. Put it back. Then changed her mind, somehow knowing it mattered.

It wasnt to her. It was to a woman called Jean. Short, but clear, direct, and much too personal. Peter wrote about how he felt about Jean, how good it was being with her, not knowing what to do next, home being difficult.

Barbara sat on the floor, letter in hand. She didnt cry. She thought. Her first reaction: So, he Then: All that lost time. And finally: No. Not lost. I raised my son. I lived. I found things to call my own.

She put the letter back, splashed cold water on her face, looked herself in the eyecalm, steady. Lately, she was recognising herself there as never before.

That evening she phoned Liz.

How are you, Babs?

Found something in a drawer. A letter.

Whose?

An old one. Not for me.

Pause.

Babs

Dont. Im okay. I just realised something: you dont need a reason to claim your own life. You arent waiting for proof or a ticket out. You have the right, simply because youre you.

Have you decided?

Im thinking. But now Im thinking the other way.

Liz was quiet. Then softly: Whatever you do, Im here.

In March, Barbara began work in the new office. Small team, decent folk. Especially liked Mrs. Fletcher in human resourcessenior lady, gentle smile, always the first to say hello. First day, Mrs. Fletcher brought her tea and showed her the ropesnot forced, just kindly. It felt so good, precisely because it was so simple.

The work was more involved than her old job, but that was welcome. Hard graft, new systems, calls to book in, queries to sortshed come home tired but not used up: tired and alive. Different.

Peter never took to the new routine. When he said your job it carried a sneer, as if her work was a silly little hobby. Barbara no longer cared. Shed found a way of splitting thingshome and her, two separate spheres.

Come April, it was Jamies birthdaygathering round at his place: Kate, Tom, Barbara, a few of Jamies mates. Peter even came, but clearly felt awkwardsat at the edge, gave one-word answers, slunk away early.

Jamies mate Dave, a restorer of old houses, made for interesting chat. He talked about houses as if they were people. You look at a place, its all cracks on the outside, you reckon its done for. But sometimes inside, those beams are as strong as ever. They just got tired outside, but theyre proper inside. Thats the true test.

Barbara thought thats true of people, too.

When Jamie walked her to the door, he asked, You enjoyed yourself, mum?

I did. Really.

Good. He gave her a squeeze. Mum, just so you knowyouve always I mean, if you ever need help, anything at all, you tell us, yeah?

She looked at her sona grown man of thirty-three, kind-eyed, with her eyes. She wanted to say something big but just nodded.

I will, she promised. Honestly.

In May, Mrs. Fletcher rangnot about work, but on Barbaras mobile.

Barbara, hope you dont mind me askingI know were not old friendsbut have you ever thought about getting your own place?

Barbara nearly dropped the phone.

Why do you ask?

Ive done it myself. Some years ago. Left my husband at fifty-one, rented a one-bedroom near work. The first six months were rough, and the silence was a shock. Then it got easier. Then, as I put it, it got right.

Im not saying you should do what I did, Mrs. Fletcher added. But I just wanted you to know: being scared is only natural. But you do get used to freedom.

Barbara sat long after, staring at her garden through the window. The sky was nearly summer blue; the kitchen smelt of coffee. Peter was out with a pal and wouldnt be home till late.

She opened her laptop, searched for one-bedroom flats in her area. Just to see, just to know. Discovered it was entirely doable on her wagedidnt take much figuring.

She closed the laptop. Opened it again. Closed it.

Then she scribbled out two columns in her notebook: what was holding her back, and what would let her go. On one side, three points. On the other, just fear.

Barbara lived with that word for weeks. It dogged her from first light to last. What was she afraid of? Disapproval? From whoneighbours, her mother-in-law, old friends? Loneliness? But she was already lonely; thirty-one years spent unseen is a special kind of loneliness. Fear of making the wrong choice? But who says staying is right and leaving is wrong?

In the end, she realised, fear was only habit. Habit that said she didnt have the right. That everyone lives this way.

But not everyone. Natalie Carter didnt. Mrs. Fletcher didnt. Liz didnt. They lived their own ways.

On June sixteenth, Barbara rang about a flat. One bed, third floor, bright, right near her work. The landlady, Mrs. Anthony, was about sixty and refreshingly straightforward. Met her next day, toured the place, had a chat.

Working full-time? Mrs. Anthony asked.

Head bookkeeper.

Oh, good. Pets?

No.

Quiet?

I hope so. Im as quiet as a mouse, Barbara said, laughing at herself.

Taking it?

I am.

She rode the bus home, the city a fresh green under the summer sun. Somewhere, ice cream vans, picnics in the park. Barbara held the new key in her handa plain key, yet it felt momentous. Like something she should have claimed a lifetime ago.

That evening she told Peterno long explanations, just straight out.

Peter, I need to talk. Ive rented a flat. Ill be living separately.

Real, proper silencethe telly sounded like it belonged to another house.

What?

Ive taken a flat. Ill be moving out. Im tirednot of you as a person, but of the way we live. No kindness, no respect, nothing to talk about. I want something different.

So who is he, then? came the inevitable, knee-jerk question.

No one. There isnt anybody. I just found myself, thats all.

This is madness.

It might be. But its my madness.

Youre fifty-three, Barbara.

Im well aware, Peter.

He stood, then sat again, flustered. It isnt serious.

Its very serious.

What will people say?

Ive thought about that. Not enough to stop me.

He stared for ages. Finally, in a small voice: Its because of the letter, isnt it?

Barbara met his eye.

You noticed Id found it?

I saw the envelope had moved.

No, Peterthis isnt about the letter. The letter just made it clearer. This is about me.

She left for her room then, lying in the darkness, hearing him wandering about. Telly, kettle, more silence.

She moved in over several tripsJamie helped, Kate brought Tom, who marched about her new place, checking for suitability.

Nanny, theres a balcony here!

There is.

Can I put plants out here?

Of course.

Ill buy you a flowerpot. With a real plant.

That would be nice.

Mrs. Fletcher came by with a homemade strawberry cake, right after Barbara had unpacked. She knocked, grinned, and said simply, Barbara, welcome to your new life.

Not grand, just true words spoken kindly, and it almost choked her up.

Thanksplease, do come in.

They sat till nearly eleven, sipping tea, discussing work, the city, Mrs. Fletchers daughter, Barbaras grandson and his construction sets. A simple eveninga new sort of normal.

After Mrs. Fletcher left, Barbara lay on her new sofa, under a soft blanket, and just listenedto pure quiet. Not that tense silence from her old house, but a gentle, inviting hush. Hers.

She slept deeplyand dreamt of nothing.

August came and went, busy days; Barbara found her way around, knew all the office staff, how things worked, even chatted with the postman. In the evenings, she took strolls in the little nearby park, just sitting, watching. Not thinking of anything in particular. Just being. It was a new talentand she liked it.

Late August, Peter called.

Jamie says youre all settled.

I am, yes.

Wages alright?

Theyll do.

Maybe we should have a chat?

About what?

Us, I suppose.

Barbara stared at the window. The trees swayed in a summer breeze.

Peter, theres no us anymore. Not as before. You know that?

I know. But maybe

No, she saidnot harsh, just certain. No maybes. Im not coming back.

Why not?

I wasnt happy there.

And hereare you?

Here, Im learning. Thats different.

He said nothing. Pause. Then, Youve changed.

I hope so.

He called a few more times; eventually, less and less. Barbara picked up when she felt like itnot out of anger, just because she could choose. She liked that.

Natalie Carter, the red-haired florist, rang one day in autumn. Liz must have shared her number.

Barbara? Its Natalie, Lizs friend. Do you mind chatting?

Not at all. Id like that.

They met for coffee. Natalie, bright blue coat, looked fine. Not radiant, but at ease, like someone who knew she belonged.

They talked for ages. Natalie shared stories of the florists, how, after leaving, there were months of weirdnessbut how, one day, she found herself humming on the bus, and realised she hadnt sung in years. Funny how it happens.

Ever regret it? Barbara asked.

Only that I waited so long.

Were you frightened?

Oh, yes. Terrifiedtill I actually did it. Then the fear goestheres nothing left to be scared of after its done. And guess whatnothing dramatic happens. Life goes on.

Barbara came home thoughtful. Nothing had collapsed. Jamie was nearby, Tom rang often (Nan, I miss you!). Work was good. Mrs. Fletcher was a real friend. Liz, always beside her. And something elsehard to name. The feeling that she was in the right place in her life. Not a guest, not a servant, not just Peters wife. She was herself. Barbara Baker. Fifty-three. Chief bookkeeper. Mother. Grandmother. Human being.

She saw in the new year twice over: once at Jamies with salads and pies and Tom explaining every detail of his construction set, and once at her own place, with Liz, Mrs. Fletcher, and Natalie (this time in bright green). A friendly crowd, a simple table, low music, sharing and honest laughter. When midnight struck, Barbara raised her glass and made another wishquieter, surer: Keep going.

Mid-January, her former mother-in-law, Mrs. Baker, rang from a relatives house in another city. Theyd never been close, but always kept things civil.

Barbara, the old womans voice, wobbly with age. Peter told me.

I see.

I need to tell you something.

Im listening.

You did the right thing.

Barbara couldnt speak.

I should have said it years agosaw it all, how he treated you. Said nothing. Mothers dont criticise sonswrong, but thats life. Im sorry.

Mrs. Baker

Let me finish. Youre a good woman. Always have been. You deserve better. Never mind your ageits got nowt to do with anything. Im ninety and I still look for things to be happy about. Dont bury yourself before your time. Understand?

I do, Barbara managed, lump in her throat.

Good. Call me sometimes. For a chat.

I will.

Promise?

I promise.

Barbara put the phone down and laughed quietlya bit astonished. Whod have thought: Mrs. Baker, now, of all people.

Life hands you surprises in the strangest wrapping, doesnt it?

End of February, Jamie popped by alone. Brought a bag of groceries, settled at the kitchen table for tea. They talked about his job, Kate, Toms nerves about starting school though he pretends he isnt fussed.

Mum, Jamie said as he got ready to leave, you look good. Honestly. Youre different.

Better or worse?

Much better. Its likeyouve switched something on.

It was off for a long time.

I know. And Im sorry, mum.

For what?

For not seeing. For not asking. I thought, shes alright, just living her life. Never wondered whether you werent.

Jamielisten, she said gently. People see what theyre able to. You werent supposed to notice the thing I tried hiding myself. Youre a good lad. You always have been. I know that.

He nodded, hugged her hard, left.

She stood at the door a bit, then made more tea. Outsidethe snow, still. More snow. This year seemed to be never-ending winter.

She thought how, a year ago, on New Years Eve, shed stood in front of another window in another flat, watching this same snow. That was when something started to shift. Something small, like a melting icicle. Quietly, without fuss.

Now, it was all turned to water. Water to wash with, to drink, to flow on.

A week or so later, Peter called. She answered.

Barbara.

Yes?

I saw the doctor. Nothing majorjust blood pressure. Got to mind my diet.

Im glad you went.

Youd have reminded me, in the old days.

Peter.

What?

You remind yourself now. Thats as it should be.

Pause.

Youre really not coming back?

No.

And youre Alright?

Barbara watched snow drift past her windowgentle, patient, wintry.

Yes, she said. Im alright, Peter. Dont worry.

Im not, really. Just wondered.

I know.

Silence. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

I know Im to blame.

Barbara took a moment. Wondered what to saynot wanting to wound, nor to comfort, but simply to tell the truth.

Peter, theres no anger in me. We lived a long time together. Not everything can be thrown away. But it wasnt what I wanted. I cant say if its what you wantedthats for you to work out.

I think about it, he replied.

Good, said Barbara. Thats a start.

She hung up, put the kettle on, fetched a mug. Glanced at the key resting above the doora simple door key.

In her own hands. For her own life.