З життя
Хто батько твоєї дитини? Від кого ти завагітніла? ― батько суворо дивився на дівчину.
― Хто батько твоєї дитини? Я тебе питаю! Від кого ти завагітніла? ― суворо запитав батько у вісімнадцятирічної Уляни. Дівчина сиділа на дивані з опущеною головою і витирала сльози. Тато нічого їй не робив, тільки кричав, але й цього вистачило, щоб вона розплакалась.
― Тату, я його люблю, ― сказала вона, схлипуючи.
― Що ти знаєш про любов! Ти ще життя не бачила! Школу тільки минулого місяця закінчила, що ти далі робитимеш? На що житимете з дитиною?
Уляна вперто похитала головою і проковтнула сльози. Вона знала, що батько не любить, коли вона плаче, тому тихим і спокійним голосом промовила:
― Тату, ми з Юрком все вирішили. Він піде працювати, а я виховуватиму дитину. У три роки віддамо її в садок і я буду вчитися.
― А Юрко твій на собі все тягнутиме? Бабусі його знають про таке “щастя”?
Уляна злегка почервоніла, але потім пожала плечима.
― У нього тільки бабуся, вона вже все знає. Ми з Юрком їй вчора все розповіли. Вона спочатку заплакала, потім сказала, що вже нічого не вдієш і щоб самі вирішували свої справи.
― Має рацію його бабуся. Тут вже точно нічого не зробиш…
Олексій Іванович важко зітхнув, дивлячись на доньку. Коли вона сказала, що має новину, яку потрібно обговорити, він навіть не припускав, що вістка буде настільки жахливою. Ні, звісно, у народженні дитини не було нічого поганого, але Уляна і її хлопець були ще такими молодими.
Уляна була вже на п’ятому місяці, тож вживати якісь заходи було запізно. Лишалося тільки народжувати. Вона спеціально так довго чекала. А Олексій Іванович нічого й не помітив. Він майже не бачив доньки — багато працював.
«Якби тут була моя дружина, ― сумно думав Олексій Іванович, дивлячись на доньку і роздумуючи, що з нею робити. ― Лідія б усе вирішила, і такого жаху не допустила б».
Він ще раз зітхнув, потім вимовив:
― Ви будете одружені?
― Так, звісно!
Олексій Іванович знову пройшовся по кімнаті, потім сказав:
― Уляно, от що ви наробили, а? Вам обом вчитися треба, а ви своє життя губите! Ви ж обоє без освіти залишитеся! Все життя потім катуватиметеся.
― Тату, не кажи так! У нас з Юрком усе буде добре!
― А де твій Юрко? Хотів би з ним познайомитися!
Уляна усміхнулася крізь сльози. Це був хороший знак. Значить, батько поступово звикає до думки, що у неї буде дитина. Звісно, він покричав, але Уляна знала, що так і буде, тому не дуже переймалася.
― Якщо хочеш, він прийде до нас увечері. І ми всі втрьох спокійно поговоримо.
― Щодо «спокійно» обіцяти не можу!
― Тату, він мій майбутній чоловік, так що не ссорися з ним, будь ласка!
Олексій Іванович сердито поглянув на доньку. Йому навіть не хотілося думати про те, що його маленька дівчинка вже так виросла, що скоро сама народить йому онука чи онучку. Від цієї думки він несподівано розчулився і вийшов з кімнати, щоб не показувати своїх почуттів.
Уляна провела його поглядом, потім швидко взялася писати повідомлення Юркові.
«Тато все знає, чекаю тебе сьогодні ввечері. Буде важлива розмова, але боятися нічого. Люблю тебе».
Вона надіслала повідомлення і стала чекати відповіді. Прочекала весь день, але його все не було, і Уляна занепокоїлася. До того ж тато вже двічі питав, о котрій годині прийде наречений. А вона навіть не знала, що відповісти.
― Тату, я піду прогуляюся, ― нарешті, наважилася Уляна.
Швидко зібралася і вирушила до будинку Юрка. Спочатку двері ніхто не відкривав, і Уляна вже хотіла йти, але потім почулися кроки, і на порозі з’явився її хлопець. Він сердито подивився на Уляну і буркнув:
― Чого ти прийшла? Що тобі від мене треба?
Уляна похитнулася, ці слова наче вдарили її.
― Юр, що ти таке кажеш?
Хлопець скривився, йому не хотілося влаштовувати сцени в під’їзді, тому він кивком голови показав на двері:
― Зайди, я тобі дещо поясню.
― Чому ти не відповідаєш на повідомлення? Що з тобою сталося?
Юрко всю ніч не спав і довго думав. Бабуся, яка напередодні дізналася про вагітність, не сварила їх, але тільки запитала, коли Уляна вже пішла:
― Юрку, і нащо воно тобі треба? Ти молодий хлопець, а життя своє зараз погубиш. Освіти не буде, роботи нормальної теж. Тільки здоров’я втратиш і час. А з Уляною все одно розійдетесь, я ж бачу, що ти її не особливо любиш. І навіщо тобі через неї себе губити?
― Бабусю, що ти таке кажеш? Я люблю Уляну.
― Я ж усе бачу. Ти її не любиш. Ти з нею просто зі злості почав зустрічатися, бо тебе твоя Інна покинула. І собі все загубиш, і дівчину обдуриш.
Тоді Юрко промовчав, але він пам’ятав слова дідуся: «Ніколи не роби того, про що потім шкодуватимеш. Життя ― воно людині тільки раз дається, і прожити його треба з розумом».
Юрко всю ніч мучився і думав, що робити. З одного боку, Уляну було шкода, вона ж теж не винна, що у них буде дитина. Вони обоє помилилися, поклали надії на удачу. Але, з іншого боку, Юрко знав, що ніколи собі не пробачить, якщо зараз забере документи з університету і піде працювати вантажником.
Тепер, стоячи перед Уляною, Юрко твердо дивився на неї і знав, що не зрадить свою мрію стати пілотом. Його вже прийняли до університету, і дитина від Уляни його не зупинить.
― І чого ти мовчиш? ― в голосі Уляни прозвучали сльози. ― Прийдеш сьогодні увечері чи ні? Тато чекає тебе!
― Я не прийду! ― голос Юрка звучав глухо.
― Чому? ― Уляна відсунулася. ― Ти злякався? Мій тато тобі нічого не зробить. Він уже змирився!
Юрко скривився і пояснив:
― Я не боюся твого батька, але одружуватися на тобі я не буду. Я вступив до університету і буду вчитися. Зараз не про дітей треба думати, а про своє майбутнє!
Уляна наче не зрозуміла з першого разу, що говорить її вже колишній наречений, і перепитала:
― Не одружишся?..
― Ні! Я тебе не люблю! Йди звідси і більше не з’являйся! Я їду і не повернусь.
Обличчя Уляни поблідло, а по щоках покотилися сльози. Вона насилу усвідомила слова Юрка, який на мить навіть пошкодував про свою грубість. Потім Уляна дала хлопцеві гучного ляпаса, розвернулася і вибігла з квартири.
Юрко спершу рванув за нею, але потім тихо пробурмотів: «Так мені й треба! Сам заслужив!», зачинив двері і з сумом подивився кудись у порожнечу. Він не хотів, щоб усе вийшло так, і навіть шкодував Уляну, але залишитися з нею і виховувати дитину не міг. Юрко знав, що батько Уляни допоможе їй, тому не переймався цим питанням.
А Уляна повільно йшла вулицею. Одна рука легенько погладжувала живіт, ніби захищала малюка. Чомусь Уляна була твердо впевнена, що там буде хлопчик. Вона навіть хотіла назвати його Іваном — на честь дідуся, якого дуже любила. Іншою рукою Уляна витирала швидко поточені сльози.
― Яка ж я дурна! ― прошепотіла вона сама собі. ― Знала ж, що Юрко любить іншу.
Вона піддалася на красиві слова хлопця, який не любив її, а просто хотів розважитися. Коли Юрко дізнався, що вона вагітна, він дуже злякався, але грошей на аборт не дав. Видно, це суперечило його совісті.
― Зате кинути мене його совість цілком дозволила, ― сумно сказала Уляна.
Вона не хотіла йти додому. Розуміла, що батько побачить її і зрозуміє, що щось трапилось. Слухати повчання і крики Уляні зовсім не хотілося.
Вона довго гуляла вулицями міста і дуже втомилася. Телефон залишила вдома, тож ніхто їй не заважав думати. Щоправда, думки не йшли в голову, але настирливо лізли слова Юрка про любов і спогади, як вони разом проводили час.
Додому Уляна прийшла, коли вже сутеніло. Олексій Іванович зустрів її сердитими словами:
― Я так розумію, вам з Юрком тоді не вистачило часу? Вирішили знову розважитися? І де він? Злякався мене? Коли я познайомлюсь із зятем?
― Тато, Юрко не прийде, ― Уляна намагалася говорити спокійним тоном, але розуміла, що у неї погано виходить і голос її тремтить.
― Чому? ― Олексій Іванович уважно подивився на доньку і зрозумів, що вона плакала. ― Що сталося, Улю? Він тебе образив?
Уляна похитала головою і хотіла щось сказати, але потім знову розплакалася. Олексій Іванович тихо вилаявся, підійшов до доньки і обійняв її, як колись у дитинстві. Уляна вдячно уткнулася в його плече і якесь мгнення тихо плакала, а батько погладжував її по спині і ласкаво щось шепотів.
Нарешті, Уляна заспокоїлась і трохи відступила від тата. Той уже все зрозумів, але все ж таки сказав:
― Тепер підемо на кухню, вип’ємо чаю, ти, мабуть, голодна. І спокійно поговоримо. Ти мені все розкажеш, і ми подумаємо, що будемо робити далі.
Через пів години вони сиділи за столом і мовчали. Олексій Іванович навіть не знав, що робити. За цей день життя перевернулося, і чоловік розгубився. Уляна неправильно розцінила його мовчання і тихо сказала:
― Тату, я знаю, що ти сердитий. Але, будь ласка, не виганяй мене. Малюк не зробив нічого поганого! Не треба гніватись на нього. Я працюватиму багато, митиму підлоги, буду нянечкою або доглядачкою. Я все…
― Що ти таке кажеш, донечко? ― перебив Олексій Іванович. ― Хто ж тебе виганяє? Як ти могла таке подумати? Я ж тебе люблю! І малюка теж радатиму! Просто це все несподівано для мене.
― Правда?
― Звісно! Ти, може, своє життя і ускладнила, але хіба від цього моя любов менша стала! Просто потрібно буде трохи більше попрацювати, дитячу кімнату підготувати. Слухай, я тебе стільки років виховував і годував, невже з одним ще не впораємося разом?
― Тату, дякую! ― Очі Уляни вперше за день радісно засвітилися.
― Доню, ти, головне, не хвилюйся, більше відпочивай і роди мені здорового онука.
Олексій Іванович знав, що попереду буде ще багато проблем і турбот, але залишати доньку й онука він не збирався.
― Тату, я малюка хотіла Іваном назвати, ― зізналася Уляна.
― Правда? Це ж чудово! Будемо сподіватися, що він буде схожий на свого прадідуся!
― Або на дідуся, ― Уляна вдячно дивилася на батька.
Той усміхнувся доньці і раптово відчув прилив сил. Він знав, що заради своєї принцеси зробить все. Нехай вона і наробила помилок, але всі коли-небудь оступаються. Головне, що вони є один у одного, і скоро в їхній сім’ї буде поповнення.
― Потрібно буде вибрати кольори для дитячої та купити ліжечко з коляскою, ― пробурмотів Олексій Іванович, намагаючись позбутися сентиментальних думок.
― Так, а ще пелюшки, і сорочечки, і памперси, і ще купу всього!
Олексій Іванович похитав головою і усміхнувся:
― А я-то думав, що мені на пенсії нудно буде!
― Тобі до пенсії ще рано! І нудьгувати я тобі не дам!
― Та я в цьому вже й не сумніваюся!
Кухню наповнив сміх батька і дочки, які знали, що зможуть вистояти в труднощах і триматимуться разом, адже вони одна сім’я і люблять один одного.
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Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs. Hope Dawson’s day began the same way: putting the kettle on, spooning two heaps of tea into her beloved, chubby old pot—the one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world still felt wide open. As the water boiled, she flicked on the kitchen radio to half-listen to the news. The voices of the announcers were more familiar to her than many faces she knew. On the wall hung a clock with yellow hands. The hands still ticked reliably, but the shrill ring of the landline beneath them echoed through the flat less and less. It used to crackle in the evenings, when friends would call to discuss soaps or compare blood pressure. These days, friends were either under the weather, had moved away to help their children, or slipped away entirely. The hefty landline stood in the corner, its receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes Mrs. Dawson would fondly stroke the handset in passing, as if checking that this old line of communication was still alive. Her children phoned each other by mobile now. At least, she was sure they did: when they visited, their phones were always in hand. Her son could fall silent mid-conversation, gaze at his screen, apologise—“Just a second”—then start tapping away. Her granddaughter—a slender girl with a long ponytail—barely let go of her own. Her whole world, it seemed, was in that little device: friends, games, lessons, music. Everything for everyone else was there. For Mrs. Dawson, it was just her old brick of a mobile. They’d bought it after her first hospital scare. “So we can always reach you,” her son had explained. The phone itself rested in a grey case on the hallway shelf. Sometimes she forgot to charge it. Sometimes it ended up buried in her bag among tissues and shop receipts. It rarely rang, and when it did, she often fumbled the buttons, then scolded herself for being slow. That day was her seventy-fifth birthday. The number felt strange—foreign. Inside, she felt scarcely older than sixty-five. Maybe sixty. But passports don’t lie. The morning rolled on in its usual way: tea, radio, a gentle joint exercise routine from the surgery. She fetched yesterday’s homemade salad from the fridge, set out a pie. Her children had promised to arrive at two. It still amazed her that birthdays were now orchestrated via some ‘group chat’ and not over the phone. Once, her son had explained, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” He never did. To Mrs. Dawson, ‘chat’ sounded like something from another life—a place where people lived inside little windows and only spoke in letters. At two o’clock they bustled in. First Grandson Archie, rucksack and headphones, then Granddaughter Daisy, quiet as a mouse, and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms laden with bags. Instantly the flat was filled with the scent of bakery treats, her daughter-in-law’s perfume, and a fresh, quicksilver fragrance Mrs. Dawson couldn’t quite place. “Mum, happy birthday!” Her son hugged her tightly but briefly, as if already in a rush. Gifts landed on the table. Flowers went in a vase. Daisy asked about the Wi-Fi right away. Her son, wrinkling his forehead, dug in his pocket for a scrap of paper with the password, and began reciting a jumble of numbers and letters that made Mrs. Dawson’s head spin. “Granny, how come you’re not in the chat?” Archie called as he shucked off his trainers. “That’s where the action is!” “What chat? I’ve got this phone—more than enough for me,” she said, sliding a slice of pie his way. “Mum,” her daughter-in-law began, exchanging a quick look with her husband, “that’s actually why we… Well, we got you a present.” Her son presented a neat white box, smooth and shiny. Mrs. Dawson’s heart began to flutter. She knew what it was. “A smartphone,” her son announced, like a doctor breaking news. “Nothing fancy, but solid—good camera, proper internet, all the bits.” “Why would I need that?” she replied, forcing her voice to sound steady. “Mum, come on. We can video call now. We’ve got a family chat—photos, news, everything’s online. For booking appointments, checking bills—you said yourself the GP queue was dreadful.” “I’ll manage, somehow…” she began, but saw her son’s contained sigh. “Mum, it’ll put our minds at rest. You can message us straight away, and we can check in anytime. No more hunting for the green button on your old one.” He smiled, trying to soften the blow. Still, her stomach pinched. “Find the green button”—as if she was too muddled for anything. “All right,” she said, eyes on the box. “If you want, I’ll try.” Everyone opened the box together, like a child’s birthday years ago, only now the children were grown, and she sat at the centre, feeling more like a student at an exam than the guest of honour. Out came a slim black rectangle—cold, too smooth. No buttons. “It’s all touchscreen,” Archie explained. “Just tap, like this.” He drew his finger across the screen; icons flashed alive. Mrs. Dawson nearly jolted. This thing, she was sure, would now demand passwords, logins, or something else arcane. “Don’t worry.” Daisy’s voice went soft. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything yourself, not until we show you.” For some reason, that stung the most: “Don’t press anything yourself.” Like she was a child in a china shop. After lunch, the family camped in the lounge. Her son sat beside her, phone on her knees. “Right—look here. This is the power button, you hold it, then swipe the screen to unlock—like this.” He moved so briskly her head spun—button, lock screen, swipe. It sounded like a foreign tongue. “Slow down,” she pleaded. “One thing at a time or I’ll forget.” “You’ll get used to it, promise. It’s easy.” She nodded, knowing it would take time. She needed to accept that nowadays, the world lived in these rectangles—and she would have to squeeze in there somehow. By evening, her contacts were loaded: children, grandkids, neighbour Val Peterson, and the GP. Her son installed a messenger, set up a family group, even changed it to big text so she wouldn’t squint. “See—this is the chat. I’ll type something now.” He tapped a message to himself. Her daughter-in-law’s “Hooray, Mum’s with us!” popped up, then a cluster of colourful emojis from Daisy. “How do I send something?” she whispered. “Press here—keyboard comes up—you type. Or, if you want, there’s voice. Hold the mic icon and just talk.” She tried. Her fingers trembled. ‘Thank you’ turned into ‘thabk you.’ Her son burst out laughing. So did his wife. Daisy giggled and added more smileys. “It’s fine,” her son said, noticing her tension. “Everyone makes mistakes at first.” She nodded, but shame prickled—incredible, to fail at something so simple. When they left, the flat returned to quiet. Only a half-finished pie, flowers, and an empty white box remained. The new phone lay face-down. Hesitantly, Mrs. Dawson picked it up, turned it over. The screen was black. She pressed the side button just as shown. The display glowed gently, showing a festive photo Daisy had set as her wallpaper—last year’s Christmas, all of them together. She saw herself in profile, in a blue dress and raised eyebrow, as if already unsure she belonged in that scene. She swiped the screen as instructed. Icons greeted her: phone, messages, camera, others she didn’t recognise. Her son had warned her: “Don’t press anything you don’t know”—but how could you tell, with so much unfamiliar? In the end, she quietly placed the phone back and went to wash up. It could settle in. It needed to get used to the flat. The next morning she woke early. Her gaze drifted at once to the smartphone. It still looked like a stranger patiently waiting. Yesterday’s fear ebbed slightly. It was, after all, only a thing. Things could be mastered. She’d learned to use a microwave—for all her terror it might explode. She made tea, sat, and drew the phone closer. She switched it on. Her palm felt clammy. The Christmas photo glowed back at her. She swiped. Icons again. She found the green phone—at least that was familiar—and pressed. A list of contacts appeared: her son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Archie, Val Peterson. She chose her son. Pressed. The phone buzzed, then stripes danced across the screen. She lifted it to her ear as with any phone and waited. “Hello?” Her son’s voice was surprised. “Mum? Everything okay?” “All’s well,” she replied, a strange pride kindling. “Just wanted to check. It worked.” “There you go!” he laughed. “I told you. Well done! But it’s cheaper to call on the messenger now, remember.” “How…?” she faltered. “I’ll show you next time. I’m at work—can’t talk now.” She ended the call, pressing the red phone. Her heart pounded—but she’d done it. On her own. A couple of hours later, a notification pinged. The family chat lit up: “Daisy: Granny, how are you?” A tiny reply box blinked below. She studied it, then gingerly tapped the box. The keyboard appeared. Letters were small but visible. She tapped, one by one: “F” missed, landed “v”. Quickly erased. Tried again. Ten minutes to type: “All good. Having tea.” Missed a letter but left it. Pressed send. A moment later, Daisy replied: “Wow! Did you do that yourself?” Then a heart. She caught herself smiling. She’d written. Her words, sharing space with theirs. That evening, Val Peterson knocked, jam in hand. “Heard you got one of those… what do you call ‘em… clever phones!” Val cackled, slipping off her shoes. “Smartphone,” Mrs. Dawson corrected. It still sounded far too young for her—but she found herself enjoying the word. “And? It hasn’t bitten you yet?” “Just beeps at me—no buttons.” Mrs. Dawson laughed. “World’s upside down.” “My grandson wants me to get one. ‘Everyone’s got to have one, Gran!’ But I tell him, too late for me. Let them play with their internets.” ‘Too late’ hurt. She’d felt the same. But now something in her room seemed to say: Not yet. At least, give it a chance. A few days on, her son called: he’d booked her GP appointment—online. “How?” she asked. “Via the government website—everything’s there now. You could do it too. Your username and password are on a slip in the phone drawer.” She opened it—a neat slip of instructions, cryptic as a doctor’s prescription. Next day, she plucked up her courage. Switched on the phone, found the browser icon her son had shown her in passing. Tapped, typed in the address, cross-checking each letter from the slip. Twice she got it wrong, twice erased, painstaking. At last, the site loaded: blue-and-white stripes, unfamiliar options. “Enter username.” She read, out loud. “Password.” Typing the username was hard enough. The password—a tangle of letters and numbers—was an ordeal. The onscreen keyboard kept switching, then disappeared. At one point, she pressed the wrong button and the field cleared. She muttered, startled by her own annoyance. Finally, she gave up and phoned her son on the landline. “I can’t do it,” she said. “Your passwords are torture.” “Mum, don’t worry,” he assured. “I’ll come over and show you again.” “You’re always coming and showing me, then you leave and I’m alone with it.” A silence stretched. “I know,” he said at last. “But work’s mad. How about I send Archie—he’s better with tech anyway.” She agreed, but felt heavy-hearted. Without them, she was helpless—a burden needing constant explanations. That evening, Archie arrived, kicked off his trainers and joined her on the sofa. “Let’s see, Gran—what’s stumping you?” She showed him. “It’s these words, these buttons. I worry I’ll ruin everything.” “You can’t break anything,” he shrugged. “Worst case, you log out. Then we just log in again.” He explained calmly, fingers dancing over the screen. Where to press, how to switch languages, find GP details. “See—here’s your booking. If you can’t make it, you cancel here.” “What if I cancel by accident?” “Then you just book again. No biggie.” For him: no biggie. For her—a mountain. After he left, she sat with the phone for a long time. This little screen seemed to test her daily: another login, another ‘connection error’. The world once seemed so simple: call, arrange, show up. Now you had to master buttons, passwords, and pop-ups too. A week later, her check-up was nearly due. She woke groggy, her blood pressure swinging. She remembered her appointment was two days later. She decided to check. Switched on, opened the website as Archie had shown. Searched the booking page—her name was missing. Her heart plummeted. She scrolled up, down. Blank. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything. Or had she? Last night, she’d tried to view ‘cancel appointment’ to learn how it worked. Perhaps she’d pressed something by accident. Panic rose. No appointment meant a crowded walk-in queue—claustrophobic, coughing strangers. She felt giddy. She almost called her son. Then remembered: this was his busiest week. She imagined him glaring at his screen, apologising to colleagues: “Sorry, it’s my mum—again with the phone.” Shame prickled. She steadied herself. Sat, breathed. Thought of Archie, but he had classes—and she didn’t want to be rescued again. She eyed the phone. It was both the problem and, possibly, the answer. Carefully, she went back to the site, logged in. Her hands trembled but she tried to be exact. Yes—the appointment slot was empty. This time she clicked ‘Book Appointment’. Picked her GP, selected the nearest date—a day later than planned, but still soon. Pressed ‘Confirm’. The screen ‘thought’ a moment, then: “Successfully booked.” There, in black and white. She read it twice, three times. Relief seeped in. She’d done it—alone. To be sure, she went one step farther. She opened the messenger, found the chat with her GP—her son had set it up—and pressed the microphone: “Hello, this is Hope Dawson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve booked to see you in two days, in the morning. If you have time, please let me know.” She released the mic. The message sent; a little ‘tick’ appeared beside it. After a couple minutes, a reply: “GOT IT. SEE YOU THEN. IF YOU FEEL WORSE, CALL STRAIGHT AWAY.” The tension faded. Booking restored, GP notified—and all through that tiny screen. That night, she messaged the family chat: “Booked doctor online—myself.” She’d misspelt a word, but let it go. The meaning was clear. Daisy replied first: “Wow! You’re better than me.” Then her daughter-in-law: “Mum, proud of you.” Last, her son: “Told you! You’d manage.” She read their replies, feeling something quietly expand inside. She wouldn’t join in all their digital chatter or memes, but a fine thread now joined her to them—one she could tug for a reply. At her next appointment, all went smoothly. Afterwards, she decided to try something new. Daisy had mentioned sharing silly food and cat pictures with friends. At first, Mrs. Dawson had scoffed, but underneath, she’d envied their little glimpses into each other’s day—she had only her radio and the window. One bright morning, sunlight glinting on the glass jars of seedlings on the sill, she opened the phone camera. The kitchen appeared on screen, slightly surreal. She angled it at the seedlings. Pressed the button. A gentle click. The photo was a little fuzzy, but charming—green shoots pushing through earth, sunlight striped across the table. She thought the timid little plants looked much like herself with her phone—reaching for the light, feeling the weight of earth. She sent the photo to the family chat. Typed, “My tomatoes are coming along.” Sent it. Replies flooded in. Daisy with a snapshot of her desk, buried in books. Her daughter-in-law—a salad with “Learning from the best.” Her son—a tired but grinning selfie at work: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got spreadsheets. Who’s winning at life?” She laughed out loud. The kitchen no longer seemed empty; at that little table sat everyone, from all their far-off cities, together now. Of course, it wasn’t always smooth. Once, she accidentally sent a voice note to the group chat, muttering about the news on TV. The grandchildren howled with laughter; her son wrote, “Mum, get your own radio show.” She blushed, then joined in. Why not? At least her voice was heard. Sometimes she mixed up chats; once, she messaged everyone at once to ask how to delete a picture. Archie replied with step-by-step instructions, Daisy admitted, “I don’t know either”, and her daughter-in-law sent a meme: “Mum, you’re our tech star!” She was still often muddled by the buttons, wary of the phone’s constant ‘update your system’ pleas, as if it wanted to change everything she’d finally mastered. But gradually, her fear faded. She realised she could now look up bus times, check the weather, even found an old-fashioned pie recipe—like the ones her mum used to make. When she saw the ingredients list, tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t tell anyone—she simply baked the pie, sent a photo to the chat, added, “Remembered how Gran did it.” Hearts, exclamation marks, and requests for the recipe returned. She took a photo of her handwritten list and sent it off. Gradually, she found herself glancing less at the old landline. It still hung there, but no longer the sole thread to the outside world. She had another now: invisible, but strong. One evening, as dusk settled and windows twinkled across the street, she sat in her armchair, phone in hand, scrolling through the family chat: photos from her son’s work, Daisy’s selfies with friends, Archie’s quick jokes, bits of news from her daughter-in-law. Scattered among these, her tentative but growing contributions: the tomato picture, her pie recipe, a question about prescriptions. She realised she no longer felt like an observer through glass. True, she didn’t grasp half the slang her grandchildren used nor could she conjure up those playful smiley faces. But her messages were read. Her questions answered. Her photos ‘liked’, as Daisy called it. A soft ping broke the quiet—new message. Daisy: “Granny, I’ve got a maths test tomorrow. Can I call after and have a moan?” Mrs. Dawson smiled. Typed slowly, careful with each keystroke: “Call anytime. I’m always here to listen.” She pressed send. Then she set the phone on the table beside her tea. The flat was silent, but no longer empty. Somewhere, beyond walls and streets, calls and messages were waiting for her. She’d never be part of ‘the buzz’, as Archie called it, but she’d found a little corner of connection in this new world of screens. She finished her tea, turned off the kitchen light, and glanced at the phone—calm, unthreatening on the table. She knew, whenever she wished, she could reach out and her loved ones would be there. And for now, that was enough.
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