Look at her, off to ‘do her business,’ chuckled a neighbour, softly enough to sound like a whisper but loud enough to be heard.

I remember it well, as if it were a scene from the old terraced flats on Orchard Street in Manchester, the kind of place where the stairwell echoes with the clatter of everyday life. Look at her, off to work again, a neighbour whispered, her voice low enough to be a murmur yet loud enough to drift down the concrete steps. There she goes, all dressed up, heels clicking, like she walked straight out of a magazine. She added, halflaughing, She must have someone keeping her looking that fine.

The words rolled down the stairwell like loose stones, striking one another, staining the air with judgment, while no one stopped to think whose soul they were trampling.

On the ground floor, the ladies in their housecoats and everdusty slippers lingered by the letterbox, leaning against the railing, arms folded tight across their chests, eyes as sharp as knives. Did you see her? one muttered. Off again on those heels Those arent the kind of heels a woman living on a modest wage can afford, replied another. Surely theres a gentleman behind it. Young women these days have no sense of shame And they laughed, shaking their heads in a gesture of socalled wisdom.

Eleanor heard it allonce, twice, a dozen times. From a distance, the words no longer needed to be shouted; they lived in glances, in the way her shoes were measured, in the glint of her handbag, in the curl of her wig, in the forced smile she wore.

The wigher only luxury, something shed have given anything to avoid needing. Just a few months earlier her life was measured in projects, meetings and dreams. At twentynine she worked in a modest office, content with the work she did, and dreamed of one day opening her own firm. Her world was simple, but it was hers.

Then the phone rang one afternoon. The tests arent looking good. We need to discuss your results. The word cancer fell on her like a boulder, shattering the quiet, cracking her plans, her future.

In the weeks that followed her long hair, which she had always taken pride in, began to fall in clumps into the sink. She would cupped the strands in her hands and wept silently, as if pieces of herself were slipping away.

One morning she looked into the mirror and, with trembling hands, shaved the remaining hair away, refusing to watch the slow loss. She wept, then rose. Her mother, eyes swollen from tears, bought her a new wig.

Dont feel naked, love dont let it hurt so much when you look in the mirror, her mother whispered.

Eleanor placed the wig atop her head, fingers shaking. She stared at her reflection for a long while. She was no longer the woman she had been, but she was not merely a patient either. She was a woman clutching desperately to the normal.

She made a quiet pledge: if she must fight this battle, at least she would dress herself beautifully for each skirmish. Not for the nosy neighbours, not for any mysterious him, but for herself.

She hauled out the dresses from the wardrobe, the heels shed only worn on special occasions, and decided that every time she left the housewhether for treatment or a simple walkshe would claim a moment of dignity. If my body is fighting, my spirit must not stay in pajamas, she would tell herself.

That day, as the neighbours chattered away gossip on the stairwell, Eleanor descended slowly, steps sure. A plain black dress, modest heels, a neat handbag, a perfectly arranged wig, a subtle shade of lipstickjust enough to show she would not be beaten.

When she passed them, she felt their eyes like needles. Look at her, off to work again, one giggled, the whisper barely a whisper yet loud enough to be heard.

Eleanor stopped on a landing. She could have stayed silent, as she had many times before. She could have forced a false smile and moved on. But illness had taught her that life was far too short to let injustice trample over her. She turned back to the women with a weary but steady smile.

Youre right I have a sponsor. In fact, I have several, she said.

The women raised their eyebrows. Illness, chemotherapy, sleepless nights theyre my sponsors. Theyve taught me that every day I can still apply mascara, wear heels and step out is a victory. Im not out there to be seen; Im out there to see myself, so I dont lose sight of who I am.

A hush fell. This wig, for example, she said, lightly touching the hair. Its not a vanity. Its a shield. So I can walk the street without the world seeing my disease before I see myself.

She swallowed, her throat dry. And yes maybe I look overdone for some tastes. But you know whats odd? When you spend endless hours in a hospital you start to treasure the little things: a lipstick, a dress, a shoe. They remind me Im alive. Not pampered. Alive.

The neighbours lowered their gazes, as if the tiles beneath their feet had suddenly become profoundly important. The eldest of them, her voice quivering, said, Mum we didnt know

I know, Eleanor replied simply. Thats why I tell you this. You never truly know the story of the person you judge at first glance. Perhaps next time you should ask How are you? before wondering Who is she with?. Because sometimes we arent walking with anyone at all were walking handinhand with death, trying to outwit it for just one more day.

She smiled, not triumphantly but sadly. May you have a good day. May you be healthy. I sincerely wish you that.

She continued down the steps, each footfall sounding like dignity, not defiance. When she reached the front of the block, she lifted her chin. The air felt cooler, cleaner. She opened her phone to a message from her doctor: Todays tests look a little better. Well keep going. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips.

She did not know what tomorrow would bring, whether a month or a year away. All she knew was that as long as she could still step out the door with poise, she was still fighting. And perhaps, someday, the neighbours would realise that not every welldressed woman is being kept up by a lover; some are merely upheld by their own courage.

Until then, Eleanor chose to wear her wig, her dresses and her heels like an invisible crownnot of royalty, but of survival. The next time you feel the urge to point a finger, place your hand over your heart and ask yourself: if this were my story, would I want to be judged this way?