З життя
Страх і шлюб: Ліза не бажала виходити заміж за старшого вдовця.
Мачуха чітко бачила, що Орися не хотіла виходити заміж за вдівця, і не через те, що у нього була маленька донька, і не тому, що був старший, а тому, що вона його сильно боялась. Його колкий погляд проникав до самого серця, і від страху серце починало швидше битись, ніби намагалось захиститись від цих стріл. Орися опускала очі додолу і довго не підіймала їх, а коли таки наважувалась, всі бачили, що вони наповнені сльозами. І ці сльози, наче лавина, котилися по рум’яним від сорому щоках. Руки тремтіли, а маленькі кулаки ніби хотіли захищатись від мачухи та обраного нею нареченого. Зрадливий язик, будь він проклятий, промовив: “Піду”.
-Ось і домовились. У такий дім, до такого господаря не піти – це гріх! Він же з першої дружини пилинки здував, була ж вона неуміха, слабка, завжди кахикала. Йдуть, бувало: він три кроки, вона один. Зупиниться і дихає, як паровоз, а він її обіймає, заспокоює, не крикне, як твій відійшлий батько.
Коли вона носила під серцем дитину, її майже ніхто ходячою не бачив. Усе лягала, а після народження він сам до дитини вставав, а вона зовсім виснажилась. Так говорила його мати.
-А ти кров з молоком, ти в нього в червоним кутку житимеш. Ладна, до всього привчена, і до коси, і до серпа, і прясти вмієш. Шкода за молодого тебе віддавати, в них ще характер гулящий, не усталений, дурощі покажуться. А в цього все відкрито, всі знають. Яка ж ти щаслива!
Самогонку вжену, вечерком посидимо, а вдівець і не хоче весілля, нема чого спочилу весільним шумом гнівити. Приданого велів не збирати, у домі повна чаша.
Іван уперше одружився з любові, хоча знав, що Катерина часто хворіла, була слабенька, і мама казала, що йому потрібна сильна жінка, а не неміч. Але ніхто не вмовив його, ні люди, ні власний розум, лише Катерину йому подавай. Ходили чутки по селу, що його заворожили, адже тільки заколдований вирішив би своє життя в лазарет перетворити, а навколо страждання і болі.
Лікарі казали, що у Катерини дуже слабкі легені, будь-яка застуда призводить до запалення, до астми, а там вже хто знає, може й гірше.
Іван вірив, що своєю любов’ю смерть від дружини відіб’є, буде піклуватися, хвороба мине. Напочатку, після одруження, все й справді було добре. Щасливі молодята раділи своєму щастю. Та коли Катерина завагітніла, ніби вивернуло її все нутро, постійна втома, запаморочення, сонливість. Стала такою слабкою, що нічого не могла зробити. Лікарі сказали, що такий токсикоз – народить, укріпиться. Іван з любов’ю піклувався про Катерину, не докоряючи. Мати картала його день і ніч, що привів у хату не господиню, а проблему. Іван стояв на захисті дружини, як костур за своє гніздо, і матір попросив до них не приходити.
Катерина народила доньку і Іван сподівався, що радість повернеться в сім’ю. Так, щастя повернулося, але ненадовго. Підстужена одного дня, Катерина не змогла зміцніти, а тільки танула на очах. Забрали її в лікарню, а лікар прямо сказав:
-У неї легені відмовляють.
Казав просто, по-селянськи. Катерина знала, що їй залишилось не багато, спершу трималася і не показувала вигляду. Здавлювала з себе усмішку, яка більше схожа на болісний виск, губи усміхалися, а очі видавали біль і страх за завтрашній день, за доньку.
Ніби погляд прощався та наказував запам’ятати її усміхненою, веселою. Її субтильність з реберцями, що витупають, увігнута груди, сухі кисті рук, опущені худі плечі без слів говорили, що смерть ходить поруч і чекає останнього видиху вибраної.
Відчуваючи свій близький кінець, Катерина попросила чоловіка вислухати її прохання.
-Ще не народився той, хто б змінив Божі плани. Наша любов стомилася боротися зі смертю, нема більше сил, та й я втомилася від болю, від думок. Я прошу у тебе прощення, і у доньки. Сама на горе народжена, і вас засудила на страждання.
Іван взяв її гарячі руки і почав цілувати. З важкого, переривчастого дихання зрозумів, що вона поспішає сказати щось важливе, відчував, що жити їй залишилось кілька хвилин. Вона плутано почала говорити про свою любов до них, про переживання за доньку, захлиналася своїми словами, а потім зітхнула і повільно промовила:
-Одружись з Орисею, вона буде доброю жінкою, ти хороший чоловік, батько, вона буде гарною матір’ю, бо сама натерпілася з мачухою, зведеними сестрами, п’яницею-батьком. Я ж знаю її життя, та й мама входила в їхній дім, адже її орлиний погляд бачить все. Дуже Орися ласкава, працьовита, терпляча, доньку не образить, тебе полюбить. Будь тільки з нею, як зі мною. Відносься до неї так, ніби я в її оболонці поруч з тобою. Прости мене за ці слова, у мене не тільки легені чорні, але й душа зотліла від дум за доньку, а там сам смотри, твоя доля теж Богом писана, як вирішиш, так і буде. Але запам’ятай, доньку не ображай, інакше прокляну з того світу. Останні слова вона мовила повільно і виразно.
Тримаючи останні сили, стиснула руку чоловіка.
Іван плакав, сльози заслоняли образ дружини, він відчував по її диханню, як люба іде. Ангельське, спокійне личко з усмішкою на губах дивилось в одну точку. Рука залишалася міцно стиснена.
Іван почав її цілувати з голови до ніг, причитаючи, прирікаючи, обіцяючи зробити все, як вона веліла. Тому після року від смерті дружини прийшов свататись до Орисі.
Мачуху підготувала теща Івана, вона також бажала хорошу матір для своєї онуки. Сама була хвора і боялася, що життя їй залишилось небагато, хотіла, щоб онука і зять налагодили своє життя.
Їй, як нікому, було відомо, через що пройшов її улюблений зять, і за його ставлення до її доньки готова була цілувати йому ноги і просити у Бога щастя для Івана.
Сватання пройшло, наче в тумані. Бачачи, як доньці важко без маминої уваги, а й йому важко без господині, вирішив виконати прохання дружини. Він заздалегідь почав приглядатись до Орисі і помітив, що вона дуже покірна, слухняна, красива і навіть чимось нагадує дружину. Така ж коса, така ж усмішка, така ж хода.
Іноді хотілось підійти ближче і міцно обійняти, помовчати хвилину, фантазуючи образ жінки. Сама Орися не могла пояснити, чому погодилась вийти за Івана. Чи то набридло бути прислугою мачухи, чи то втомилася тягти п’яного батька додому і захищати його від нападок мачухи, чи втомилась від глузувань сестер, а може було шкода доньку Івана?
Але як би там не було, давши згоду, вона зрозуміла, що їй належить ще одне випробування – навчитися любити Івана і завоювати його любов до себе.
Після сватання Іван вирішив ближче познайомити доньку з Орисею.
Катерина рідко виходила на вулицю, постійно була з донькою. Кожну хвилину, навіть секундами, милувалася своєю Оленкою. Іноді, прокинувшись вночі, чоловік бачив, як дружина, нахиляючись над донькою, щось шепотіла, ніби наставляла, радила, як потрібно жити після її відходу.
Іван не міг без сліз думати про те, що Катерина говорила своєму маленькому шматочку серця. Оленка була домашньою дитиною, до чужих взагалі ніколи не підходила, у неї був тато, мама, бабуся і ще одна сварлива, незадоволена бабка.
Іван привів Орисю у свій дім для того, щоб вона подивилась на доньку, щоб побути разом без занадто радісної мачухи, яка себе вела так, наче нарешті зі двору відводять корову, котра не дає молока.
Орися наодинці з Іваном здебільшого мовчала, але помітила, що він ані трохи не похмурий, а навпаки дуже ввічливий, уважний. Він відверто запитав у майбутньої дружини, якщо у неї є коханий, він відійде в сторону. Про прохання дружини він не сказав ні слова.
Будинок Орисю шокував своєю обробкою. Чудові меблі, виконані власноруч, багато майстерно вишитих картин у дерев’яних мереживних рамках, покритих лаком. Великі, світлі кімнати. Оленка, побачивши Орисю, повела себе дивно, вона не злякалася, а навпаки почала кокетувати.
Оленка винесла свої іграшки і стала просити Орисю пограти з нею. При цьому намагалася доторкнутися ручкою до гості. Дивилася дуже цікавими очима і іноді посміхалася. Орися кілька разів під час гри обіймала її і своєю рукою поправляла шикарне, як у мами, волосся.
— А давай, я тобі зачіску зроблю, і станеш у мене, як принцеса.
Іван спостерігав за їх іграми, за їх спілкуванням, і його душа заплакала від радості. Йому було страшно приводити Орисю додому, так як Оленка постійно питала про маму, постійно дивилася у вікно, наче виглядала її на вулиці, а коли хтось заходив у дім, то зразу бігла зустрічати з надією, що мама нарешті повернулася.
Іван намагався їй все пояснити, але Оленці йшов четвертий рік, і її маленькому серцю не потрібні були пояснення, їй потрібна була ніжна, добра матуся.
Іван усвідомлював, що при всьому бажанні його увага, його любов, його обійми ніколи не замінять маминої ніжної руки, материнської ласки, материнського душевого тепла. Він це розумів і боявся обманутись в Орисі. Але побачивши, як Оленка скривила ротик, зібралась заплакати, коли Орися йшла, то спокій охопив Івана.
Оленка взяла Орисю за руку і повела у свою кімнату, зняла покривало, ручками, як хазяйка, почала збивати подушки, від радості залізла на ліжко і почала підплигувати до стелі.
Орися згадала себе, як до них прийшла мачуха, як вона в подальшому дорікала шматком хліба, ховала і таємно давала ласощі своїм дочкам, била по руках за погано виконану непосильну роботу, як завжди доношувала штопані сукні за її дочками, як клали п’яного батька на підлогу, а у неї розривалась душа від жалю, і вона вкривала його своєю ковдрою. Згадала, як мачуха сказала, що першому зустрічному, наче непотрібну худобу, з двору зведе, згадала мачухині прокльони і з комом в горлі підійшла до Оленки.
Міцно, міцно обійняла і прилягла поруч. Заснула донечка міцним, щасливим сном. Іван від радості не знав, як поводитися з Орисею. Пили чай, просто дивились одна на одну, усміхалися. Орисю він не відпустив додому.
Не відпустив і все!
Дружина повинна бути з чоловіком, а не йти туди, де не чекають…
A Parent’s Heart: A Story of Love, Worry, and Family Breakfasts—With Thanks for Your Support, Likes, Comments, Subscribers, and Special Gratitude from Me and My Five Furry Cats for Every Donation—Please Share Stories You Enjoy on Social Media to Make an Author’s Day!
A Parents Heart Thank you for your kindness, your likes and thoughtful words, for all the stories youve shared, your...
My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded That We Give Up Our Flat for Their Growing Family—Then Blamed Me for Her Miscarriage
My brothers pregnant wife demanded we hand over our flat. Ive been married for ten years. My husband and I...
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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