З життя
Страхи невидимого навантаження: як нескінченна робота тримає людей в офісі довше.
Оксана вклала дітей спати й пішла до кухні, щоб випити чашку чаю. Віталія ще не було. Останнім часом у нього було багато роботи, і він часто залишався допізна.
Оксана співчувала чоловікові й намагалася звільнити його від домашніх турбот. Адже він був єдиним годувальником у родині. Відразу після весілля вони домовилися, що Оксана займатиметься домом і майбутніми дітьми, а Віталій забезпечуватиме їхній добробут. По одному народилися троє дітей. Кожному з появи Віталій був безмежно радий і говорив, що не збирається на цьому зупинятися.
Оксана ж, навпаки, втомилася від нескінченних пелюшок, сумішей і недосипу. Вона вирішила, що поки що зупиниться на трьох дітях. Віталій повернувся досить пізно. Він був трохи навеселе. На її запитання про причину, відповів:
— Оксано, так заплуталися з хлопцями, так втомилися, що вирішили зайти кудись, зняти напруження.
— Ох, ти мій сердешний! — усміхнулася Оксана. — Пішли, я тебе погодую!
— Не потрібно. Ми закушували крильцями — наївся вдосталь. Краще піду спати.
Наближався свято, восьме березня. Оксана, попросивши свою маму посидіти з дітьми, вирушила до торговельного центру. Їй хотілося відзначити це свято по-особливому: романтична вечеря лише для двох. Мама погодилася забрати дітей до себе.
Окрім продуктів і подарунків, Оксана вирішила ще щось купити для себе. Вона давно вже собі нічого не купувала — було незручно брати у чоловіка гроші на вбрання, та й нікуди було їх вдягати. Востаннє, що вона собі придбала, був домашній костюм. Але для задуманої вечері він ніяк не підходив. Оксана попрямувала в один з магазинів одягу й, вибравши кілька суконь, вирушила до примірочної.
Вона тільки почала міряти другу сукню, як почула знайомий голос чоловіка з сусідньої примірочної:
— Ммм, я вже хочу зняти це з тебе!
У відповідь пролунав веселий сміх.
— Потерпи трохи, бешкетнику! Іди дружині щось вибери!
— Їй навіщо? Вся в дітях. А дітям байдуже, в чому вона ходить — аби їх нагодували, поміняли підгузки й прибрали іграшки! Подарую їй якусь мультиварку! Або хлібопічку — нехай радіє!
Оксану ніби облили крижаною водою. Вона, намагаючись видавати якомога менше шуму, автоматично міряла сукні, а сама прислухалася до голосів з сусідньої примірочної.
— А якщо вона запитає, куди ти витратив такі гроші. Мультиварка і хлібопічка не можуть стільки коштувати… — не вгамовувалася дівчина.
— А чому я б маю звітувати, куди я витрачаю СВОЇ гроші? Це я працюю, вона вдома сидить на всьому готовому! Я їй виділяю певну суму на господарство і годі! Нехай і за це спасибі скаже.
Примірка, очевидно, закінчилась, голоси стали віддалятися. Оксана обережно визирнула з своєї примірочної. Дійсно: її улюблений чоловік стояв біля каси з якоюсь блондинкою й розраховувався за покупки. Розраховуючись, він повернувся до неї й не соромлячись касира, поцілував дівчину прямо в губи.
— Дівчино! У вас все в порядку? — Оксана зрозуміла, що вже давно сидить у примірочній, утикнувшись у одну точку.
— Так, усе в порядку! — вона віддерла завісу й подала продавцю сукні: я беру все.
Дома, відпустивши маму й уклавши дітей на денний сон, Оксана замислилася, як їй тепер бути? Такого зради від чоловіка вона ніяк не очікувала. Навіть не те, що він їй зраджує, а те, як він до неї і до її роботи ставиться. В один момент він знецінив уї закриття відчуття последовательности й ніжності.
Їй хотілося негайно бігти й подавати на розлучення, але вона змусила себе зупинитися й подумати.
“Ну, подам я на розлучення, він піде до своєї блондинки, а я залишуся з дітьми без засобів до існування. Аліменти? Там, напевно, копійки будуть… І за що нам жити?”
До вечора рішення було прийнято. Віталій цього дня не затримався, як зазвичай “на роботі”. “Днем налюбувався”, — подумала Оксана з байдужістю. Усі відчуття, які вона мала до чоловіка, випарувалися. Він став для неї чужою людиною. Єдине, через що вона переживала — це те, що він захоче близькості, а вона не зможе йому її дати. Огидно.
Але чоловік, мабуть, отримав усе від своєї коханки й до Оксани не ліз.
Наступного дня жінка склала резюме й розіслала його по можливим компаніям та агентствам. Залишалося лише чекати. Потягнулися дні очікування. Тепер щодня Оксана починала з перегляду пошти. Нарешті, довгоочікувана відповідь прийшла. Її запросили на співбесіду в одну з фірм міста. Туди, де працював її чоловік. Оксана довго міркувала, чи варто їхати, але все-таки вирішила — варто!
Попросивши маму посидіти з дітьми, Оксана вирушила на співбесіду. Після майже двогодинного спілкування з керівництвом фірми, їй запропонували пристойну посаду, з можливістю гнучкого графіку. Зарплату, звичайно, поки обіцяли не дуже високу, але щоб прогодувати себе та дітей, цілком достатньо.
Додому Оксана летіла як на крилах. Мати, побачивши доньку такою щасливою, почала засипати її питаннями.
— Мамо, мені Віталій зраджує! — радісно проголосила жінка. Вирішивши, що у доньки тимчасове помішання, жінка взяла її за руку і посадила поруч на диван.
— Оксано, ну що ти таке кажеш? Як Віталій може тобі зраджувати? Він же цілими днями працює!
— Не працює, а ходить до своєї дівки! — і Оксана розказала все, що дізналася, підслухавши у примірочній магазину. Мати, вислухавши її, запитала:
— Ну, і що ти збираєшся робити?
— Подам на розлучення! І так, я влаштувалася на роботу з гнучким графіком. Зараз напишу заяви в дитячий садочок, і як тільки всі мої діти почнуть туди ходити, вийду на повний робочий день!
— Ну, що ж! Я не буду тебе відмовляти! Зраду пробачати не можна! Думала, це тільки початок. Тим більше, він тебе вже й за особистість не вважає. А з дітьми я тобі допоможу!
– Дякую, мамо! – Оксана зворушливо обійняла матір.
Сьомого березня Віталій знову прийшов пізно вночі. Оксана нічого у нього не стала питати. Віталій, здивований таким байдужістю дружини, почав сам виправдовуватися:
– Оксано, знову з хлопцями заробилися… – але Оксана не дала йому договорити, наказавши лягати спати.
Наступного дня, коли жінка сиділа на кухні й годувала дітей сніданком, Віталій урочисто вручив їй подарунок – хлібопічку.
– Ось, люба, щоб полегшити твою домашню працю! – він намагався її поцілувати, але Оксана відсторонилася і, навіть не глянувши на подарунок, встала зі стільця.
– У мене теж є для тебе подарунок!
Здивований чоловік з коробкою в руках пішов за нею. Вона вийшла до передпокою і вказала на два великі чемодани.
– Я з тобою розлучаюся! Тепер можеш не вигадувати небилиць, приховуючи свої походи наліво!
– Як ти дізналася? – просичав здивований Віталій.
– У примірочній, коли ти обирав своїй блондинці подарунок. І так: хлібопічку теж можеш їй віддати – мені вона не потрібна!
Заскочений у зраді та втрачаючи родину, Віталій розлютився:
-А тобі що, шкода, що в мене буде інша жінка? Красива, пристрасна й доглянута, в відмінність від тебе! Ти навіть забула, як фарбуватися! Засіла, як квочка в дітях і живеш за мій рахунок! Мало що кому і що я купую! Значить, вважаю за потрібне! І ти не маєш права рахувати мої гроші! Тебе просто жаба душить, що я витрачаю ще на когось! Ти просто меркантильна вівця!
– Мені не шкода, – спокійно промовила Оксана, – йди.
Наступного дня Оксана подала на розлучення і на аліменти.
Через тиждень у двері подзвонили. На порозі стояла свекруха. Не вітаючись з Оксаною, вона закричала:
– Меркантильна негідниця! Мужа вигнала, а гроші з нього качаєш! Негайно відмовся від аліментів! Він не зобов’язаний їх тобі платити!
– Він їх не мені платить, а своїм дітям, яких сам же і просив! – парирувала Оксана. – Якщо йому не вистачає на свою коханку, то це вже його проблеми! Він такий же батько, як і я!
– Та що ти можеш без його грошей? Наробила дітей у надії, що всю життя просидиш на його шиї! Але у тебе це не вийде! Він попросить у начальства, щоб йому урізали офіційну зарплату, і ти будеш отримувати жалюгідні копійки! Швидко приплентаєшся!
– Ну, це навряд чи! – сказала Оксана і вказала на двері. – Геть з мого дому, поки я поліцію не викликала!
Кидаючи прокльони, свекруха пішла.
Через кілька місяців дітям, один за іншим, надали місця в дитячому садку. А ще через місяць після цього Оксана вийшла на роботу на повний день.
– Привіт! – біля її столу пролунав знайомий голос. – Ми можемо поговорити?
– Вибач, Віталію, у мене багато роботи, – відповіла Оксана, не підводячи голови.
– Може, тоді пообідаємо разом? – Віталій не відходив. Оксана підняла голову й подивилася на колишнього чоловіка. Він виглядав втомленим і знесиленим. Вона дізналася, що його блондинка, до якої він пішов, дізнавшись, що половина його зарплати йтиме на аліменти, тут же виставила його геть. Але це її вже не зачіпало.
– Ні, Віталію. Не поговоримо і не пообідаємо.
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!
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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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