White Tablecloth, Grey Life

A white tablecloth, a grey life

The soup was good. Elaine knew this for certain because shed tasted it three times as she cooked, and each time she was pleased. The beetroots were young, picked up from the Saturday market, the beef on the bone had simmered for two hours, and she had pressed in the garlic just at the end, as youre supposed to. On the table, shed lit candles. The white tablecloth linen, her special one was laid out for the occasion. Fifteen years. That, surely, counts as special.

Outside it was getting dark. October in Leicester always brought this sort of weather: grey, wet, with that sharp tang of rotting leaves and car exhaust. Elaine adjusted the fork to the right of the plate, straightened the tablecloth at the corner even though it was already perfectly aligned. Then she simply stood in the centre of the kitchen, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock above the fridge.

Victor arrived at half eight. She heard him fiddling with the lock, dropping his bag to the floor, and flicking the hallway switch.

Well, whats all this? He poked his head into the kitchen, jacket still on, his nose red from the cold.

Come in. Wash your hands. Sit. I did soup, roast chicken. Made a salad too. Elaine smiled.

Victor shrugged off his coat right there in the doorway, tossed it onto a chair, and glanced around.

Whatre the candles for?

What do you think, Vic? Its our anniversary.

He didnt reply. Instead, he washed his hands quickly at the sink and sat down. Elaine ladled out the borscht, set the bowl in front of him. The sour cream was from a local dairy, also picked up that morning. She put a hefty dollop right on top, because thats the way he liked it.

Victor sniffed, spooned out a taste, chewed thoughtfully.

Its a bit sour.

Elaine sat down opposite him.

Really? I thought it was just right.

My mum does her soup differently. Heartier, somehow. Hers tastes proper, has some substance to it.

She took up her own spoon. Eat up, while its hot.

I am. Victor spun the bowl. Why on earth did you put the white tablecloth out? Youll end up dripping something on it.

I wont.

Well see. He gave a sniff. Mum always uses a dark one for celebrations. Burgundy. Sensible, and looks nice too.

Elaine watched the candles. The flames quivered as Victor moved around the table.

Vic, she said quietly, its been fifteen years since we got married.

I know.

You didnt say anything when you came in.

He looked up, surprised, almost offended. Why would I? You want me to say congratulations? We live together every day. Its not a birthday.

I dont know. Fifteen years its

Its fifteen years, he cut in. Wheres the chicken?

Elaine got up and brought the roast out from the oven. The skin was golden, flecked with herbs Victor always liked herbs.

Its a bit dry, he announced after slicing off a piece.

I literally just pulled it out.

Means you had it in too long. Mum always does hers juicy wraps it in foil.

Elaine took a meagre bit for herself. Chewed. A car outside cast headlights across the ceiling and vanished.

Did you see your mum today? she asked.

Stopped by after work. Why?

Just asking.

He eyed the tablecloth again. Shouldnt have bothered with the white, Elaine. Really. Its just a bit, I dunno, silly. Mum always sets a proper table: the cutlery matches, the tablecloths right, the breads cut perfectly. Look at your bread those are doorstops.

Elaine put down her fork. Not abruptly. Just gently, beside her plate.

Inside, something clenched and unclenched like a hand.

Victor, she said, voice steady though it surprised her, do you even hear what youre saying?

He glanced at her, irritation flickering that kind people get when their dinner is interrupted.

What? Im just saying Mum does it better. I dont mean anything by it.

You walked in the door. Didnt say a word. Criticised the dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I spent three hours on this, Vic.

Well, you did. And? What, am I meant to give you a round of applause? Its your job.

Elaine sat silent for a second.

My job, she repeated, as though tasting the words.

Yeah. Youre home, you cook. I earn the money. Its all fair.

And these fifteen years nothing more than just routine?

Elaine, seriously, what do you want poetry? He laughed. Mum always says: less romance, more order in the house thats how a marriage goes the distance.

The candle shuddered, once, as if it too had caught the words.

Elaine rose. She cleared her plate. She stood by the window and watched the wet roofs across the terraces, the yellow-lit windows, the tree in the courtyard stripped bare save for a handful of leaves.

She turned around.

Victor, pack your things.

He looked up.

What?

Please, take your things and go.

He stared at her as though shed suddenly started speaking another language. Then he gave a short, choked laugh.

Youre serious?

I am.

Because of some soup?

Its not the soup.

Then what? He sharpened. Because I mentioned Mum? Elaine, thats ridiculous.

It isnt to me.

What, hurt your feelings? He stood up, arms folded. Fine, sorry. Sit down. Eat dinner.

No, Vic.

He stared. She stood by the window, unruffled, back straight. Maybe he expected shouting, tears, a slammed door anything but quiet resolve.

Youre not joking, he said slowly.

Im not.

Silence. The clock ticked. The candles burned steadily.

All this over one conversation he started.

Not one, Elaine interrupted. Fifteen years of the same conversation. Gather what you need now, get the rest later.

Victor lingered another minute. Then he turned and headed for the bedroom. She heard the wardrobe creak, a suitcase rustling. She remained in the kitchen, watching the candles. Their light was steady, unwavering.

When he came out with his bag, he paused in the kitchen doorway. He glanced at the set table: white cloth, soup, thick chunks of bread.

Youll regret this, he said.

Maybe, Elaine replied. Goodbye, Vic.

The door closed. The lock shot across. She sat there, listening to his fading footsteps on the stairs.

Then she stood up, snuffed the candles what was the point in keeping them lit now? and washed up. She put the borscht in the fridge. She wasnt hungry.

The flat smelled of fried onions and a hint of mustiness that always crept in by October, when the stairwell windows were left open but the central heating hadnt yet caught up.

Elaine went to bed at half ten. She didnt fall asleep straight away; she watched the ceiling, listened to the neighbours television through the wall, and thought mostly this: she wasnt crying. Odd, really.

***

Mrs. Thompson opened the door before Victor could ring again. She always seemed to know he was outside, as if she stood waiting.

Vicky! she exclaimed, hands flying to her cheeks as she spotted the bag. Heavens, what happened?

She threw me out,” he said shortly.

Who? Her? Mrs. Thompson retreated to let him in. Didnt I tell you, Vicky? I said so time and again! Come on in, Ive just made some soup potato and chicken, your favourite.

He took off his shoes and headed for the kitchen. The flat was full of the scent of food and that particular elderly smell: mothballs, medicine, and a long history of cooking.

His mother fluttered about at the stove, talking without pause.

I always knew she wasnt right for you, Vicky. Cold woman, that one you see, cold women never have children, not by accident. Nature knows best. Eat now, see, the breads ready.

Shed cut the bread into perfectly slender slices. Victor stared at them, recalling for some reason that Elaine always cut hers thick.

Mum, not now please.

Whats wrong with that? Im only being honest! Fifteen years and whats she given you? No children, never kept a proper home. Here, taste the soup.

It was hot and hearty, just as she promised. Victor ate in silence.

The next few days passed in a fog. He went to work, came home, ate with his mother, watched telly. She cooked every day, early, with purpose, plating up cutlets and saying, You need proper food, you look quite grey these days.

On the third day, shed already unpacked his bag for him.

Dont wear that shirt again its creased, I noticed, she declared over dinner. Ill press the blue one for you. Blue suits you.

I like the grey.

Doesnt matter blue is better.

He didnt argue. Ate his cutlets, drank his tea. His mother cleared away, told tales about Mrs. Clark from upstairs (moved in alone and look how content she is), laced with a subtext he knew was about Elaine, but Victor drifted off, barely listening.

A week later, his mother announced his boots were about done for and that Saturday theyd be going shoe shopping.

Mum, my boots are fine.

I can see the soles coming away.

Theyre not.

They are. Were going.

Saturday, off they went. She fussed and nit-picked, getting him to try on pairs she thought right. He wanted plain black, simple. She picked brown ones with decorative buckles.

Look, these are perfect, she beamed.

I dont like them.

Oh, dont be a child, Vicky. These are better, trust me.

The sales assistant looked away. Victor regarded his reflection in the shop mirror: a middle-aged man in brown shoes with buckles staring back blankly.

He bought the browns.

Evenings, his mother would perch opposite and reminisce about his childhood what a good lad hed been, how shed raised him alone, how hard her life was, and how little Elaine had valued all that. Victor nodded along.

Sometimes he thought about the white tablecloth, the candles. He didnt see the point of them, didnt understand why shed made such a fuss. Fifteen years, so what? Whats to celebrate?

Still, he thought about it.

And again, about how she hadnt cried or shouted. Just stood by the window, calm as anything, and asked him to go. He simply couldnt work out how shed found that calm. He was used to other reactions.

By the end of the month, his mother had sorted out his timetable. She never called it a timetable, but she would say, On Tuesday, you must see the doctor. Ive booked you in. Thursday, were visiting Auntie Jean. Friday, dont be late, Im making pie I hate waiting.

That Friday Victor was late; there was a meeting at work that overran. He called his mother from the bus, phone at his ear as the window rolled by in the dark.

The pie was ready, it was good, everything was tasty.

But Victor found something odd pressing on his chest. Not pain. Just a constant, tight pressure as though the air was a little thinner than he needed.

***

Elaine spent the first three weeks moving through fog.

She went to work, returned, cooked herself something quick, had dinner, went to bed. Evenings were hardest the silence in the flat was thick, at first a bit frightening, then just simply there.

Her friend Holly called every other day. Elaine, how are you? Want to come over? Elaine replied she was fine, didnt need company. Holly showed up anyway that first Saturday, with a bottle of wine and a packet of biscuits. They sat in the kitchen till two in the morning, Elaine talking about the candles, the soup, Victors mother and her proper tablecloth, while Holly listened and muttered now and then, Right bastard, which made it all a little easier.

You did the right thing, Holly said finally. Absolutely right, Elaine.

Im scared, Elaine confessed.

I know. But youll get through it.

After Holly left, Elaine stood in the living room, taking in the heavy dark blue curtains. Victor had picked them years back, claimed, They keep out the light, practical. Theyd hung ever since. Elaine had rarely thought about them, they were just curtains.

Next day she took them down.

It took about an hour and a half the rail was awkward, she had to stand on a table. Afterwards, she rolled the curtains up tight and put them away. The room changed at once: dull October light, cold and grey, was still better than darkness behind thick velvet.

She moved the sofa too, with a bit of help from her neighbour, Mr. Parker, a retired gent who was always happy to shift heavy things. Now the sofa was under the window, sunlight streaming a new way.

Odd. Nice, though.

She started sleeping better by the second week. Not well, exactly, but no longer staring at the ceiling into the early hours.

Work continued unchecked. Elaine was a steady hand in accounts, never late, all papers in order. Colleagues respected her especially Mrs. Irvine, Head Accountant: a tidy, sharp woman with pearl earrings who never shared much but always noticed Elaine and appreciated her work.

At Octobers end, Mrs. Irvine called her in.

Elaine, she began, matter-of-fact, Im retiring next year. Moving in with my daughter. The heads asked me to recommend a replacement. Hed like you to be head accountant.

Elaine was silent a moment.

You mean me? she eventually managed, not out of confusion, but simply to break the hush.

Yes, you. Do you think I cant see who puts in the work? Take the job.

Elaine rode the bus home, pondering the offer. Head accountant more responsibility, risk. Shed always rather shied away. Victor used to say, Why chase a career? I earn enough for us both. Shed agreed, mostly to avoid a fuss.

Now, watching streetlamps go by, she thought: why not?

November was filled with change. She started redecorating nothing big, just a fresh coat of pale yellow in the bedroom, new linen curtains, a brighter lampshade, which she flicked on in the evening for warmth. The flat slowly became hers.

She bought a couple of pots of geraniums, set them on the sill. Their sharp, green scent matched the linens and the yellow wall.

Dealing with Victor was handled through solicitors. It was civil. The flat was hers. Victor didnt argue, kept quiet throughout. Maybe his mother pressed him, or he was just tired.

In December, Elaine accepted the head accountant position. Mrs. Irvine shook her hand.

Well done, she said. And, for the first time, smiled warmly.

New Years Eve found Elaine at Hollys, in a noisy crowd, kids and dogs underfoot, three bowls of potato salad on the go. It was lovely and a little sad the sort of melancholy holidays bring when you look back. She sipped her champagne, watched fireworks through the window, and thought: the year is over, and shes still here, and, perhaps, all right.

***

Winter didnt treat Victor kindly.

His mother decided he needed medical checks. She made all the appointments with the GP, the heart specialist, the gastroenterologist You look run down, Vicky, needs checking. He went, the doctors said, For your age, fine, and his mother shook her head, unconvinced almost disappointed, as though shed hoped for a diagnosis to fret over.

At work he grew irritable. Colleagues noticed. Pete, who always joined him for a smoke, asked one day:

Whats with you lately, mate?

Nothing, Victor replied.

Problems at home?

Nope.

Pete stubbed out and left. Victor stood there alone, gazing through a grubby factory window. Grey, oil-speckled snow in the yard. He didnt want to go back to work, didnt want to go home to his mother. Didnt want to go anywhere.

He wondered: where did he want to go?

Nobody answered.

Every evening, his mother greeted him with dinner. It was caring, Victor knew, but with it came the next days schedule: what to wear, where to go, when to be home. If he was late, she called. If he didnt answer, she called again, or texted: Im worried, Vicky, where are you?

One Februrary night Pete invited him round for beers and the football. Victor got home half past ten.

His mother sat in the darkened kitchen. She switched on the light when he came in, fixing him with one of her looks.

Where were you?

I told you Id be late.

Late, you said. Thats not good enough. I didnt know where you were. I worried myself sick. Made my blood pressure go up.

Mum

Eat, I saved your tea. She set microwaved cutlets before him. And keep your phone on. I called three times.

I never turned it off, I just didnt hear. Loud match.

Football, she echoed, as if it were something sordid.

Victor ate in silence.

He started to notice he was always explaining himself. For everything staying out late, which shirt to wear, why he hadnt rung sooner, what hed eaten, what he hadnt.

He remembered that he used to say, Mum always knows best. Remembered feeling proud to say so. Now it seemed almost embarrassing.

In March, Victor looked at ads for a bedsit, found one nearby for not too much. He told his mother.

She cried.

Not dramatically, not angrily just quietly, So youre unhappy here. So Im in your way. Fine, Vicky.

Victor didnt take the room.

Sometimes at night, Elaine appeared in his dreams not romantically, just standing in the kitchen, or the two of them driving somewhere. Ordinary images. Hed wake and stare at the ceiling in his mothers flat, empty as it was.

Hed find himself wondering: what was she doing now? How was she?

And almost at once hed think: never mind, probably found someone by now.

For some reason, that made him cross.

***

February brought an unexpected brightness. The snow was crisp for once, real white, and in the mornings Elaine squinted at the sun on her walk to the bus stop and thought: I really should buy proper sunglasses.

She did pink lenses, thin frames. She tried them on in the shop and laughed, foolishly cheerful.

Work was busy. The new job was a challenge, but she proved herself. Sometimes she stayed as late as eight, working through reports, talking with her boss, Mr. Wright, a quiet, precise sort, always appreciative.

Her colleagues treated her well. The young assistant, Daisy, looked at her with open admiration, sometimes bringing a coffee, just plonking it down wordlessly. Elaine always thanked her; Daisy would turn pink.

In March, Holly dragged her to a birthday party for Hollys friend Natalie. Elaine hesitated: strangers, noise, small talk, the usual discomfort. Holly insisted, Elaine, stop moping. Youll enjoy it.

Natalie was a cheery, generous woman in a big flat with two cats and a huge ficus. About a dozen guests. Elaine hung by Holly at first, then struck up a conversation with someone at her side, a maths teacher; they spent most of the evening chatting about books.

Alex sat across from her. She barely noticed him at first. He wasnt the type to draw attention: average height, greying slightly, plain grey jumper, reticent but intent. He listened, smiled at the right moments.

Towards the end of the night they found themselves together by the window with mugs of tea. He asked a question, she answered, and so it flowed, easy and natural. He was an engineer for a design firm, widowed four years (his wife, cancer); he said it simply, no drama, as though long since come to terms.

How do you know Natalie? Elaine asked.

Through her ex-husband. Hes gone now, but Nat and I stayed friends, he said. And you, through Holly?

Since uni.

True friends are gold, Alex said.

They are, Elaine agreed.

They swapped phone numbers without fuss or expectation. He messaged three days later, asked if shed like coffee. She said yes.

They met at a small café near her work. Talked for two hours. She told him about the divorce he listened, didnt interrupt, didnt judge, just listened. Then he shared his story. Standing outside in the cold, he asked if he could call her again; she nodded.

Next was a walk by the river. Then a film. Then, one evening in April, he invited her over for supper.

***

Alexs flat was on the top floor of an old brick block. As Elaine trudged up the stairs, clutching a bottle of wine, she thought: itll probably be a proper bachelors mess, Ill just pretend not to notice. She was nervous, as you get when youre used to being criticised.

She rang.

He opened the door. The scent of apples and, yes, cinnamon drifted out.

Come in, he smiled. I got ahead of myself and made a pie. Hope you like apple.

I love it, she replied.

His flat was simple. Not spotless, but comfortable: books were mixed with tools on the hallway shelf, a newspaper on the kitchen table. No attempt at show-home perfection. Just lived-in.

She helped with the salad slicing tomatoes while he cut cheese. Sometimes they chatted, sometimes there was silence, but it never felt awkward.

Elaine caught herself waiting. Expecting him to say, Would have been better with cucumbers, or tut over the sauce, or just look at the table with that old familiar judgment.

But he said nothing like that. They sat. He poured wine, glanced at the table, and then at her.

Thanks for coming, he said quietly.

Three words. Thats all.

Elaine looked down at her plate and sensed, almost imperceptibly, something inside her relax. Like shed been holding a weight and could finally set it down.

Outside was a twilight April evening. Streetlights were blinking into life, and from the window you could see the branches dotted with the first green. The pie breathed softly in the oven, the apple fragrance curling through the kitchen.

They talked for hours. She recounted stories of childhood dreams of being a teacher, how shed wound up in accounting. He talked about his current project reviving old buildings. Elaine thought: theres comfort in repairing whats broken.

When, at the end of the night, she prepared to leave, he walked her downstairs and said:

Im glad we met.

On the way home, she found herself thinking not just about him, but the pie, that it was possible to go to dinner and not expect a rebuke. To simply eat, and then go home lighter.

***

Summer drifted by quietly, gently.

She and Alex met often, but never in haste. No one forced the pace. On weekends they strolled through the market; she bought herbs and cream, he picked out fish. Cooking together was surprisingly enjoyable nothing like cooking alone or for someone judgmental.

One July night she stayed over. Too late to leave, so she stayed. In the morning, he made coffee and brought it to her in bed. Not like the movies just straightforward, sat beside her.

Are you working today? he asked.

Starting at noon.

Shall we nip to the market first? Cherries should be in.

Elaine wrapped her hands around the coffee mug. A blue summer morning outside, the air fresh, the distant cries of swifts. For a moment, she had the urge to cry not from sadness, but from a sudden certainty that life was, astonishingly, good.

Id like that, she said.

In the autumn, Alex suggested she move in. Not some grand proposal: one night, drying dishes, he said,

Elaine, maybe you should come live here. I think youd be happy. Theres plenty of space. Id like it.

Ill think about it, she replied.

Of course, he said. Take your time.

She thought for two weeks. Then she said yes.

In November, she moved. She rented out her old flat, not quite ready to sell. She brought books, the geraniums, the orange lampshade, the linen curtains. Alex rearranged his office shelves for her books; together, they mingled his technical tomes and her novels. It looked right that way.

In December, they had their civil ceremony. Quietly, just Holly and Alexs friend Steve as witnesses. Dinner afterwards, just the four of them: delicious, full of laughter, even tears, though Holly insisted, happy tears, dont you worry.

In January, Elaine found out she was pregnant.

She stood in the bathroom, staring at the tests two lines. Then sat on the edge of the bath for ten stunned minutes.

She was forty-three. Shed never really believed it would happen neither she nor Victor had wanted children, or if they had, theyd never talked about it. Time just passed. Doctors never gave any warning, but shed told herself: its just not meant to be.

Yet here it was.

Alex was sketching in the study. She went to stand in the doorway; he turned, noticed her expression.

Whats up? he asked gently.

She handed him the test. He looked, registered, then stood and hugged her tight.

This is good, Elaine. Really good.

She pressed herself into his shoulder and finally broke down, sobbing properly, as she hadnt in years. He didnt shush her or tell her to stop. He held her, murmuring now and then, Its all right. Everythings all right.

***

April came again, and Elaine strolled the riverside in the sunshine, Alex ambling alongside, steadying her with an arm when her belly swayed her balance.

Six months gone. Everyone at work knew by now. Mr. Wright congratulated her warmly: Dont worry, Elaine. Your jobs safe. Well hold your place. Daisy looked at her now with a certain wonder, the kind young women give women who truly live.

Their flat their shared flat, as they both now called it began to slowly fill with new things: a cot, a soft moon-shaped nightlight, a neat stack of tiny vests in a drawer. Elaine sometimes opened the drawer just to look at them and touch the soft fabric. That made everything feel real, secure.

In the mornings, she drank her tea by the window, gazing at the garden where the first green shoots were poking through. She caught the faint scent of earth, maybe apples from the neighbours overgrown tree. It was peaceful, in a way shed never known.

But sometimes, often before sleep when Alex was already snoring beside her and she lay feeling the baby pressing and squirming, her thoughts drifted back. Not in pain or regret, but the way one thinks of an old photograph: That was a life. There were people there. Maybe she mourned those fifteen years that passed her by. Or maybe she mourned her younger self, the girl who diligently cooked soup and set a white tablecloth.

She hadnt heard much about Victor. Holly told her shed seen him at Tesco, looking older. Elaine just nodded. She wished him no ill. He was simply another story now no longer hers.

***

Victor sat in his mothers kitchen.

It was April outside, but in here it seemed like winter never left: heavy curtains shut away the sun, the shelves were cluttered with the same old things, and a smell of soup and medicine lingered everywhere.

Mrs. Thompson was at the cooker, stirring her stew and talking. She always talked while she cooked.

You look run down again, Vicky. I told you, you ought to see a doctor not that useless GP at the factory, a real one. Theres a proper cardiologist at the city practice, Ill book you in.

Im fine, Mum.

Youre not the best judge, she retorted, with all the conviction of someone who always knows best. Men never notice till its too late. Your father said he was fine, and look how that turned out.

Victor stared at the table.

The cloth was blue and white check practical. Mum was right, didnt show the soup.

She put the stew in front of him.

Eat while its hot. Made it with beef and barley. Your favourite.

Yeah, I like it, Victor said.

He took a spoonful. It was good. His mother really did make a good stew.

Vicky, she said, sitting down with her tea, did you think about what I said about Linda from the bridge club?

Victor looked up.

No.

Well, you should. Shes a decent woman, widowed, her own flat. She asks after you.

Mum.

What? You need someone. Youre not a boy. You cant be on your own its not natural.

Ive got someone, he said, surprising even himself.

His mother blinked. Whos that?

No one. I mean just, dont try and set me up with Linda, thats all. Ill manage.

How? Sitting here, looking miserable? I can see, Vicky. Youre still thinking about Elaine, arent you? Why, after how she treated you? Women like her

Mum, he interrupted, and something in his tone made her stop.

Silence. The clock ticked. A bird outside chirped, full-throated, insistent.

Eat up, before it goes cold, she said at last. Who else is going to look after you like your mum?

Victor gazed at his bowl.

The stew was, truly, good. His mothers never werent.

He ate, thinking all the while. About the night hed come home tired, irritable and started nagging Elaine about the tablecloth, the soup, about his mothers way of doing things.

He hadnt understood, back then, that it was never about the tablecloth. He felt himself only just realising, far too late, the way people do when they never stop to think.

He was trapped. The word dropped into his mind suddenly he almost put down his spoon. Trapped. Hed always thought Elaine built the trap: her cooking, her attitude. But in truth, shed never built anything. Shed always given way. As it turned out, it wasnt a cage she created, but one hed lugged around with him his whole life from his mothers to his own home and back again.

Is it good? she asked.

Very, Mum,” he replied.

There you go. Pleased, she settled back. See? Where would you be without me, Vicky?

He said nothing.

The bird outside grew louder, spring bursting through the cracks in the curtains, a bright line of useless April sunlight shining into the kitchen.

Victor hunched over his bowl and finished his stew.

***

That April evening, Elaine stood on the balcony of the flat her and Alexs now watching the sunset. Her stomach was big and awkward, but she stayed for the fresh air. Below, the scent of damp earth and something bright, unnamed but unique to spring, drifted up.

Inside, Alex was on the phone to someone at work, his voice calm. Two mugs sat on the kitchen table, his and hers, beneath the warm orange lamp shed brought with her.

She placed her hand on her belly. The baby nudged, slow, lazy, evening style.

Well, hello there, Elaine whispered to the twilight.

She was scared. She was happy. There was a quiet, restless, honest kind of joy no promises, no guarantees, just this: an April sunset, the smell of earth, soft light through the window, and a tiny new life, pressing from within.

Elaine stood a little longer.

Then went back inside.