Just what I needed…
Margaret lived alone. She and her husband had never managed to have children. At first, they had hoped, they had tried—then they turned to adoption. It had been her idea, really. He hadn’t seemed to mind one way or another. She supposed she’d taken too long preparing for such a big step, overthinking and hesitating while time slipped by, until, after forty, she gave up entirely. If she were honest, she was afraid.
Her husband, Richard, loved hiking—treks with backpacks and tents, songs by the campfire. He played the guitar well, she’d give him that. A social man, always surrounded by friends.
When she was younger, Margaret had enjoyed it too. But as she got older, the exhaustion set in. The endless weekends trudging with a heavy pack, returning late on Sunday, scrubbing off mud and insect bites just in time for Monday’s work. She longed for lazy mornings, hot showers, a proper toilet instead of crouching in the woods with mosquitoes feasting on her.
Even excitement tires when it’s relentless. Her back ached, her joints protested. Finally, she stopped going.
At first, he stayed home too—out of solidarity, she supposed. But she saw the restlessness in him, the quiet gloom. So she told him to go without her. He lit up.
“Letting him wander off alone? Mark my words, some woman will snatch him up. He’d have settled down if you’d just waited,” her friend chided.
“If he hadn’t strayed in his youth, he won’t now.”
“You’re naïve. A man’s value doesn’t fade like ours,” her friend sighed.
“What, should I limp after him just to keep him faithful? No. If he wants to cheat, he’ll find a way. Besides, it’s always the same group.”
Her friend only shook her head.
After that, he stopped inviting her. His trips became solitary. Slowly, the distance between them grew—no shared stories, no memories to laugh over. But she noticed nothing unusual.
Until the day he returned distracted, distant.
“Where did you go this time?” she asked, reheating soup.
“Same route as always. Had some newcomers.”
“Photos? Show me?” She tried to draw him out.
“I told you—just the usual.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew. Just as her friend had warned.
Three days passed in silence. Then he spoke.
“I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Didn’t think it could happen to me.”
“Just like that?”
“She came instead of you. We’ve hiked together a few times. I can’t imagine life without her.”
“Is she young?”
He didn’t answer.
“I see. So, what now? Moving in with her?” Margaret kept her voice steady, refusing hysterics.
“She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—she can’t stay here. Let’s sell the flat and split it.”
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“It’s her husband’s. If you won’t agree, then—I don’t know.” He paced, agitated.
The flat was half hers. Every bone in her body rebelled at his suggestion. But after days of thought, she agreed—on the condition that she chose her own smaller place. It hurt, watching his relief.
“You’re not just a fool, you’re a saint,” her friend scoffed.
“Maybe. But there’s a child involved. He’s innocent. I’m not cruel. What do I need a big flat for alone?”
She found a bright one-bedroom in the same neighbourhood, freshly renovated. She didn’t ask about his new place. Why bother?
Alone now—no husband, no children. She’d adjust.
Then, late one night, her phone rang. Her brother, John. He never called unless it was bad. Only once before—when their father died.
Margaret had left their tiny village for the city, married, built a life. To her family, she was wealthy—city job, her own flat. They expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but the envy in their eyes, even her mother’s, weighed on her. How do you explain that a flat isn’t luxury, just necessity?
John had always been the golden child—their parents’ pride. The son who’d care for them in old age. She’d felt like an outsider. So she stopped visiting. Then Richard’s hiking absorbed their weekends.
Ten years since her father’s funeral—her last trip home.
Nothing good ever came from John’s calls.
“John? What’s wrong?” she braced herself. “Mum—?”
“No, she’s alive. But poorly. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”
“I can’t right now. Maybe next month.”
She was relieved—Mum was fine.
“Look…” John hesitated. “Sarah left me. Said she’s sick of caring for Mum, split between two homes. Took the boys and left. And me? I work. I’m no good at this. Mum’s no help—she needs looking after.”
“I’ve met someone. She’s expecting. I can’t pile Mum on her too. You take her.”
“Who?” Margaret wasn’t sure if he meant their mother or his new woman.
“Mum, not Jenny.”
“And Jenny—?”
“My wife. Well, not legally.”
She heard the smile in his voice. Happy.
“Where would I put her? I’ve only got a one-bed since the divorce.”
“Perfect—company for you. She’s got her pension. Mum hates Jenny anyway. Come fetch her. She’ll rot alone here.”
No matter how she argued, it was settled. She took leave, travelled back. Their mother, once so proud of her son, was now his burden to unload.
Mum recognised her—no joy, just resignation. Frail, shrunken. Agreed to go. John, she realised, drank. No wonder his wife fled.
They took nothing. Everything was worn, neglected. He’d bought clothes haphazardly, tossed her his cast-offs. He waved them off at the station. Never called again.
Bringing Mum home, Margaret saw her mistake. She should’ve bought a sofa beforehand. Hers was expensive—chosen for her bad back. One night on the floor, then she paid extra for same-day delivery. She shifted her own sofa aside, put Mum’s by the window—she liked to watch the world.
Mum could walk, but barely. Spilled soup, left taps running, forgot the gas. Margaret returned from work to chaos—mopping floors, scrubbing carpets. Finally, she switched to remote work to supervise. The last six months, Mum was bedridden.
John didn’t come to the funeral. Too busy, apparently.
Back in the office, the flat smelled of antiseptic and age. She couldn’t bring herself to toss the sofa.
Life settled—until John called again. Early Saturday, jarring her awake. She braced for disaster.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?”
“You? No. What now?”
He laughed—uncharacteristically cheerful.
“How’re you feeling?”
“My back hurts. Joints. Blood pressure’s a mess.”
“Good!”
“Good? That I’m falling apart?”
“Means you’ll need help. Remember my eldest? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s brilliant—destined for uni. But our village has no colleges. So he’s coming to London. He’ll live with you. Just a year, till he gets a dorm.”
She was speechless. Another demand, no asking.
“It’s a one-bed flat. How would that work?”
“We managed four in one room. Worried about your reputation? He’s quiet.” He laughed again.
“Share your meals, that’s all. Better than living alone.”
“Better how?”
“If you collapse, he’ll call an ambulance.”
No argument swayed him. She eyed Mum’s sofa. Glad she’d kept it.
Her nephew arrived days later—sullen, silent. Planted on the sofa with his laptop.
At least he won’t spill soup, she thought. But his presence grated. Once, she came home early—blood pressure spiking—to find him with a naked girl. On her sofa.
The girl dressed calmly, left. Margaret tore into him.
“You smoke?” She spotted a cigarette.
“That was Jeanette,” he muttered.
“Not Emily, not Lucy—Jeanette. No. This ends now. Tomorrow, I’m calling your uni about dorms.”
“Don’t, Aunt Margaret. I’ll sort it.”
Two days later, he was gone. But relief eluded her. Why did John dump his burdens without guilt, while she agonized? She’d kicked him out—her own nephew.
She waited for backlash. None came. Finally, she called.
“I’m busy,” John snapped.
“Funny. I was busy tooShe hung up, staring at the phone, finally understanding that sometimes the hardest peace is the one you make with yourself.
