“Valerie, have you completely lost your mind?” The headmistress Margaret’s sharp voice cut through the quiet of the staff room. “You want to leave the school at fifty-eight? Where on earth will you go?”
Valerie carefully stacked her teaching materials without looking up. Her hands trembled, but she refused to show it.
“I’ll manage somehow, Margaret.”
“Do you understand what you’re doing? Thirty-six years at this school! Beloved teacher, adored by students, praised by parents… Your pension’s due in two years, a decent one at that! What will you even do at home?”
Valerie finally raised her head. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back.
“And what am I doing here? The same thing, day after day. Lessons, marking papers until midnight, preparing as if I didn’t know the curriculum inside out after all these years. The children…” She paused, running a hand over her face. “They’re different now, Margaret. They don’t hear me.”
“Nonsense! Just yesterday, Laura Thompson said her son finally understands maths because of you!”
“Understands?” Valerie gave a bitter smile. “And what does he do at break? Stares at his phone like the rest. I ask him something, he mumbles. I explain an equation, he gazes out the window. Then he stays up until three in the morning gaming.”
Margaret sighed heavily and walked to the window.
“Val, you’re overthinking this. It’s the times. Children change, but they still need teaching! Who else if not us?”
“I don’t know,” Valerie said softly. “Honestly… I don’t know anymore.”
Walking home through the familiar streets, Valerie mechanically counted the steps to her flat—eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Always twenty to the second floor. Everything in her life had become predictable, scheduled down to the minute.
“Mum, you’re early!” Her daughter Emily peeked out from the kitchen. “What’s happened?”
“I handed in my notice,” Valerie said shortly, heading to her room.
“What notice? Mum, where are you going?” Emily hurried after her.
“My resignation.”
Emily froze, gripping the doorframe. “Are you ill? Do you have a fever?” She pressed a hand to her mother’s forehead.
“Stop fussing. I’m not ill. I’ve just decided.”
“Decided what? Mum, do you hear yourself?” Emily perched on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got a stable job, a good team, your salary… Not huge, but steady. What now? Sit at home? You’ll be miserable!”
Valerie tugged off her shoes, rubbing her tired feet.
“And what am I now? Happy? Thrilled? I wake up every morning like I’m heading to my own execution. Stand at the whiteboard explaining the same thing for the hundredth time, all while thinking—when will this end?”
“Mum, everyone feels like that sometimes! It’s burnout. You need a holiday—”
“A holiday?” Valerie laughed bitterly. “Emily, I haven’t taken a real break in forty years. Forty years of school every day, marking every evening, weekends spent lesson-planning, summers on training courses or digging the garden. When was I supposed to rest?”
Emily twisted the hem of her jumper, silent.
“What will James say?” she finally asked.
“What’s James got to do with it?”
“How can you ask that? He’s your… Well, you’re…”
“We’re what? We meet once a week on Sundays. Cinema or theatre. He walks me home, kisses my cheek, and goes back to his place. Three years of the same routine.”
“But you’ve talked about—”
“Talked about what?” Valerie stood, facing the mirror. “Emily, look at me. What do you see?”
Emily shrugged awkwardly.
“I see my mum.”
“I see an old woman. Grey roots dyed every month at the same salon. Wrinkles multiplying yearly. Hands that know only chalk and red pens. Eyes that haven’t sparkled in years. And the worst part? I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Really laughed, not just smiled politely.”
Emily hugged her mother’s shoulders.
“Mum, don’t say that. You’re beautiful, clever—”
“Clever? If I were clever, I wouldn’t have lived my whole life as if someone else planned it. School, university, back to teach at the same school. Married the first man who asked. Had you, divorced, then work, work, work… Where was I in all that? Not the teacher, not the mother, not the ex-wife—just Valerie. I lost her along the way.”
The front door slammed, and her grandson’s voice echoed down the hall.
“Gran! What’s for dinner?”
“Coming, love.” Valerie wiped her eyes. “We’ll talk later, Em.”
Ten-year-old Leo burst in, dumped his schoolbag, and threw his arms around her.
“Gran, can I go to Liam’s? He got this new game with epic monsters!”
“Homework done?”
“Nearly… Just maths left, but it’s easy. Pleeease?”
Valerie studied him—bright eyes, restless hands, a whole life ahead.
“Leo, tell me something. What do you want most right now?”
He scratched his head.
“Summer holidays to last forever. And Mum to stop nagging about grades. And Dad to come for my birthday like he promised. And a dog, but Mum says no.” He frowned. “What do you want, Gran?”
Valerie pulled him close.
“Honestly? I’m not sure. I stopped asking myself that so long ago, I forgot how.”
“How?” His eyes widened. “You always got what you wanted?”
“No, love. I just stopped wanting. Thought it was wrong to dream at my age.”
Leo considered this.
“Grandad Ted says it’s never too late. He moved to his allotment at seventy and grows tomatoes now. Says he always wanted to dig the earth but worked in an office instead.”
“Grandad Ted’s a wise man,” Valerie smiled. “Go finish your homework, then you can visit Liam.”
After he dashed off, Valerie sat motionless. His words stuck like splinters. Never too late. What had she dreamed of as a girl? Travel, the sea, being an artist… Laughable, at fifty-eight.
At dawn, she rose before the sun. The city stirred reluctantly—early commuters, sluggish traffic. Normal morning. Then her phone rang.
“Val, it’s Margaret. I’ve been up all night thinking. Meet me. Let’s talk properly.”
“My decision’s made.”
“At least hear me out! I get it’s hard, but think—what’ll you do? Where will you work? You’ll rot at home!”
“Maybe. But it’ll be my boredom, not someone else’s.”
“What’s that mean?”
“That my whole life, I’ve done what was expected. Studied hard because I should. Became a teacher because Mum said it was noble. Married because friends were marrying. Had a child because that’s what you do. Worked silently to provide. Now I want to live for myself.”
“And how will you do that?”
Valerie watched the sunrise.
“I don’t know. Maybe learn to paint. Join an amateur dramatics group. Take computer classes. Move somewhere new—by the sea, perhaps. The point is, it’ll be my choice.”
“Val, you’re just tired. Rest, it’ll pass.”
“Margaret—are you happy?”
“What kind of question—”
“A simple one. Do you wake up joyful? Love your job? Or are you just going through the motions?”
A long pause.
“I’m forty-eight with two kids, a mortgage, and an ailing mother. Happiness? I have to work.”
“Exactly. Have to. But do you want to?” Valerie set her cup down. “I won’t live by ‘have to’ anymore. I’m choosing ‘want to.’”
After hanging up, Valerie opened the bottom drawer. Beneath old photos lay her childhood sketchbook—yellowed pages, clumsy pencil drawings. She remembered her mother’s disapproval: “Art’s a hobby, Valerie. You need a proper career.”
Her fingers traced a childish seascape, the longing in each unskilled line.
“Mum? What’s that?” Emily appeared in the doorway.
“My old sketches. Found them earlier.”
Emily peered over her shoulder. “You were good! Is that the sea?”
“Yes. I longed to see it. All my friends went to the coast, but we couldn’t afford it.”
“Did you ever go?”
“Once. On honeymoon. Three days in Brighton—it rained the whole time.”
“Mum, let’s go now!” Emily blurted. “I’ll take leave, we’ll bring Leo. A proper holiday!”
“Em, you’ve got bills, debts—”
“So? We’re always saving, planning… Meanwhile life’s slipping by!” Emily sat beside her. “After last night, I realised—I’m just like you. Stuck in a job I hate for the salaryAs the first morning light spilled over the English coast months later, Valerie dipped her toes into the cold, sparkling water, turned to Emily and Leo laughing beside her, and whispered, “This is what living feels like.”
