**The Next Step is Mine**
*Journal Entry – 12th June*
“Margaret, have you completely lost your mind?” The headmistress, Mrs. Thompson’s voice cut through the quiet of the staff room. “At fifty-eight, you want to leave the school? Where on earth will you go?”
Margaret carefully stacked the lesson plans, keeping her hands steady despite the tremor. “I’ll manage, Mrs. Thompson. Somehow, I will.”
“Do you realise what you’re doing? Thirty-six years in this school! Respected teacher, adored by the children, praised by parents… And your pension is just two years away! What will you even do at home?”
Margaret finally looked up. Tears pricked her eyes, but she swallowed them down. “And what am I doing here? The same thing, day after day. Lessons, marking books until midnight, preparing—as if I haven’t memorised this curriculum forty times over. The children…” She rubbed her face. “They’re different now, Mrs. Thompson. They don’t hear me.”
“Nonsense! Just yesterday, Sarah Wilson said her Jack only understands maths because of you!”
“Understands?” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “And what does he do at break? Stares at his phone like the rest. I ask him a question—he mumbles. I explain a problem—he stares out the window. At home, he’s up till three in the morning, glued to those games.”
Mrs. Thompson sighed heavily and walked to the window. “Margaret, why are you tormenting yourself? Times change, children change… but we must teach them! Who else will?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret whispered. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”
Walking home through familiar streets, Margaret counted the steps out of habit. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Always nineteen to the second floor. Everything in her life was predictable, scheduled down to the minute.
“Mum, you’re early!” Her daughter, Emily, peered from the kitchen. “Did something happen?”
“I handed in my notice,” Margaret said simply, heading to her room.
“What notice? Mum—where are you going?” Emily followed.
“My resignation.”
Emily froze, gripping the doorframe. “Are you ill? Do you have a fever?” She pressed a hand to Margaret’s forehead.
“Stop fussing, love. I’m fine. I just decided.”
“How do you just decide? Mum, do you hear yourself? You’ve got a stable job, a good team, a salary—not huge, but reliable! What now? Stay at home? You’ll be miserable!”
Margaret slipped off her shoes, rubbing her tired feet. “And what am I now? Happy? Every morning I wake up like I’m facing execution. I drag myself to school, stand at that board, explain 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?” Margaret laughed harshly. “Emily, I haven’t taken a break in forty years. Forty years of school, marking, planning. Weekends spent preparing lessons, summers at teacher training or digging the garden. When was I supposed to rest?”
Emily twisted the hem of her jumper. “What will Daniel say?”
“What’s Daniel got to do with it?”
“Well, you two… I mean…”
“We what?” Margaret turned. “See each other once a week? Sundays at the cinema or theatre? He walks me home, kisses my cheek, and leaves. That’s been it for three years.”
“But you’re going to—”
“Going to what?” Margaret stood before the mirror. “Emily, look at me. What do you see?”
Emily shrugged awkwardly. “I see my mum.”
“I see an old woman. Grey hair I dye every month at the same salon. Wrinkles deepening every year. Hands that know only chalk and textbooks. Eyes that forgot how to shine. And the worst part? I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Truly laughed, not just smiled politely.”
Emily hugged her. “Mum, don’t say that. You’re beautiful—”
“Beautiful?” Margaret pulled away. “If I were smart, I wouldn’t have lived my whole life like someone else planned it. School, university, teaching at the same place I studied. Married the first man who asked. Had you, divorced, then work, work, work… Where’s Margaret? Not the teacher, not the mother, not the ex-wife. Just Margaret. I lost her somewhere along the way.”
A door slammed, and ten-year-old Alfie bounded in. “Gran! What’s for dinner?”
“Give me a minute, sweetheart,” Margaret said, wiping her eyes.
Alfie threw his backpack down and hugged her. “Gran, can I go to Liam’s? He got a new game—it’s got epic monsters!”
“Homework done?”
“Almost… Just maths left, but it’s easy. Pleeease?”
Margaret studied him. Bright eyes, restless energy—his whole life ahead.
“Alfie, tell me—what do you want most right now?”
He scratched his head. “For summer holidays to last forever. And for Mum to stop nagging about grades. And for Dad to come for my birthday like he promised. And a dog, but Mum says no.” He frowned. “What do *you* want, Gran?”
Margaret pulled him close. “I don’t know, love. I’ve spent so long not asking myself that, I’ve forgotten how to want anything for me.”
“But… don’t you always get what you want?”
“No, sweetheart. I just stopped wanting. Decided it was wrong—at my age—to dream.”
Alfie’s forehead creased. “Grandad John says it’s *never* too late to dream. He retired at seventy and grows tomatoes now. Says he always wanted to dig the earth but worked in a factory instead.”
Margaret smiled. “Grandad John’s a wise man. Go finish your homework, then you can see Liam.”
After he left, Margaret stayed on the bed, Alfie’s words like splinters in her mind. *Never too late.* What had she dreamt of as a girl? Travel, the sea, being an artist… Absurd, at fifty-eight, to dust off childhood fantasies.
The next morning, she woke before dawn. The phone rang.
“Margaret, it’s Mrs. Thompson. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about you. Let’s talk properly?”
“My mind’s made up.”
“But *what* will you do? Where will you work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe learn to paint. Join a theatre group. Take computer classes. Or just leave—go to the coast. The point is, it’ll be *my* choice.”
“Margaret, be reasonable—”
“Are *you* happy?” Margaret interrupted. “Do you wake up eager for the day? Or are you just… living by habit?”
Silence. Then: “I’m forty-eight. Two kids, a mortgage, an ill mother. Happiness isn’t the point.”
“That’s just it. ‘The point’ shouldn’t be duty. I want to live by *want*, not *should*.”
After hanging up, Margaret opened a long-forgotten drawer. Beneath old photos lay a sketchpad—yellowed pages, childish pencil drawings. She remembered sketching them, dreaming of being an artist. Her mother’s voice echoed: *Margaret, art isn’t a career. It’s a hobby.*
Emily found her. “Mum, what’s that?”
“My old drawings. I wanted to see the sea so badly…”
“Let’s *go*, then!” Emily blurted. “I’ll take leave, Alfie can come—”
“Love, you’ve got bills—”
“So what? We always save, plan… and life passes us by.” Emily’s voice wavered. “Mum, after last night, I realised… I’m just like you. Stuck in a job I hate, scared to change. Alfie will grow up, and what’ll I have? Who’ll I be *for*?”
Margaret hugged her. “Then let’s change. Together.”
That evening, she met Daniel at their usual café. He talked about work, his son, the garden. She barely listened.
“Daniel… are we happy?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I mean *really* happy. Or just… comfortable?”
He frowned. “Margaret, I’m sixty-two. Peace is all I want now.”
“But I don’t,” she said softly. “I haven’t had enough—of joy, of *living*.”
“Maybe see a doctor?”
She laughed. “I’ve never been *clearer*.”
Later, she dug out Emily’s old paints. The colours had dried, but the brushes remained. Her first strokes were clumsy, childish—but by dawn, she’d painted the sea. The sea from her dreams.
Alfie woke first. “Gran, can we *really* go to the coast?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Not just a holiday. A new life.”
Emily hesitated. “WhatShe picked up the phone, dialled the travel agency, and with a steady voice said, “I’d like to book three tickets to Cornwall—one way.”
