**The Next Step Is Mine**
“Valerie, have you completely lost your mind?” Headmistress Margaret’s sharp voice cut through the quiet of the staff room. “Resigning at fifty-eight? Where will you go, for goodness’ sake?”
Valerie neatly stacked her lesson planners without looking up. Her hands trembled, but she refused to let it show.
“I’ll manage, Margaret. Somehow.”
“Do you even understand what you’re doing? Thirty-six years at this school! A respected teacher—parents praise you, children adore you… And your pension is just two years away! What will you do at home?”
Valerie finally lifted her head. Tears welled up, but she held them back.
“What am I doing *here*? The same thing every day. Lesson after lesson… Marking books until midnight, preparing classes as if I didn’t know the curriculum inside out. And the children—” She broke off, rubbing her face. “They’re different now, Margaret. They don’t hear me.”
“Nonsense! Just yesterday, Lucy Barrett said her Oliver 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 of them. Ask him a question? He mumbles. Explain a problem? He gazes out the window. At home, he’s glued to those games till three in the morning.”
Margaret sighed heavily and walked to the window.
“Val, why are you being so hard on yourself? Times change, children change… But someone has to teach them! Who else if not us?”
“I don’t know,” Valerie said quietly. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”
Walking home through familiar streets, Valerie mechanically counted the steps to her flat. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Always twenty to the third floor. Her whole life had been predictable, scheduled down to the minute.
“Mum, you’re home early!” Her daughter Emily peeked out from the kitchen. “Something wrong?”
“I handed in my notice,” Valerie said flatly, heading to her room.
“Your notice? Mum, what do you mean?” Emily hurried after her.
“My resignation.”
Emily froze, gripping the doorframe. “Are you ill? Have you got a fever?” She pressed a hand to Valerie’s forehead.
“Stop fussing, Em. I’m fine. I just decided.”
“*Decided*? Mum, do you realise what you’re saying?” Emily sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got a steady job, a good team, a salary—modest, but reliable! What now? Sit at home? That’s a one-way ticket to depression!”
Valerie kicked off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet.
“And what do I have now? Joy? Happiness?” She looked at her daughter with weary eyes. “Em, every morning, I wake up dreading the day. I drag myself to school like a prisoner. I stand at the whiteboard, explaining the same thing for the hundredth time, and all I can think is: *When will this end*?”
“Mum, everyone feels like that sometimes! It’s called burnout. You need a holiday—”
“A holiday?” Valerie laughed harshly. “Emily, I haven’t had a break in forty years. Forty years of teaching, marking, planning. Weekends spent prepping lessons, summers wasted on training courses or digging the garden. When was I supposed to rest?”
Emily chewed her lip, fiddling with her jumper.
“What will Victor say?” she finally asked.
“What’s Victor got to do with it?”
“How do you mean? He’s your… You’re…”
“We’re what?” Valerie turned. “We meet once a week, Sundays. Cinema or theatre. Then he walks me home, kisses my cheek, and leaves. Three years, same routine.”
“But you’re planning to—”
“Planning? Stand up, Em. Look at me. What do you see?”
Emily shrugged awkwardly.
“I see my mum.”
“And I see an old woman. Grey hair dyed monthly at the same salon. Wrinkles multiplying every year. Hands that know only chalk and red pens. Eyes that forgot how to shine. And the worst part? I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Really laughed—not just politely smiled.”
Emily wrapped her arms around her.
“Mum, don’t say that. You’re beautiful, clever—”
“Clever?” Valerie pulled away. “If I were clever, I wouldn’t have lived like someone else wrote my life. School, university, back to teach at the same place. Married the first man who asked. Had you, divorced, then work, work, work… Where was *I* in all that? Not the teacher, not the mum, not the ex-wife. Just *Valerie*. I lost her somewhere along the way.”
The front door slammed, and ten-year-old Jake bounded in.
“Gran! What’s for dinner?”
“Coming, love,” Valerie called, wiping her eyes. “Emily, we’ll talk later.”
Jake hurled his backpack down and hugged her. “Gran, can I go to Ben’s? He’s got a new game with mega monsters!”
“Homework done?”
“Almost… Just maths left, but it’s easy. Please?”
Valerie studied him—bright eyes, restless hands, a whole life ahead.
“Jake, tell me—what do you want most right now?”
He scrunched his nose. “For summer holidays to last forever. And Mum to stop nagging about grades. And Dad to come for my birthday like he promised. Oh, and a dog, but Mum says no.” He frowned. “What do *you* want, Gran?”
Valerie pulled him close. “Honestly? I don’t know. I stopped asking myself that so long ago, I forgot how.”
“*How*? You always got what you wanted?”
“No, sweetheart. I just stopped wanting. Decided it was wrong—at my age—to dream.”
Jake considered this. “Grandad Joe says it’s *never* too late. He moved to Cornwall at seventy to grow tomatoes. Said he always wanted to garden but worked in an office instead.”
“Grandad Joe’s a wise man.” Valerie smiled. “Go finish your homework. Then you can visit Ben.”
After he dashed off, Valerie sat staring at the wall. Jake’s words stuck like splinters. *Never too late.* What had she dreamed of as a girl? Travel, the sea, painting… Ridiculous, at fifty-eight, to dredge up childhood whims.
—
At dawn, Valerie woke early. Outside, the city stirred reluctantly. Her phone rang.
“Val, it’s Margaret. I couldn’t sleep. Please, let’s talk properly.”
“My decision’s made.”
“But what will you *do*? You’ll be bored rigid at home!”
“Maybe. But it’ll be *my* boredom, not someone else’s.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That I’ve spent my life doing what was expected. Good grades because they mattered. Teacher training because Mum said it was noble. Marriage because friends married. A baby because it was time. Work without complaint to provide. Now? I want to live for *me*.”
“And what will that look like?”
Valerie watched the sunrise. “I don’t know. Maybe art classes. Theatre workshops. Computer courses. Or I’ll move—somewhere coastal. The point is, it’ll be *my* choice.”
“Val, you’re exhausted. Rest, and this’ll pass.”
“Margaret—are *you* happy?”
“What kind of question—”
“A simple one. Do you wake up excited? Love your job? Or are you just… going through the motions?”
A long pause. “I’m forty-eight. Two kids, a mortgage, an ailing mother. Happiness isn’t the point. Work is necessary.”
“Exactly. *Necessary*. But do you *want* it?” Valerie set down her mug. “I’m done with ‘have to.’ I’m choosing ‘want to.’”
—
After the call, Valerie dug out an old sketchbook from the back of a cupboard. Yellowed pages, childish pencil drawings. She remembered her mother’s dismissal: *”Art’s a hobby, Valerie. You need a proper career.”*
Flipping to a sea sketch—clumsy but full of longing—she smiled.
“Mum?” Emily appeared. “What’s that?”
“My old drawings. I wanted to see the sea so badly. All my friends went abroad, but we couldn’t afford it.”
“Did you ever go?”
“Once. Honeymoon with your father. Three days in Brighton.” She shut the book. “Rained the whole time.”
“Mum, let’s go now!” Emily blurted. “I’ll take leave, bring Jake. A proper holiday!”
“Em, you’ve got bills—”
“So what? We’re always scrimping, planning… Life’s passing us by!” Emily sat beside her. “After last night, I realised—I’m just like you. Stuck in a job I hate, terrified to change, raising Jake alone. But what happens when he’sValerie picked up the phone, dialed the travel agent, and booked three tickets to Cornwall—one for her, one for Emily, and one for Jake, where they would chase the sea, the light, and the selves they’d forgotten.
