The Convenient Grannies Irene woke to the sound of laughter. Not a quiet chuckle or a polite giggle, but a thunderous, uninhibited guffaw that filled the hospital ward and grated on her nerves—she’d always detested such noise. The culprit was her bedmate, phone pressed to her ear, gesticulating wildly as if her distant companion could see. “Linda, you’re unbelievable! No, really—he said that? In front of everyone?” Irene checked the clock. A quarter to seven in the morning. Fifteen precious minutes before the nurses bustled in and the day properly began. Fifteen minutes she’d hoped to spend in peace, gathering her thoughts before surgery. She’d met her roommate the previous evening—Susan, petite and round-faced, cropped grey hair untouched by dye and clothed in a bright, polka-dotted pyjama set that looked more suited to a sleepover than a hospital stay. Polite, brief greetings, before each retreated into their own anxious thoughts. Irene had been grateful for the silence. But now? It was like a circus. “Excuse me,” Irene said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down a little?” Susan glanced at her, eyes bright, and flashed an apologetic grin. “Sorry! I’m Susan Turner. Did you sleep all right? I never can, not before an op. End up ringing everyone I know.” “Irene Williams. And if you’re up, that doesn’t mean everyone else wants to be.” Susan shrugged and winked. “But you’re already awake! All right, all right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. Before breakfast, she’d managed two more calls, each louder than the last. Irene turned to the wall, blanket over her head, but it made little difference. At breakfast—which neither managed to eat, nerves twisting stomachs—Susan apologised. “My daughter phoned—she’s worried sick, bless her. I try to calm her down.” Irene said nothing. Her own son hadn’t called, but she hadn’t expected it. He’d said he’d be in early meetings; she’d brought him up to value work above all else. Susan was taken to surgery first, pacing down the corridor, waving and chatting at the nurses until they too burst into laughter. Irene hoped, in vain, that her new acquaintance might be shifted to another ward after surgery. Irene’s own operation went as expected—difficult. She woke in pain, nauseous, the nurse reassuring her all had gone well. Irene bore it with the stoicism she’d practised for years. When she was wheeled back to the ward that evening, Susan was already there, grey-faced, eyes closed, an IV in her arm, and—at last—silent. “How are you?” Irene asked, despite herself. Susan’s lips tilted in a tired smile. “Alive, for now. And you?” “Same.” For a while, neither spoke. Night crept in beyond the smeared hospital windows, and the quiet was broken only by the clink of IV stands and distant hospital sounds. “Sorry about this morning,” Susan murmured suddenly. “When I’m anxious, I just… can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but—” “It’s fine,” Irene said, though it wasn’t, but she was too exhausted for anything else. Neither slept much. Both hurt. Susan no longer made calls, but Irene could hear her shuffling, stifling sobs into her pillow. Morning brought the doctor, a brief inspection, praise for their progress. Susan was instantly on the phone again: “Lynn, I’m fine! Told you so. Has Kieran’s fever gone down? Already better? See, nothing to worry about.” Irene half-listened. Her own phone was silent—a couple of texts from her son, sent last night when she’d been in recovery. “Mum, how are you?”; “Message me when you can.” She replied: “All fine :)”, adding a smiley because Will always said her messages seemed cold without one. His reply came three hours later: “Great! Hugs.” “Do your lot ever visit?” Susan asked over a cup of tea that lunchtime. “My son works. He lives a long way off. And I’m not a child.” Susan nodded. “Mine says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll be fine.’ No point in visiting if there’s nothing wrong, right?” There was something in Susan’s voice that made Irene look up. The smile was in place, but her eyes were weary. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s eight, Maddy and Leo are three and four.” She rummaged for her phone. “Want to see some photos?” For the next twenty minutes they flicked through images: children at the beach, blowing candles, playing in puddles. Susan was in every picture, hugging, pulling faces, clearly adored. Her daughter was absent. “She likes to take the photos,” Susan explained. “Doesn’t like being in them.” “Do you look after them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter and son-in-law work, so I do… well, everything. School runs, homework, cooking.” Irene nodded. She’d been the same for years after her grandson was born—every day at first, then less often, now just once a month, if schedules allowed. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Good boy, does well at school.” “Do you see much of him?” “Some Sundays. They’re busy.” Irene tried to sound understanding. Susan turned towards the window. “Yes. Busy.” Evening fell, and Susan suddenly said, “I don’t want to go home.” Irene looked up. Susan sat huddled, knees to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. “Honestly, I don’t. I’ve thought and thought, and I just… don’t want to.” “Why not?” “What for? I’ll go home and it’ll be Kieran’s homework, Maddy with a runny nose, Leo with torn trousers. My daughter’ll be at work until midnight, son-in-law away on business. There I am: washing, cooking, cleaning, babysitting. And they don’t even…” She trailed off. “Not a thank you. Because that’s what grannies do, isn’t it?” Irene said nothing. Her throat was tight. “Sorry,” Susan dabbed at her eyes. “Just feeling a bit useless, I suppose.” “Don’t apologise.” Irene’s reply was almost a whisper. “I… I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally have time for myself. Wanted to go to the theatre, art galleries, even signed up for a French class. Only lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. She asked for help. I thought, well, I’m a grandmother—it’s no trouble. I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years, every single day. Then the nursery, so every other day. Then school, only once a week. Now… now they barely need me. They’ve got a nanny. I just sit at home and wait – in case they remember me.” Susan nodded. “My daughter was going to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked a dozen pies. But she rang—‘Sorry, Mum, Kieran’s got football.’ She didn’t come. Gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence. It rained outside. “You know what’s silly?” Susan said, voice tight. “It’s not even the visits. It’s that I keep hoping. That I’ll get a call—just a ‘miss you, Mum’, without an ask.” Irene’s eyes stung. “I do as well. Every time the phone rings, I tell myself, maybe this is just for a chat. But it’s always for something.” “And we help,” Susan smiled wryly. “Because we’re mums.” The next days blurred into bandage-changes, brisk nurse visits, slow corridor walks. One day, Susan confessed, “I always thought I had a happy family—a devoted daughter, lovely grandchildren. That they couldn’t manage without me. But this week I realised… they’re managing fine. Maybe it’s just convenient having a free nanny called ‘Nan’.” Irene propped herself up. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his plans matter more than mine. That Mum will always wait, always help, always give up anything.” Susan nodded. “Me too. My daughter calls, I drop everything.” “We’ve taught them we aren’t people,” Irene said slowly, “that we have no life of our own.” “And now what?” “I don’t know.” A week passed. Irene’s son arrived unexpectedly—tall, brisk, bearing a bag of fruit and efficient cheer. “Hi, Mum! How’re you feeling?” After twenty minutes—news updates, money offer—he was gone. Susan was silent throughout, then said softly, “That was your son? Handsome. But cold as ice.” Irene couldn’t reply. Her throat ached. “You know,” said Susan, even softer, “maybe we have to stop expecting love from them. Let go. They’ve grown up, they have their lives. We need to find ours.” “Easier said than done.” “But what else is there? Sit and wait for calls that never come?” “What did you say to your daughter?” “Told her the doctor wants me to rest two weeks. No babysitting. She was cross at first, but I said—‘Lynn, you’re grown up, you’ll figure it out.’ She sulked… but I felt lighter, somehow.” “I’m scared,” Irene admitted. “If I say no, they’ll be cross. What if they stop calling at all?” Susan raised an eyebrow. “Do they call often now?” Silence answered for her. “They can only get better.” Both women were discharged the next day. They exchanged numbers, hugged awkwardly—still careful of stitches. “Thank you,” Irene said. “For… everything.” “Thank you*. I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in thirty years.” Returning home, Irene unpacked, checked her phone—three texts: “Home yet?”, “Call when you’re in,” “Don’t forget your pills.” She replied: “Home. All fine.” Then, almost shyly, pulled an old folder from the cupboard—French course brochure, theatre list. She stared at them, heart thumping. The phone rang. Susan. “Hi. Sorry to ring so soon. Just… felt like talking.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “Fancy meeting up? A walk, maybe, or coffee—when we’re properly back on our feet.” Irene glanced from the French class leaflets to her phone—and for the first time in years, she smiled. “Let’s. But not in two weeks’ time. Saturday. I’m sick of sitting about.” “Saturday? That’s soon!” “I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I did something for myself.” “Deal. Saturday.” They hung up. Irene opened her laptop and shakily signed up for the French class. The rain tapped on her window—behind it, the sky was lightening. And Irene allowed herself to think—just maybe—her life was only just beginning. The Convenient Grandmas

Author Walton MerrittReading 13 minViews 2

Convenient Grandmothers

Margaret White awoke to laughter. Not a muted giggle, not a polite chuckle, but a booming, unabashed cackle that echoed around the hospital ward with a cheeriness shed always found intolerable. The woman in the next bed was at it, phone pressed to her ear and her free arm cutting the air as if the person at the other end could see her performance.

Linda, youre unbelievable! Honestly? He just said that? In front of everyone?

Margaret glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. She had fifteen precious minutes before the nurses would come bustling in to start the day, fifteen minutes shed planned to spend quietly gathering her thoughts before the operation.

Last night, when theyd wheeled her into the ward, the woman had already been there, quick fingers firing off texts on her phone. Their greetings had been brief, just a Good evening and a Hello, before each withdrew to her own silent universe. Margaret had appreciated that silence. Now it was spoiled by this mornings circus.

Sorry, she said, clear but quiet. Could you lower your voice, please?

Her neighbour turned, round-cheeked, cropped grey hair unashamedly un-dyed, andgood heavensa bright pyjama set covered in cherry-red polka dots, in hospital of all places!

Oh, Linda, Ill call you back. Someones giving me the look. She put her phone away and gave Margaret a wide grin. Sorry! Im Patricia Evans. Did you get any sleep? I never do before surgery, so I end up calling everyone I know.

Margaret White. Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean the rest of us dont need to.

But youre not asleep now, Patricia replied with a wink. Alright, I promisestrictly whispers from now on.

She did not, in fact, whisper. Before breakfast rolled around, Patricia had made two more phone calls, each louder than the last. Margaret rolled over to face the wall, yanking the blanket up, but Patricias voice still crept through.

My daughter called, Patricia explained as they sat with their untouched breakfast trays. She worries, you know, before these things. I try to reassure her as best I can.

Margaret didnt reply. Her son hadnt called. She wasnt surprised; he had told her about an important meeting first thing. Thats how shed raised him: work is work, responsibilities matter.

Patricia was wheeled off to her surgery first, waving at the staff and sending the nurse into peals of laughter with some remark down the hallway. Margaret prayed shed have a new room-mate post-op.

An hour later, it was Margarets turn. She always struggled with anaesthetic, and when she came round, nausea and a heavy ache throbbed under her ribs. The nurse was kind, explaining shed done well and it would pass. Margaret endured. Endurance, after all, was what she knew.

By evening, she was brought back to the ward. Patricia lay on her bed already, ghostly pale with her eyes closed, an IV taped to her hand. Blessed, unfamiliar silence.

How are you? Margaret heard herself ask, surprising herself.

Patricias eyes fluttered open. A weak smile.

Still here, somehow. You?

Same.

Twilight settled beyond the window. Their IVs clinked quietly.

Sorry about this morning, Patricia murmured unexpectedly. I talk when Im nervous. Drives people mad, I know, but I cant switch it off.

Margaret wanted to come up with something sharp. She was too worn out. Its fine.

That night, neither slept. Both hurt. Patricia didnt call anyone, just lay still, tossing occasionally, sighing. Margaret thought she heard muffled tears once, sobbed into her pillow.

The doctor arrived next morning, checked their wounds, took their temperatures, smiled at them both. Well done, ladies, things are looking good. Patricia pounced on her phone.

Linda, hi! Yes, Im still aliveno need to worry now. Hows everything there? Is Charlie still under the weather? What? All better? I told you, nothing to worry about!

Margaret caught herself listening. Everything clearly meant the grandchildrenher daughter reporting in.

Margarets own phone remained mute, save for two texts from her son. Mum, how are you? and Let me know when you can. Sent last night while shed still been foggy from the anaesthetic.

She typed: All fine! Then added a smiley. Her son liked emojis, said messages without them sounded cold.

Three hours later, he replied: Brilliant! Love you.

Dont your family visit? Patricia asked over lunch.

My sons busy. Lives far off. And really, theres no needIm hardly a child.

Exactly, Patricia nodded. My daughter says much the same: Mum, youre a grown woman, you can manage! No point coming by if Im alright, is there?

There was something in Patricias voice that prompted Margaret to look more closely. Patricia smiled, but her eyes were hollow.

How many grandchildren? Margaret asked gently.

Three. Charlies the eldest, hes eight. Then Molly and Alfiethree and four. Want to see some photos? Patricia rummaged in her locker for her phone.

For twenty minutes, she scrolled through photo after photo: children in the garden, at the seaside, faces smeared with icing. Patricia was present in all of themhugging, kissing, pulling silly faces. The daughter was never in view.

Shes usually behind the camerahates being photographed, Patricia explained.

Do the kids come to you often?

I nearly live with them! Patricia laughed hollowly. My daughter works full-time, so does her husband. Iwell, I help out. School runs, homework, dinners.

Margaret nodded. Much the same for her. In her grandsons early years, she was there daily. Now he was older, she helped out maybe monthly. If their schedules coincided.

And you?

Just the one grandson. Hes nine. Good lad, does well in school, plays football.

See him much?

Every few Sundays, if theyre free. Theyre always busy. I understand.

Patricia gazed at the rain beyond the window. Busy. Yes.

The day faded. When evening came, Patricia spoke in a low voice.

I dont want to go home, she said, her knees drawn up, staring at the floor.

Why not?

What for? Ill go back, Charlie will be in trouble with his homework, Molly with a runny nose, Alfies trousers torn again. My daughter working late, my son-in-laws somewhere or other. Ill be back to washing, cooking, cleaning, sitting, helping. And they never even… she paused, they dont even say thank you. Because, well, thats what grandmothers do, isnt it? Thats what we are for.

Margaret was silent. A lump tightened in her throat.

Sorry, Patricia said, wiping her eyes. Ignore me. Im being silly.

Dont apologise, Margaret replied quietly. When I retired five years ago, I thought Id finally get time for myself. I wanted to go to the theatre, visit museums. I even signed up for a French class. Lasted two weeks.

What happened?

My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked me to help. I wasnt working, she figured I had time. I couldnt refuse.

And?

Three years, every day. Then, when my grandson started nursery, every other day. Later, every week. Now… Now they dont really need me. They have a nanny. I just wait, see if they remember to call.

Patricia nodded.

My daughter was meant to come visit in November. I cleaned the whole house, baked pies. She rang: Mum, sorry, Charlies got footballcant make it.

Did she come after?

No. I gave the pies to my neighbour.

The rain tapped against the window as they fell quiet.

Whats really hard, Patricia admitted, isnt that they dont come. Its that I still wait. I sit there clinging to my phone, hoping maybe this time someone rings just to say they missed me. Not because they need something.

Margaret felt the sting of tears.

I wait, too, she confessed softly. Every time the phone rings, I think perhaps my son just wants a chat. But theres always a reason.

And still we help, Patricia sighed, almost laughing. Because were mothers, arent we?

Yes.

Dressings started the next morning, painful for both of them. Afterward they lay in silence until Patricia spoke.

I always thought I had a happy family. A lovely daughter, decent son-in-law, wonderful grandchildren. I thought I was needed. That I was indispensable.

And?

And now I seehere of all placesthat they get by just fine. My daughter hasnt once called to say its tough. Shes actually cheerful. They manage perfectlyso long as theres a convenient gran to pick up the slack.

Margaret pushed herself up on one elbow.

Do you know what I realised? Its my fault, really. Ive shown my son Ill always help, always drop everything, always put his needs before mine.

I was the same, Patricia agreed. Always running when my daughter asked.

We trained them to treat us like… not people, Margaret said slowly. Like we dont have our own lives.

Patricia was silent, considering this.

What now? she whispered.

I dont know.

On the fifth morning, Margaret stood without assistance. By the sixth, shed made the full circuit of the corridor. Patricia lagged by a day but followed determinedly. They walked together, hands to the wall for support.

After my husband died, I felt completely lost, Patricia confided, pausing for breath. My daughter told me Id found a new purposelive for your grandchildren now, Mum. So I did. But its always been a one-way street. I live for them; they need me when it suits.

Margaret told her story. How shed brought her son up alone after her divorce thirty years ago. Juggling studies at night, working two jobs.

I thought if I was the perfect mother, hed be the perfect son. If I gave him everything, hed be grateful.

But he grew up and got on with his own life, Patricia finished for her.

Yes. And thats normal, probably. But I didnt expect to feel quite so… alone.

Nor did I.

On the seventh day, Margarets son turned up unexpectedly. She was reading when he appeared in the doorwaytall, smartly dressed, clutching a bag of fruit.

Hi Mum! He smiled and kissed her forehead. Feeling better?

Much.

Good! Doctor says youll be out in three days. You could come stay with usthe guest rooms empty, Alice said youd be welcome.

Thank you, but Id rather go home.

Whatever you like. But ring if you change your mind.

He stayed less than twenty minutes, updating her on work, his son, his new car. Asked if she needed money. Said hed come again next week, then left briskly, a touch too relieved.

Patricia lay with her back to them, faking sleep. Once the door closed, she spoke.

Yours?

Yes.

Handsome chap.

He is.

But cold, like marble.

Margaret said nothing. Her throat ached.

You know, Patricia began quietly, I think maybe we need to stop expecting love from them. Maybe we need to just… let go? Accept that our children have their own livesand we need to find ours.

Easier said than done.

Tough to do. But what else is there? We cant just sit about waiting for them to remember us.

What did you tell your daughter? Margaret suddenly slipped, switching to you informally.

Told her that after discharge, Id need a proper rest. Doctors orders. No childcare for at least two weeks.

And what did she say?

She wasnt pleased. But I said, Linda, youre a grown woman. Youll work it out. For now, I cant help.

She cross?

Oh, livid. Patricia actually smiled. But to be honest, I felt lighter. As if a weight had fallen away.

Margaret closed her eyes.

Im scared. Scared if I refuse, if I say no, theyll stop ringing altogether.

Do they call you often now?

Silence.

There you go. It can only get better.

On their eighth day, both were discharged at the same time. They packed silently, the air heavy with unspoken farewells.

Swap numbers? Patricia suggested.

Margaret nodded. They entered their contacts. Then stood for a moment, unsure.

Thank you, Margaret managed. For being here.

Thank you, Patricia said. Its been thirty years since I spoke to anyone from the heart, like this.

Me too.

They hugged, gently, arms careful not to pull stitches. The nurse brought their notes and summoned taxis. Margaret left first.

Home was quiet and still. She unpacked, took a shower, and lay on the sofa. Her phone buzzedthree messages from her son. Are you home? Ring when you get in, Dont forget your tablets.

She replied: Home now. Alls well. Put the phone down.

She stood and went to the cupboard. Pulled out a folder untouched for five yearsa French class brochure, a season schedule from the Philharmonic stuffed between the pages. Margaret stared at them, thinking.

The phone rangPatricia.

Hi. Sorry for calling so soon. I just… needed to.

Im glad you did. Really glad.

Listen, shall we meet up? Once were properly back on our feet. In a week or so. We could grab a coffee, or just walk. If youd like.

Margaret looked at the brochure in her hand, then at the phone. Then back again.

Id love that. Actuallyshall we not wait weeks? Saturday, perhaps? Im sick of lying about.

Saturday? Really? The doctor said

I know what they said. But Ive spent thirty years putting everyone else first. Time to think about me for once.

Deal. Saturday it is.

They said goodbye. Margaret laid the phone aside and returned to the brochure. The French class started in a monthplaces still available.

She opened her laptop and began the registration, hands trembling. But she finished.

Outside, rain streaked the windows. But the sun was fighting through, weak and hesitant, but definitely there.

Margaret thought, perhaps for the first time, that life might just be beginning again. She pressed submit.

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around the house where she had grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she already felt completely disillusioned with life. Why had fate dealt her such a cruel hand? Her grandmother had died, university was out of reach because of the girl who’d sat next to her during exams—she’d copied all Alena’s answers, handed in her sheet first, and whispered something to the examiner. He’d frowned, demanded Alena’s paper, and then declared her expelled for cheating. She couldn’t prove a thing. And that girl, as it turned out, was the daughter of a local bigwig. How do you fight against people like that? And so, after so many setbacks, her mother reappeared in her life, along with two half-brothers and a new husband. Where had they been all these years? Alena had been raised by her grandmother; her mother had only been around until she was about four, and even then there were no pleasant memories—her mother would leave her alone while she went out enjoying herself. Even married, she’d kept looking for “a proper man,” and wasn’t shy about it even after Alena’s father died unexpectedly. After being widowed, Tamara didn’t mourn for long. She packed up, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat she’d inherited from her late husband, and disappeared. Her grandmother Raya tried desperately to appeal to her conscience, but it was no use. Tamara visited sporadically, but Alena was never a priority. She came when Alena was twelve, with her then-seven-year-old brother Svyatoslav, and demanded their mother sign over the house to her. “No, Toma! You’re not getting anything!” her mother refused flatly. “Once you’re dead, it’ll be mine anyway!” Tamara snapped heartlessly, shot Alena an irritated glare, and stormed off with Svyatoslav. “Why do you two always argue when she comes?” Alena asked her grandmother. “Because your mother’s a selfish woman! I didn’t raise her properly—didn’t give her enough of a hiding!” grumbled Raisa Petrovna. Grandmother’s illness came out of nowhere; she’d never once complained about her health. Then one day, Alena came home to find her, usually endlessly busy, sitting pale and still on the balcony. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked, worried. “I don’t feel well… Call an ambulance, Alenushka…” her grandmother said calmly. Then it was the hospital, IV drips, and then death. Raisa spent her final days in intensive care—no visits allowed. Desperate with worry, Alena called her mother. At first, she refused to come, but when told her mother was in intensive care, she reluctantly agreed—arriving only in time for the funeral. Three days later, she shoved a will under Alena’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be coming soon. I know you don’t get along. So you’ll need to stay with Auntie Gail for a while, alright?” There was not a shred of sorrow in her mother’s voice. She almost seemed glad Raisa Petrovna had died—because now she was the heiress! Grief-stricken and powerless to resist, Alena obeyed—after all, the will left everything clear as day. So she moved in with Auntie Gail, her father’s sister. But Gail was scatterbrained, still dreaming of marrying well, and her house was always full of noisy, half-drunk guests. Alena couldn’t stand it—some of the men even began showing an interest in her, which horrified her. Confiding in her boyfriend Paul, Alena was surprised and cheered by his response: “I won’t have all those old blokes staring at you or pawing you!” he said, very determinedly, despite being only nineteen. “I’ll talk to Dad tonight. We’ve got a little flat on the edge of town—Dad promised I could have it once I got into uni. I kept my promise—now it’s his turn.” “I don’t see what I’ve got to do with it…” Alena mumbled. “What do you mean? We’ll live there—together!” “And your parents will agree to that?” “They’ve got no choice! Consider this an official proposal—will you be my wife and live with me?” Alena nearly burst into tears of happiness. “Of course—yes!” Auntie Gail was thrilled to hear about the wedding; Alena’s mother nearly ground her teeth down. “Getting married, are you? Well, you’re quick off the mark! Couldn’t get into uni, so you’ve found a different way to settle down. I’m not giving you a penny—understand? And this house is mine! You get nothing!” Her mother’s words stung. Paul could hardly make sense of her sobs as he brought her back to his parents’ house, where they comforted her as best they could. Paul’s father, Andrew Simon, listened quietly as Alena poured her heart out before saying, “Poor girl! What sort of woman is that?” Paul’s mother exclaimed when she heard Tamara’s threats. “I’m more interested in something else,” said Andrew Simon thoughtfully. “Why is your mother so fixated on this house when there’s a will, and she constantly throws it in your face?” “I don’t know…” Alena sniffled. “She always argued about this house with Grandma—sometimes begged her to sell it and give her the money, then demanded the deeds be signed over. Grandma refused—said if she did that, we’d both be out on the street.” “This is odd! Say, did you go to the solicitor after your grandmother died?” “No, why would I?” Alena was puzzled. “To claim your inheritance rights.” “But my mother is the heir—I’m just the granddaughter. And anyway, she has the will. I saw it.” “It’s not that simple,” Andrew Simon replied. “We’ll go together to see the solicitor after the weekend. For now—you need some rest!” During this time, Alena’s mother brought some documents and tried to force Alena to sign, but Paul intervened: “She’s not signing anything!” “And who are you to say? She’s an adult—she’ll decide for herself!” retorted Tamara, clearly annoyed. “I’m her fiancé, and I won’t risk her safety. So she’s signing nothing right now.” Tamara exploded with insults, but left empty-handed. This only reinforced Andrew Simon’s suspicions. As promised, he accompanied Alena to the solicitor a few days later. “Listen carefully to what they say, and read everything before signing,” he advised. But the solicitor was honest. He took Alena’s statement, and the next day they learned that a probate case had been opened in her name—apparently, Raisa Petrovna had left a savings account for her granddaughter’s tuition. Alena had no idea. “And the house?” Andrew Simon asked. “The house was gifted to the girl a while ago. No other documents exist.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was stunned. “Yes, your grandmother had it drawn up here a few years ago. Now you’re eighteen, you have full legal control of the property.” “What about the will?” “It was drafted seven years ago, but annulled later. Likely, your mother doesn’t know. The house is yours, and you’re fully entitled to live in it.” Andrew Simon’s suspicions proved true. So what now?” Alena asked, bewildered. “What do you think? Tell your mother the house is yours—she’s got to go.” “She’ll never do that! She’s already packed up all my things to throw out!” “That’s what the police are for!” On hearing the news, Tamara was furious: “You wretch! Trying to evict your own mother? Get out of here yourself! I don’t believe your lies—who put you up to this, your fiancé and his dad? You’re two of a kind! I’ve got legal documents too—the will says I inherit this house!” “Exactly! So get out, or I’ll break your legs, see if you ever set foot here again!” Oleg, who’d been glaring the whole time, chimed in. Andrew Simon stood firm. “As for you, sir, threats and intimidation can land you in court!” Andrew Simon warned, polite but firm. “What? Who do you think you are? Get out—this house is for sale! Buyers coming soon!” Instead of buyers, police arrived, demanded the intruders vacate or face arrest. Tamara, her husband and sons were raging—unable to challenge the law. Alena finally returned home. Paul wouldn’t leave her alone, fearing her mother’s husband might threaten her, and moved in too. He was right. Tamara and Oleg harassed Alena for months. Learning of Raisa’s savings, Tamara demanded her share—there was nothing to do but comply, so a portion went to her. But she never got the house no matter what she tried. Only after consulting all the lawyers she could find did Tamara pack up and leave for good. Alena never saw her again. Alena and Paul married. The next summer, she started university for her dream course; by her third year, she’d had her first child. She was grateful to Paul and his family for their support during her hardest moments, and went on to lead a happy life. Author: Odette — — The Mystery The house was old, but well-kept. It had barely sat empty—no time to get wild or fall apart. “Thank goodness!” thought Mary. “I’m not one of those redoubtable British women, handy at every DIY task, stopping runaway horses and braving burning buildings solo!” She climbed the steps, pulled a big iron key from her bag, and unlocked the heavy padlock. *** For some reason, Mary had been left this house by Auntie Lou, an elderly distant relative she barely knew. Strange, but who knows what goes on in the minds of those who’ve lived as long as Auntie Lou—well over ninety by Mary’s reckoning. Mary was, perhaps, her great-niece or second cousin twice removed; in any case, she was no relation of substance—just a working-class seamstress who cooked a mean Sunday roast. Mary had visited Auntie Lou as a girl, and even then Auntie Lou was very old—always preferring to live alone, never asking the family for help. But just recently, she’d died. When Mary got the call telling her that her grandmother had passed away in the village of Puzzle End, it took her a moment to remember Auntie Lou at all—let alone expect she’d inherit the old cottage and its little bit of land. “A nice gift for your retirement!” joked her husband, Michael. “Oh, retirement’s ages away,” Mary protested. “I’m only fifty-four! By the time I limp to sixty, they’ll probably have moved the goalposts again. So let’s just call this a bonus present. I’ve no idea why I deserve it—I didn’t even know Auntie Lou was still alive! I thought she’d passed on ages ago—but I’m hardly in a position to be choosy. If you’re given something, use it.” “Or sell it,” Michael grinned, rubbing his hands. *** Good thing they didn’t sell. Two or three months after Mary became a landowner, another, less pleasant surprise awaited her: she discovered her beloved Michael had been cheating. Yes, just like that—a midlife crisis wrapped up in secrets and lies…

The Handy Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a soft chuckle or a polite giggle, but a booming, hearty cackle, the kind she’d avoided her entire life and found especially inappropriate for a hospital ward. The culprit was her bedside neighbour, phone pressed to her ear, waving her free hand enthusiastically as if her caller might see. “Len, you’re kidding! Seriously? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. They still had fifteen precious minutes of morning peace before the nurses would come bustling in—a few moments to gather herself before her surgery. Last night, when Helen was wheeled in, the woman across the way was already tapping away at her phone. Their greeting was brief: a “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then silence. Helen was grateful for the quiet. And now, this circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you lower your voice, please?” The neighbour turned around—round-faced, short grey hair left defiantly uncoloured, and a bright pyjama set covered in red polka dots. In hospital, no less! “Oh, Len, I’ll call you later, someone’s telling me off,” she cheerily ended the call and turned to Helen, beaming. “Sorry! I’m Cathy. Did you manage any sleep? I never do before surgery, that’s why I’m on the phone to everyone I know.” “Helen. And if you can’t sleep, it doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to rest.” “But you’re awake now, right?” Cathy winked. “Fine, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d made two more calls, and her voice only got louder. Helen ostentatiously turned away and pulled her covers over her head, to no effect. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained over untouched bowls of hospital porridge. “She’s worried because of the surgery, poor thing. I try to reassure her, you know?” Helen remained silent. Her own son hadn’t rung, but she hadn’t expected it: he’d warned her of an early meeting, very important. She’d taught him that—work comes first, that’s responsibility. Cathy was taken to surgery first. She waved goodbye all the way down the corridor, shouting something to a giggling nurse. Helen hoped the staff would move her to a new room after the operation. Her own turn came an hour later. She never took anaesthetic well—came round nauseous, her side pounding dully. The nurse patted her hand: all went well, you just need to rest. Helen did what she’d always done: she endured. By the evening, back in her room, Cathy was lying on her bed, her face ashen, eyes closed, drip in her arm. Silent, for once. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking, against her intentions. Cathy opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still alive. You?” “Me too.” They fell quiet as dusk thickened outside, the IV bags softly clinking. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but I just can’t help myself.” Helen wanted to make a sharp retort, but she was too tired. She just managed: “It’s fine.” That night neither of them slept—a dull ache kept both awake. Cathy made no more calls, just shifted and sighed. Once, Helen was sure, she heard her crying, muffled into the pillow. In the morning, the doctor came—examined their stitches, checked their temperature, gave a cheery, “Well done, ladies, you’re both doing brilliantly!” Cathy instantly grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! I’m alive, you don’t need to worry. How’s my bunch? Kieran still have a fever? What? It’s cleared up? See, I told you so!” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My bunch”—must be grandkids, her daughter reporting back. Her own phone lay silent. Two texts from her son, sent last night, as she was still groggy. “Mum, how are you?” and “Message me when you can.” She wrote back: “All fine 😊”. Her son loved emojis—said messages seemed cold without them. His reply came three hours later: “Awesome! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t visiting?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son’s busy. Lives far away. Besides, I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says, ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you can manage!’ Why bother coming if it’s all okay, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closer. Cathy smiled, but her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the oldest, eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy pulled out her phone. She showed Helen pictures for nearly twenty minutes—children at the beach, at home, blowing out birthday candles. In every photo, Cathy’s right there with them, hugging, pulling faces, cuddling—her daughter behind the camera, never in the shot. “She’s not fond of photos,” Cathy explained. “I’m with the kids most of the time. My daughter works, son-in-law too, so I’m…well, I help. Pick them up, homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same at first—helped out every day when her grandson was born. Now she visited maybe once a month, usually Sundays, if their schedules matched. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does activities.” “You see him much?” “Sundays…sometimes. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Yeah. Busy.” They sat in silence, watching the drizzle patter the window. That evening Cathy said, out of the blue: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cathy was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “Really, I don’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What’s the point? I’ll get home—Kieran will have fluffed his homework, Maddy will be full of snot again, Leo will have ripped his trousers. My daughter will be at work till late, son-in-law always travelling. Me? I’ll be on laundry duty, cooking, babysitting, always on call. And they never even—” she paused, voice catching, “—they never even say thank you, because that’s just what grandmas do, right? We’re meant to.” Helen said nothing. There was a lump in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Falling apart.” “Don’t be,” Helen said quietly. “I…retired five years ago. Finally thought I’d have time for myself. Go to the theatre, galleries, learn French even. I made it to two weeks of French class.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked for help. ‘You’re grandma, you don’t work, it’s easy for you.’ I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years babysitting all day. Then, when he started nursery, every other day. Then school, so, once a week. And now…now they have a nanny. I sit at home, waiting for a call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded solemnly. “My daughter promised to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked pies. She rang last minute—‘Sorry Mum, Kieran’s got sports, we can’t come.’” “And she never came?” “Never came. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence, listening to rain against glass. “You know what’s hardest?” Cathy said. “Not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I keep that phone in my hand, hoping they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.” Helen’s nose prickled. “I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I think, maybe my son just wants a chat. But it’s always practical.” “And we drop everything to help,” Cathy gave a short laugh. “Because we’re mums, after all.” “Yeah.” The next day began with painful dressings. Afterwards, they lay quietly, until Cathy suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Loving daughter, good son-in-law, grandchildren. I believed I was needed. That they couldn’t manage without me.” “And?” “And now, here, I see they’re coping just fine. My daughter, four days, never once complained. She’s even cheerful on the phone. So—they can do without me. I just make things easier. One free granny-nanny.” Helen pushed herself up on one elbow. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his mum would always help, always be there, her plans coming second to his.” “I did the same. My daughter calls—I drop everything.” “We taught them that we’re not people,” Helen said slowly, “that we don’t have lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. Silence. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day Helen could get up without the nurse’s help. On the sixth she walked to the end of the corridor. Cathy followed a day behind, the two of them shuffling along arm-in-arm. “After my husband died,” Cathy said, “I was lost. My daughter told me, ‘Your new purpose is the grandchildren. Live for them.’ So, I did. But that purpose…felt one-way. I’m there for them—but they’re only there for me when it suits.” Helen told Cathy about her divorce—thirty years ago, when her son was five—how she’d raised him alone, worked evenings, two jobs, fittings studies in between. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d always be grateful.” “But he grew up and lives his own life,” Cathy finished. “That’s right. And that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son turned up unannounced. Tall, smartly dressed, a bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doc says a few more days, you’ll be home. Fancy coming to ours for a bit? Olesya says the guest room’s ready.” “Thanks, but I’d rather be at home.” “Whatever you want. Just ring if you need anything.” He stayed twenty minutes—shared his news, chatted about work and new car, asked if she needed money, promised a visit next week. He left quickly, clearly relieved. Cathy pretended to sleep during the visit. When the door closed, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” “Yes.” “Handsome.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice.” Helen said nothing, her throat tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe we just need to stop waiting for love from them. Just…let go. See that they’re grown up, living their own lives. Let’s find our own, too.” “Easier said than done.” “Hard to do. But what choice is there? Keep waiting forever?” Helen surprised herself by shifting to a familiar tone. “What did you tell your daughter?” “Told her: after the operation, I need two weeks rest. Doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “And?” “At first she protested. I said, ‘You’re an adult, you’ll manage. I can’t right now.’” “Was she cross?” “Oh, furious,” Cathy giggled. “But you know? I felt lighter. Like I’d taken off some heavy coat.” Helen closed her eyes. “I worry if I say ‘no’, they’ll stop calling altogether.” “How often do they call now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can hardly get any worse.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed quietly, as if parting for good. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Helen nodded. They added numbers. Stood awkwardly, not quite able to let go. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “Thank you. I haven’t talked to anyone like this in thirty years. Not really.” “Me neither.” They hugged, gingerly, careful with their stitches. The nurse brought their paperwork, called them taxis. Helen left first. At home, it was silent, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Call me when you get in”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She wrote: “Home now. All good.” Put the phone down. She stood up, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French course brochure, and a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the brochure, thinking. Her phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry for calling so soon. I just…wanted to.” “I’m glad you did. I really am.” “Listen, want to meet up again? When we’re stronger. Maybe in two weeks? A coffee? Walk in the park? If you want, of course.” Helen looked at the brochure. At her phone. Then back at the brochure. “I’d like that. Very much. You know what? Why not this Saturday? I’ve had enough of lying at home.” “Saturday? Really? Did the doctor say—?” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to think about myself.” “Deal. Saturday it is.” They hung up. Helen picked up the French course brochure—the new term started in a month. Enrolment still open. She reached for her laptop and began filling in the registration form—her hands were shaking, but she filled it all in. Rain tapped at the window, but sunlight started to break through the clouds—faint, autumnal, but sunlight nonetheless. And Helen realised, perhaps for the first time, that her life might just be beginning. She hit ‘submit’.

A Parent’s Heart — A Story Thank you for your support, your likes, your caring comments and responses to my stories, your subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five feline companions for your generous donations. Please share any stories you enjoy on social media—it means the world to the author! “Why the gloomy face this morning? You’re not even smiling. Come on, let’s have some breakfast.” Her husband wandered into the kitchen stretching sleepily—it was finally the weekend. Eggs and bacon were sizzling on the stove, while his wife poured tea. She slapped most of the eggs onto his plate and handed over some bread, “Eat up, go on!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “We did, both of us—we didn’t raise the children right,” Natalia replied, slumping down next to him and picking at her breakfast without much appetite. “The kids are grown. We denied ourselves plenty, raised them through tough times, supported them—who’s going to support us? Not even with a word. They’re always in some sort of trouble—life is boring for them, or they’re short on money. It’s always complaints from both Sveta and Dima.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and was happily spreading butter and jam on a fresh slice of bread. “Easy for you to say—they always come to me, the mother. Dima wanted to take his family bowling yesterday and asked for money till payday. I got angry and refused, so now he’s upset. And before that, Sveta called, down because her singing career isn’t getting anywhere. I mean, fine, sing for your soul, but you need a real job too! She wants to earn her keep from singing, but it’s just not happening. Not everyone is cut out for that—time to see it and get a proper job! And anyway, they used to be inseparable in childhood, and now they don’t even talk.” Natalia pushed away her now-cold breakfast and sipped her tea. “Don’t be so worried. It’ll all work out. We were young once too—remember?” Arkady tried to cheer her up, but that only fired her up more. “Oh, come on, Arkasha—you remember! We lived within our means and were grateful for it all. When Dima was born—it was pure joy. My friend gave me a pram and a cot, my sister passed down baby clothes—everything was secondhand, but good as new. Kids grow so fast. And we were happy. And when we finally got our Lada, we parked it by the house and felt like royalty! For ours, if they haven’t been abroad, it’s like life’s a failure. Where did they get that?” “It’s just the times, Natasha. So many temptations out there—they’ll see sense, just wait.” “I just hope it’s not too late—they’ll waste everything chasing wealth, and life goes by in a flash. Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder—is that really me, a grandma now? And you’re a granddad…” Just then, the phone rang—it was their son, Dima. “Here we go again,” Natalia muttered, picking up. As she listened, her eyes widened and she leapt to her feet. “Arkady, get dressed quickly—Dima’s in the hospital. His neighbor called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady jumped up, scrambling to get ready. “It’s not clear—an angle grinder mishap, cut his hand. They’re trying to reattach his wrist. I hope it all turns out okay. What a nightmare. Come on, let’s go.” They hastily dressed—not quite old yet, but not young anymore, parents with anxious hearts. They dashed out, forgetting everything else, on their way to their son in hospital… As they hurried, Svetlana called: “Mum, I’ll pop round at lunchtime, okay?” “Come by, love. We should be back by then,” Natalia gasped, not waiting for an answer as she chased after Arkady to the bus stop. At the hospital, they were reassured—his hand had been saved, though they couldn’t see him just yet. “If you won’t let us in, I’m staying right here,” Natalia declared, sitting down in the corridor, Arkady by her side. Suddenly Sveta burst into the hospital and ran straight to them. “Mum, why the long faces? He’s okay—it all worked out! Yesterday Dima was doing odd jobs, fixing someone’s car, and the angle grinder slipped. They stitched him up, and he can move his fingers. You both look dreadful—I promise he’s fine!” “How do you know?” Natalia managed to ask. “Dima and I text all the time—and his wife Lena, too. We help each other. Why?” “It just seemed like you weren’t close anymore. Why not tell us?” Arkady asked. “Dad, you and Mum are both strong—always overcoming everything. We don’t want to worry you,” Sveta smiled, “Besides, you both look much younger than you think—we just let you live for yourselves these days.” “Well, I thought you didn’t care about us anymore,” Natalia smiled back. “Oh come on, Mum! Your generation is something else—super resilient. We try to be like you, but it’s not always easy. We really do try, you know?” Both parents smiled, their worried expressions relaxing. “Mum, Dad, I wanted to tell you—I’ve got a job now. And the singing? I get invited to events all the time—nurseries, and just yesterday in a care home. The residents clapped so much, and an old lady even wept—her daughter’s a famous singer, always on tour, and left her in care. Heartbreaking!” On impulse, Sveta hugged her parents, “We really do love you, don’t ever think otherwise.” Just then, a nurse let them in to see Dima. Natalia nearly broke down, but Dima calmly said, “Mum, relax—it’s all over now. Dad, didn’t you once end up in hospital after getting swarmed by wasps in our old garage? You almost died! These things happen. Once I’m out, let’s spend New Year’s together—it’s all been such a rush and we hardly see each other. And Sveta wants to introduce us to her boyfriend, right, sis?” Natalia and Arkady walked home on foot—they fancied the stroll. Not old, but not young anymore—parents with caring hearts. Oh, that parent’s heart—it’s always aching for the children. You look at other people’s kids and wish yours were just a little bit better, a little more right, a little more obedient. But they have their own path, however it turns out… And our children are good, because, after all—they’re ours.