You Don’t Deserve It “I thought I’d never trust anyone again after my divorce,” Andrew turned an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice cracking so convincingly that Kate couldn’t help but lean in. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a piece of yourself. She left me scarred for life. I didn’t think I’d recover…” Andrew sighed heavily as he talked at length—about his ex-wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t go away, and his fear of starting over. Each word landed softly on Kate’s heart, and she pictured herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. Together, she would heal his wounds. He’d see that real happiness was only possible with her. Andrew mentioned Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee… “I’ve got a son, by the way. Seven years old. He’s with his mum, but spends every weekend with me. That’s how the court arranged things.” “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She could already see it: Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She’d be a second mum—not a replacement, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on… “Are you sure you’re okay with that?” Andrew looked at her with a strange half-smile she mistook for distrust. “Most women run away when they find out about the kid.” “I’m not most women,” she replied, proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently went through his maths book, explained the sums in plain English, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was tucked up by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew once, smoothing his hair as he lounged on the couch, remote in hand. “I can handle this.” He nodded gratefully—or so she thought. Now she realized it was the nod of a man accepting what he felt was owed to him. Months blended into years. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out of the house by eight, back by seven. Decent salary—by London standards, at least. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “Another delay on the site,” Andrew would sigh, as if lighting struck every time. “The client’s let us down. But there’s a big contract coming soon, I promise.” The “big contract” had been on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes closer, sometimes further away, never materializing. But bills were reliable. Rent, utilities, groceries, maintenance, school supplies, new trainers, child support for Andrew’s ex. Kate paid everything quietly. She cut costs, packed leftovers for work, walked in the rain rather than pay for a cab. It had been a year since she’d afforded a manicure—she filed her nails herself now, trying not to remember when a salon wasn’t a luxury. In three years, Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each awkward bunch—cheap roses from the Tesco outside their block, wilted and with snapped stems, half-price specials. The first time: as apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second: after a row about her friend dropping in unannounced. The third: for missing her birthday because he stayed too long with mates—he’d simply forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t need expensive gifts,” she tried to choose her words gently. “But sometimes, I’d like to know you think of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted. “All you ever care about is money, isn’t it? Presents? What about love? What I’ve been through?” “That’s not—” “You don’t deserve it.” He flung the words at her like mud. “After everything I do for you, you’ve the nerve to complain.” Kate went quiet. She always did—it was simpler. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Meanwhile, Andrew always found money for pub nights with mates. Watching the game, cafés on Thursdays. He’d roll home, half-drunk, stinking of beer and sweat, flopping onto the bed without even noticing Kate was awake. She convinced herself this was normal. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change. He had to. She’d just give more, love harder—after all, he’d suffered so much… Talk of marriage was a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why bother with a certificate?” Andrew swatted the subject away like a fly. “After what I went through with Melissa, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pushing me. You’re always pushing!” He’d storm out, the conversation going nowhere. Kate wanted children. Her own. She was twenty-eight and her biological clock was getting louder every month. But Andrew had no plans to become a dad again—one son was enough, in his view. That Saturday, she asked for just one day—a single day. “The girls have invited me over. It’s been ages. I’ll be back in the evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d announced plans to move continents. “And what about Max?” “You’re his dad. Spend the day together.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was counting on time to relax?” Kate blinked. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Not once asked for a free day. She cooked, cleaned, tutored, washed, ironed—all on top of a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. A few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can manage one day?” “You’re supposed to love my son like you love me!” he suddenly yelled. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got an attitude?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid for both, with her own salary. Three years she’d supported a man who shouted because she dared to ask for a day off. She looked at Andrew—at his distorted face, the vein throbbing at his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him, truly, for the first time. Not a wounded soul. Not a casualty of circumstance. But an adult who’d mastered the art of exploiting someone else’s kindness. Kate wasn’t his beloved, nor his future wife. She was a financial donor and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Melissa’s, Kate reached for her overnight bag. Her hands moved steadily—no trembling, no hesitation. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. She could buy the rest later. None of it mattered. She didn’t bother with a note. What would be the point—explaining herself to someone who never truly saw her? The door shut quietly behind her, no fuss, no drama… The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a relentless barrage—her phone buzzing with Andrew’s fury. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I get home and you’re gone! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? Unbelievable—” She listened to his voice—angry, entitled, self-righteous—and almost laughed. Even now, Andrew only thought of inconveniences to himself. Who’d cook his dinner. Not one “sorry.” Not even, “Are you alright?” Only: “How dare you?” Kate blocked his number, his messaging app, his social media—anywhere he could reach her, she put up a wall. Three years. Three years with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness up. Who’d convinced her sacrifice equalled love. But that wasn’t love. Love doesn’t mean humiliation. Love doesn’t turn a human being into a servant. Strolling through London in the evening, Kate breathed easier than she had in years. She made a promise—never again to confuse love with self-abandonment. Never again to save those who trade on sympathy. To always choose herself. Only herself.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 8 minViews 3

“I thought, after my divorce, Id never be able to trust anyone again,” James murmured, rolling the empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice wavered with such convincing pain that Emily leaned forward, unable to help herself. “When youre betrayed, it feels like you lose a piece of yourself. She cut deeper than anyone ever had. I honestly thought Id never climb out of that hole never feel whole again…”

James heaved sighs as he spoke, his story unspooling slowlythe wife who never valued him, the ache that wouldnt fade, the terror of beginning again. Each of his words pressed gently on Emilys heart like warm pebbles, and she found herself imagining being the woman to mend himto restore his faith in love. She pictured them healing together, finding real happiness, the kind only their togetherness could offer.

James only talked about Oliver on their second date, slipping it in between the sticky toffee pudding and after-dinner tea…

“Ive got a son, you knowhes seven. Lives with his mum, but every weekend hes with me. Thats what the court decided.”

“Thats wonderful!” Emily beamed, her smile bright as a spring sunrise. “Children are such a blessing.”

In her mind, she crafted idyllic scenes: three at the breakfast table on Saturdays, strolls through Hyde Park, cosy film nights together. Shed be more than a stand-in, shed be a second mothernot replacing his own, of course, but someone hed grow to love as family.

“Youre sure you dont mind?” Jamess lips curled into a strange smirk, one Emily mistook for a flicker of doubt. “Most women bolt when they find out about the kid.”

“Im not most women,” she replied, proud and assured.

That first weekend with Oliver felt like a celebration. Emily made blueberry pancakesthe boys favourite, as James had tipped her off. She patiently hovered over his maths homework, explaining things in simple terms. She laundered his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school kit, tucked him up in bed by nine on the dot.

“You need a break,” Emily suggested gently, noticing how James had sprawled on the sofa, TV remote in hand. “Let me take care of everything.”

James noddedgratefully, or so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting his due.

Months stitched themselves into years. Emily held a managers post at a shipping firm, gone from the flat at eight, back by seven each night. Her pay was decentby London standardsbut it stretched only so far. It had to cover three.

“Theyve delayed things again on the site,” James would say, as if reciting some grim disaster. “Client pulled out. But theres a big contract coming, I promise you.”

That big contract had hovered on the horizon for eighteen monthssometimes nearer, sometimes furtherbut it never quite arrived. The bills, however, never missed. Council tax. Electric. Wi-Fi. Groceries. Child maintenance for Sarah. New trainers for Oliver. School fees. Emily paid everything in silence. She pinched pennies on lunch, bringing pasta in Tupperware, refusing Ubers even in relentless rain. She hadnt been to a nail salon in over a yearshe trimmed and filed her own nails, trying not to think of easier days.

In three years, James had brought her flowers precisely three times. She could recount each bunchthose limp, cheap supermarket roses from the kiosk near the station, thorns snapped off and petals tired as if theyd been on offer.

The first was an apology for calling her hysterical in front of Oliver. The second came after a spat over her friend showing up unannounced. The third, a late birthday gesture when he forgot and spent the night drinking with his mates.

“James, I dont need lavish gifts,” she would say softly, choosing her words with care. “Sometimes, I just want to feel youre thinking of me. Even a card would mean so much…”

His face twisted instantly.

“Moneys all that matters to you, isnt it? Presents. Thats all. Never mind love, the things Ive been through!”

“Its not about”

“You dont deserve it,” James spat, flinging the words at her like muck. “After all I do for you, you dare complain?”

Emily fell silent. She always didit was easier that way. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend things were fine.

Meanwhile, James always seemed able to scrape together cash for himselfpub nights, live football, Thursdays curry house. Hed come home tipsy and flushed, stinking of sweat and old tobacco, and collapse into bed, oblivious to Emily lying awake next to him.

She convinced herself: this is what real love issacrifice, patience. Hell change, of course he will. She just had to wait a little longer, love a little harder, because hed survived so much already

Any talk of marriage was like picking her way through a minefield.

“Were happy as we arewhats a bit of paper mean?” James would wave the topic away. “After what Sarah put me through, I need time.”

“Three years, James. Three years is a long time.”

“Youre pressuring me. Always pressuring!” His irritation would drive him from the room, ending the conversation in a dead hush.

Emily wanted childrenher own children. At twenty-eight, her biological clock grew louder with every passing month. But James had no interest in fatherhood again; in his mind, one son was more than enough.

That Saturday, Emily asked for one thing. Just a single day.

“The girls have invited me over. Its been ages. Ill be home by evening.”

James stared at her as if shed just announced she was leaving for Australia.

“And Oliver?”

“Youre his dad. Spend the day together, just you two.”

“You mean youre abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I wanted a rest?”

She blinked, once, twice. In three years, shed never left them on their own. Never once asked for a free day. She cleaned, cooked, helped with homework, did all the washing, all while holding a full-time job.

“I only want to see my friends. A few hours And he is your son, James. Cant you manage one day with him on your own?”

“Youre duty-bound to love my boy as you love me!” James burst out suddenly, voice echoing off the small kitchens walls. “You live in my flat, you eat my food, and now youre showing your true colours?!”

His flat. His food. Yet Emily had paid the rent on that flat. She shopped and paid for the food with her own wages. For three years she had supported a man who screamed at her just for wanting a day off with her friends.

Now, as she looked at Jamesfurious, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his templeshe finally saw him as he truly was. Not some broken soul, desperate to be saved, but a grown man, perfectly adept at exploiting kindness.

To him, Emily was not a beloved partner, nor a future wife, but a financial crutch and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more.

Once James left to drop Oliver back to Sarahs, Emily calmly reached for her holdall. Her hands moved with certaintyno shakes, no hesitation. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of tees. Jeans. Anything else could be bought later. Nothing else mattered.

She left no note. What was the point explaining herself to someone who rendered her invisible?

The door closed softly behind her, void of fanfare.

The calls started an hour later. First one, then another, then a barragea ceaseless stream of shrill rings that vibrated the phone against her palm.

“Emily, where are you? What the hell is this? I come home, youre gone! What gives you the right to do this? Wheres my dinner? Am I supposed to starve? This is disgraceful!”

She listened to his voicefurious, demanding, righteous indignation dripping from every wordand marvelled. Even now, even as she disappeared, James could only think of himself. His discomfort. Who would cook for him now? No word of “sorry.” Not a whisper of “Are you alright?” Only “How dare you?”

She blocked his number. Then found him on WhatsAppblocked there. Facebookblocked. Anywhere he might reach her, she built a wall.

Three years. She had spent three years with a man who did not love her. Who devoured her compassion like a commodity, convincing her that sacrifice was the core of love.

But that isnt love. Love isnt humiliation. Love doesnt turn one partner into hired help.

Emily walked down a dusky London street, breathing easier than she had in years. She made herself a promise, right then: never again would she mistake self-effacement for love. Never again would she rescue those who trade on pity.

From now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.

This Is Not Your Home Alena gazed sadly around at the house where she’d grown up since childhood. At eighteen, she already felt utterly disappointed with life. Why was fate so cruel? Her beloved grandmother had died; she hadn’t been able to get into university, all because of a girl who’d sat at the next desk during exams, copied her answers, and then whispered something to the examiner when she handed in her paper first. The examiner frowned, demanded to see Alena’s answers, and then announced she was being expelled from the exam for cheating. She couldn’t prove her innocence. As it turned out, that clever girl was the daughter of a local bigwig. How could you ever hope to compete with someone like that? Now, after so many setbacks, her mother had suddenly reappeared—along with two half-brothers and a new man in tow. Where on earth had they been all these years? It had been her grandmother who’d raised Alena, her mother leaving when Alena was only four. And there were no fond memories from those early years—her mother used to abandon her alone while she went out for fun. Even when married, her mother was always looking for a “worthy man,” never hiding it, not before and not after Alena’s father’s sudden death. Left a widow, Tamara hadn’t mourned long. She packed her things, left her little daughter on her own mother’s doorstep, sold the flat she’d inherited from Alena’s father, and vanished. Her grandmother Raya had pleaded with her to behave like a proper mother, but it was no use. Tamara showed up occasionally, but she was never really interested in Alena. At one point, she visited when Alena was twelve, bringing a seven-year-old Svyatoslav with her, demanding that her mother sign over the house. “No, Toma! You’re not getting a thing!” her mother refused flatly. “Suit yourself—the place will be mine as soon as you die!” Tamara spat back, glaring at her daughter and bundling up Svyatoslav before slamming the door. “Why do you always have to quarrel when she visits?” Alena asked her grandmother. “Your mother’s nothing but a selfish woman! I obviously went wrong somewhere raising her! Should have tanned her hide more often!” Grandma Raisa Petrovna replied bitterly. Her grandmother’s illness came suddenly. She’d never complained before, but one day when Alena got home from school, she found her always-busy grandmother pale and sitting in a chair on the balcony—something Alena had never seen her do. “Is something wrong?” Alena asked nervously. “I’m not feeling well… Call an ambulance, Alyonushka…” her grandmother replied calmly. Hospital. Drips. Then—death. Raisa Petrovna spent her last days in intensive care, where visitors weren’t allowed. Consumed by fear, Alena desperately tried to reach her mother. Initially, Tamara refused to come, only relenting when she learned her mother was in intensive care. She arrived in time only for the funeral. Three days after, Tamara thrust a will under her daughter’s nose: “This house now belongs to me and my sons! Oleg will be here soon. I know you don’t get along with him, so you’ll stay with Aunt Gala for a while, alright?” There was no hint of grief in her voice—in fact, she seemed positively cheerful now that Raisa Petrovna was gone, and she was the sole heir! Crushed by grief, Alena couldn’t stand up to her mother. The will spelled everything out clearly, so she ended up living with her father’s sister, Aunt Gala—a flighty woman with a non-stop stream of rowdy, half-drunk visitors. Alena couldn’t abide it, especially when some men started showing her unwanted attention. She confided in her boyfriend, Pasha, who responded in a way that both surprised and delighted her: “No way am I letting strange old men gawk at you or lay a finger on you!” he said, adding firmly, “I’m going to talk to my dad today. We have a one-bedroom flat on the edge of town. My father promised I could live there once I started uni. I kept my word, and now it’s his turn.” “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with me…” Alena replied, confused. “What do you mean? We’ll live there together!” “Do you really think your parents will agree to that?” “They’ll have no choice! Consider this my official proposal: will you be my wife and live with me in that flat?” Alena nearly cried from joy. “Of course I will!” Her aunt was delighted at the news, but her mother was furious: “So you’re getting married now, are you? Just look at you! Couldn’t get into university, so you’re taking the easy way out! I won’t give you a penny, just so you know! And this house is mine—you’re not getting anything!” Her mother’s words hurt deeply. Pavel could barely get the story from her between sobs. He took her home, where his parents comforted her and brewed tea. Andrei Semyonovich listened attentively to his future daughter-in-law, shaken by the sheer number of misfortunes she’d suffered—more than most people do in a lifetime. “My poor girl! What kind of woman is she, your mother!” Pavel’s mum exclaimed after hearing about Tamara’s cruel words. “I’m interested in something else…” Andrei Semyonovich mused. “Why is she so fixated on the house, if there’s a will—and why does she keep using it against you?” “I don’t know…” Alena sobbed. “She’d always argued about the house with Grandma, always wanting to sell it or get Grandma to sign it over. But Grandma said if she did, we’d both end up out on the street.” “Curious. Tell me, did you see a notary after your grandmother’s death?” “No, why would I?” Alena asked, surprised. “To declare your inheritance rights.” “But my mother’s the heir, I’m just the granddaughter. Besides, Mum showed me the will. I saw it myself.” “It’s always more complicated,” Andrei Semyonovich replied. “We’ll visit a notary after the weekend. For now, you need some rest!” During that time, Alena had a run-in with her mother. Tamara brought documents and tried to make her sign them, but Pavel intervened: “She won’t be signing anything!” “And who are you, anyway? She’s an adult, she can make her own decisions!” Tamara snapped. “I’m her fiancé, and I think these papers could harm her. So nothing gets signed, not yet.” Tamara exploded with insults, but she left empty-handed—and Andrei Semyonovich’s suspicions grew. A few days later, as promised, he went to the notary with Alena. “Listen to everything he says and check all documents before you sign!” he advised. The notary was ethical. He accepted her application, and the next day informed them that Alena had an open inheritance case. Unbeknownst to her, her grandmother had set up a savings account to pay for Alena’s education. “What about the house?” Andrei Semyonovich asked. “The house was long ago deeded to the girl as a gift. There are no other documents.” “A deed of gift?” Alena was shocked. “Yes—your grandmother arranged it years ago. Now that you’re eighteen, you’re the legal owner and free to do as you wish.” “And the will?” “It was drafted seven years ago, but then revoked. Your mother probably doesn’t know about that. The house is yours—no one can take it from you.” Andrei Semyonovich’s fears were confirmed. “So, what now?” Alena asked anxiously as they left the office. “Now you tell your mother the house is yours, and she has to move out.” “She’ll never agree! She’s already packed my things to kick me out!” “That’s what the police are for!” When Alena delivered the news, Tamara went ballistic. “You ungrateful wretch! You plan to throw your own mother out? You’d better go yourself! You think I believe your lies? Who’s putting this nonsense in your head—your fiancé and his father? Well, birds of a feather! I have a document proving this house is mine! The will says I’m the sole heir!” “That’s right! So get out, or I’ll break your legs for you!” Oleg snarled, joining in. But Andrei Semyonovich stood his ground. “Sir, for threats and disorderly conduct, the police might get involved,” he warned politely but firmly. “Who do you think you are? Get out! The house is for sale, and buyers are coming soon!” But it wasn’t buyers that showed up—it was the police. After reviewing the situation, they ordered Tamara and her brood to vacate immediately, warning of criminal liability if they resisted. Furious, Tamara, her husband, and her sons had no choice but to leave. At last, Alena went back to her home. Pavel moved in too, not wanting to leave her vulnerable. He was right—Tamara and Oleg harassed her for some time, especially after learning of the savings account. Tamara made a claim, winning part of the money, but got nowhere with the house. After seeking every legal opinion, she finally gave up for good and moved away. Alena never spoke to her again. Alena and Pavel married. The following summer, she began university in her chosen field; by her third year, she’d had her first child. She remained grateful to her husband and his family for their unwavering support, and lived out her life in happiness. Author: Odetta — — Enigma The old house was well-kept despite its years—never left empty long enough to go wild or fall apart. “Thank goodness!” thought Masha. “There’s no man in my life these days, and there probably won’t be. And I’m certainly not one of those hardy English women who can do anything—hammer in nails, rein in horses, or charge into burning farmhouses!” She climbed up on the porch, pulled a heavy key from her handbag, and unlocked the massive old padlock. *** Strangely, this house had been left to Masha by Granny Lyuba, an elderly relative she barely knew. Odd, but who can say what goes on in the minds of the very elderly? By Masha’s reckoning, Granny Lyuba must have been a hundred. Masha was either her great-niece or second cousin, she couldn’t quite remember, but to her Granny Lyuba was just “our sewing and cooking granny.” She’d visited only in her youth—Granny Lyuba was already a senior then, always preferring to live alone, never asking her family for help. But recently, she’d quietly passed away. When Masha got the call about her grandmother’s passing in the village of Enigma, it took her a moment to realize it was Granny Lyuba. She certainly hadn’t expected to inherit a house and twelve acres of land. “A little nest egg for your retirement!” joked her husband, Michael. “Ha! Retirement’s years away—by the time I make it, they’ll probably push the age up again,” Masha replied. “For now, it’s just a gift. Though I can’t fathom what I did to deserve it… I didn’t even know Granny Lyuba was still alive! I thought she was long gone. But hey, far be it from me to complain about a gift.” “Or we could just sell it!” Michael had rubbed his hands gleefully. *** As it turned out, not selling it was a wise decision. Only a few months after Masha became a landowner, another surprise awaited her—one far less pleasant than inheriting property. She discovered her beloved Michael was having an affair. Yes, at this stage in life! Grey hair, midlife mischief…

The Ever-Helpful Grandmas Eleanor Stirling awoke to laughter. Not to a quiet chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but to a loud, riotous guffaw so inappropriate for a hospital ward that it grated her nerves. It was her bed neighbour, pressing a phone to her ear, waving her free arm as if the person on the other end could see her. “Lynn, honestly! He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Eleanor glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Morning rounds wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes – fifteen precious minutes she’d hoped to spend in silence, preparing herself for the surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, her roommate was already in bed, typing furiously on her phone. Their greeting had been brief: “Good evening.” “Hello.” And then they’d retired to their own thoughts. Eleanor was thankful for the quiet. But now? A circus. “Excuse me,” she intoned, clear but soft. “Could you keep it down a little?” Her roommate turned. Round face, short silver-grey hair, unapologetically uncoloured, a flamboyant polka-dot pyjama—bright red in a hospital ward! “Oh, Lynn, I’ll call you back, looks like I’m in trouble,” she said, slipping the phone away and turning to Eleanor with a grin. “Sorry! I’m Cathy Shepherd. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before operations. That’s why I call everyone I know.” “Eleanor Stirling. Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean others don’t need to.” “But you’re awake now,” Cathy winked. “All right, I’ll whisper from now on. Promise.” She didn’t whisper. By breakfast, she’d already made two more phone calls, each growing louder. Eleanor dramatically turned to face the wall and pulled her duvet over her head—but it was useless. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained at breakfast—neither of them actually ate as surgery loomed. “She’s worried, bless her. I’m trying to keep her calm.” Eleanor said nothing. Her own son hadn’t rung. Not that she expected him to—he’d warned that there was an early work meeting, very important. She’d taught him: work is everything, responsibility above all. Cathy was taken down to surgery first, waving a cheery goodbye and shouting some joke to the nurse, who laughed. Eleanor found herself hoping her neighbour would be moved to another ward after her surgery. She herself was collected an hour later. Anaesthesia had always been hard on her. She woke nauseated, her right side throbbing dully. The nurse reassured her it had gone well. She’d just have to be patient. Patience, at least, she had in spades. When she returned to the ward that evening, Cathy was already back, lying still, face ashen, eyes closed, drip needle in, silent for the first time. “How are you?” asked Eleanor, though she had no intention of starting a conversation. Cathy opened her eyes, managed a slight smile. “Still alive. You?” “Yes. Alive.” They fell silent, the room prickled by the shiver of gathering twilight and the quiet ring of IV drips. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy finally said. “When I’m anxious, I talk non-stop. I know it’s annoying. I just can’t help myself.” Eleanor wanted to retort, but she couldn’t muster the strength. She eked out, “It’s all right.” Neither slept much that night, both troubled by pain. Cathy no longer called anyone, but Eleanor could hear her shifting, sighing; once, she thought she heard quiet sobs muffled in a pillow. The doctor arrived in the morning, checked stitches, took temperatures, then commended them both: “Doing well.” Cathy immediately grabbed her phone. “Lynn, hi! All fine, I’m alive, no need to worry. How are the kids? Really? Kyran had a fever? Is it gone now? See, I told you it would be nothing.” Eleanor listened unwillingly. “The kids”—so, Cathy’s grandchildren. Her own phone sat quietly. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s it going?” and “Text when you can”—sent last night, as she’d been groggy from anaesthesia. She replied: “All fine,” added a smiley. He liked them, said messages felt cold without. Reply came three hours later: “Brilliant! Love you.” “Don’t your family visit?” Cathy asked later that day. “My son works. Lives far. No real need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you’ll manage.’ Anyway, what’s the point if everything’s okay?” Something in her voice made Eleanor look closely. Cathy was smiling, but her eyes were far from cheerful. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kyran—the oldest, he’s eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy produced her phone, scrolling through pictures: children at the seaside, at a birthday, hugging, grinning, Cathy always with them, clowning for the camera—her daughter behind the lens, never in view. “She hates being in photos,” Cathy explained. “Your grandkids stay with you a lot?” “I basically live with them. My daughter works, my son-in-law as well, so I do…well, everything. School run, homework checks, dinners.” Eleanor nodded. Her story was similar—daily help in her grandson’s early years. Then it lessened—now, once a month, Sundays, if plans aligned. “And you?” “Only one grandson. Nine. Keen footballer, does well at school.” “See him much?” “Some Sundays. They’re busy. I understand.” “Yes,” Cathy turned to the window. “Busy.” They grew quiet as evening rain speckled the window. Later, Cathy suddenly announced, “I don’t want to go home.” Eleanor looked up. Cathy sat on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought about it and…I don’t.” “Why?” “What for? I’ll get back, Kyran’s homework won’t be done, Maddy’s got snot all over her face again, Leo’s ripped his trousers. My daughter’s at work until late, my son-in-law’s always away. So I cook, clean, tidy, help, sit, fix. And no one even—” she faltered, “even says thank you. Because, well…that’s just what grandmas do.” Eleanor said nothing. She felt a lump rising in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Don’t know what’s got into me.” “Don’t apologise,” murmured Eleanor. “Five years ago, I retired. Thought I’d finally focus on myself. Wanted to go to the theatre, to exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked me to help. I’m the grandma, I’m not working, surely not a problem. I couldn’t say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, every other day. Then school—once a week. Now…now I’m not really needed. They have a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting for them to call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded. “My daughter was meant to come in November—for a visit. I cleaned the house, baked pies. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kyran’s got football club, we can’t come after all.’” “She didn’t come?” “No. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat, quiet, listening to the patter of British rain. “You know what stings?” Cathy said. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I keep hoping they will. I clutch my phone, thinking: maybe now they’ll call because they miss me. Just to chat—not needing something.” Eleanor felt the sting of tears in her nose. “I do too. Every time my phone rings, I hope my son just wants to talk. But no—it’s always for something.” “And we always help,” Cathy shrugged. “Because we’re mums.” “Yes.” The next day brought redressing of wounds—painful for both. Afterwards they lay quiet, until Cathy said, “I always thought I had the perfect family. Wonderful daughter, good son-in-law, lovely grandkids. That I was essential—that they couldn’t do without me.” “And?” “And now I’ve realised, here, that they manage just fine. My daughter hasn’t complained in four days. In fact, she sounds more upbeat than ever. So…they could cope all along. It just suits them to have a grandma-nanny on hand.” Eleanor propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault, too. I taught my son—Mum always helps, always waits, always stands aside. His plans matter, mine don’t.” “Me too. I always drop everything for my daughter.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Eleanor said quietly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. And was silent. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” On day five, Eleanor managed to get out of bed unaided. On day six, she walked to the end of the corridor and back. Cathy was a day behind, but determined. They took walks together, slow, trailing a hand along the wall. “After my husband died, I felt lost,” Cathy confided. “I thought it was all over. My daughter said: ‘Mum, now your whole meaning is the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. Only now it feels…one-sided. I live for them; for me, they’re there when it suits.” Eleanor related her own divorce, thirty years ago when her son was five. How she raised him alone, worked two jobs, studied evenings. “I thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up, and has his own life,” Cathy finished. “Yes. I suppose it’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On day seven, her son showed up, unannounced. Tall, in an expensive coat, with a carrier bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Better now?” “Better.” “Fantastic! Doctor says three more days and you’re out. Maybe you’ll come stay with us? Olesya says the guest room is free.” “Thanks, but I’m better at home.” “As you wish. If you need anything, call.” He stayed twenty minutes—work stories, grandson updates, new car chat. Asked if she needed money, promised to visit again next week. Left quickly, with palpable relief. Cathy pretended to sleep through, then opened her eyes. “Your son?” “Yes.” “Handsome fellow.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice, though.” Eleanor could only nod. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe it’s time we stopped waiting for their affection. Just…let it go? Understand that they’ve grown up, their lives are their own. Time to find ours again.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But, what’s the alternative? Sitting here hoping they’ll remember us.” “What did you say to your daughter?” Eleanor asked, surprised to have switched to ‘you’. “Told her I’d need two weeks’ rest after discharge; the doctor said so,” said Cathy. “Not able to watch the kids.” “Was she cross?” “Oh yes. But you know what? I felt lighter, like a huge weight was lifted.” Eleanor closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no, they might take offence—stop calling entirely.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can’t get worse. Can only get better.” On day eight, they were discharged together. Packing in silence, as if saying a final goodbye. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Eleanor agreed. They did. Stood there, looking at one another. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “For being here.” “Thank you. You know…I haven’t spoken like that to anyone in thirty years. Heart to heart.” “Nor have I.” They hugged—awkwardly, gently, careful not to jostle stitches. The nurse arrived with their discharge notes, called a taxi. Eleanor left first. Her flat was quiet and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son. “Mum, are you discharged yet?”, “Call when you’re home”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set the phone aside. She stood, went to the cupboard, pulled out a folder—untouched for five years. Inside, a French class leaflet and a printed theatre schedule. She stared at the leaflet, thinking. The phone rang: Cathy. “Hi—sorry to ring so soon, but…I just wanted to call.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “Shall we meet up? When we’re both fitter? In a week or so—coffee, maybe? Or just a walk? Only if you’d like.” Eleanor looked at the leaflet in her hand, then at the phone. Then back at the leaflet. “I’d like that. Really. In fact, why wait? Let’s meet Saturday. I’ve spent long enough lying around.” “Saturday? Are you sure? The doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I looked after me.” “Deal. Saturday.” They rang off. Eleanor picked up the French leaflet again. Classes started in a month. Registration was still open. She reached for her laptop, hands trembling slightly, and filled out the registration form. All the way to the end. It was raining outside. But behind the clouds, the sun was breaking through—just a little, the soft, silvery glow of an English autumn. And Eleanor Stirling suddenly thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. Then she pressed ‘submit’.