A Belated Gift The bus jolted and Mrs. Anne Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the rough plastic bend slightly beneath her fingers. The shopping bag bumped into her knees; apples thudded softly inside. She stood near the exit, counting stops until her own. Headphones hissed quietly in her ear—her granddaughter had asked her not to switch off her phone: “Just in case, Grandma, I might call.” The heavy phone weighed down her coat pocket. Even so, Anne checked whether the zip was fastened. She could already imagine herself stepping into her flat, putting the bag on the kitchen stool, changing her shoes, hanging up her coat, draping her scarf on the shelf. Then she’d unpack groceries and start the soup. Her son would drop by tonight to collect containers—after a long shift, he had no time to cook. The bus braked and the doors sprang open. Anne Peterson carefully stepped down, clutching the handrail, and made her way past clusters of children kicking a football on her estate. A girl on a scooter nearly grazed her, but swerved away at the last moment. The block of flats reeked of cat food and cigarette smoke. Inside, she settled the bag down, removed her boots and, with a familiar nudge, lined their toes against the wall. Coat on the hook, scarf on the shelf. She unpacked food: carrots with the other vegetables, chicken into the fridge, bread into the bread-bin. She took out a pot, pouring in enough water to cover the bottom. Her phone buzzed on the table. She dried her hands and brought it closer. “Yes, Alex?” she said, leaning in—it always helped her hear. “Hi Mum, how are you?” Her son’s voice was rushed; someone was asking him something in the background. “I’m fine. Making soup. Will you come by?” “Yeah, I’ll swing by in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum, the nursery has another fundraiser, repairs this time—could you… do as you did before?” Anne Peterson was already reaching for the document drawer with her grey notebook of expenses. “How much do you need?” she asked. “If you could, three hundred pounds. Everyone’s chipping in, you know… times are tough.” “I understand,” she said, quietly. “Alright, I’ll give it.” “Thank you, Mum, you’re a star. I’ll come by this evening—pick up the soup and the money.” When the call ended, water was already boiling. She dropped in the chicken, salt, a bay leaf. She sat and opened her notebook. ‘Pension’ at the top—neatly inked. Underneath, ‘bills’, ‘medicine’, ‘grandkids’, ‘for emergencies’. She wrote ‘nursery’ and the amount, hesitated for just a moment. The figures shifted, crowding up from below—less than she’d like left, but not disastrous. “We’ll get by,” she thought, shutting the notebook. On her fridge, a magnetic calendar—a slice of advertising: “Community Theatre. Season tickets: classical music, jazz, theatre. Senior discounts.” The magnet was a gift from her neighbour, Mabel, along with a birthday cake. Anne had often caught herself reading the ad as she waited for the kettle. Her eyes always caught on ‘season tickets’. She remembered how, before she got married, she and a friend would queue for hours at the concert hall. Tickets were pennies, but the queue was long. They’d shiver in the wind, chat and share a laugh. She’d had long hair then, always worn in a bun, her best dress and her only pair of heels. She imagined the hall—hadn’t seen a stage in years. The grandkids dragged her to nativity plays, but those were all shouting and cap guns. This was different. She didn’t even know what concerts were on nowadays—or who went to them. She took the magnet down, turned it over: a website and a phone number. She put it back, but the idea lingered. “Silly,” she told herself. “Better to set something aside for my granddaughter’s coat. She’s growing up—everything’s so dear.” She turned down the heat under the soup. Back at the table, instead of opening her notebook again, she pulled out her old envelope marked ‘rainy day’. A few notes, saved up over the months. Not much, but enough for washer repair or blood tests. She counted and recounted. The advert’s promise still whirled in her mind. Her son arrived in the evening, offloaded containers from his bag, delighted at the borscht. He urged her to record what was left after their recurring asks—she assured him she always did. “You’re our accountant,” he smiled. “Could you help with the grandkids again this Saturday? We need to shop, no one else can look after them.” She agreed. “What else do I have to do?” As he put on his shoes, he looked over. “Mum, do you ever buy yourself anything? It’s always for us, for the grandkids.” “I’ve got everything I need,” she replied. “What would I want?” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll pop by in the week.” When he left, the flat went quiet again. Anne Peterson washed up, wiped down the table, glanced again at the fridge magnet. His question echoed: “Do you ever buy something for yourself?” The next morning, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The grandkids were in nursery and school, her son at work. Her day was empty, but brimming with tiny chores—watering plants, mopping, sorting old newspapers. She exercised as the doctor said—slow stretches, neck rotations. She filled the kettle, spooned loose tea into her cup, and while the water simmered, she took down the magnet again. ‘Community Theatre. Season tickets…’ She punched in the number. Her heart was beating faster. “Community Theatre, box office.” “Hello,” she croaked, mouth dry. “I wanted to ask about… season tickets.” The woman listed their series: the orchestra, chamber music, “evening song”, children’s programmes. “Senior rate,” she added, “but it’s still a fair sum. Four concerts.” “How about just one?” Anne asked. “You can, but it’ll cost you more. Season ticket’s better value.” Anne pictured her sums in the notebook, the envelope in the drawer. She asked the price. It landed in her mind with a heavy thud. She could do it, but ‘for emergencies’ would be very thin. “Think it over,” said the woman. “They do go quickly.” Anne hung up. Her kettle was whistling. She made tea and wrote “Season Ticket” and the amount in her notebook, and then, after a moment, “Four concerts.” She divided it by months. Not too scary. She slashed out a few little treats mentally—less sweet stuff, skip the hairdresser, she’d trim it herself. She thought of the grandkids: the youngest wanted a new building set, the eldest needed dancing trainers. Her son and daughter-in-law muttered about the mortgage. Her own wish felt inappropriate, almost indecent, as if she were planning something forbidden. She put away the notebook and set about her chores. But the thought of the concert hall wouldn’t leave her. After lunch, the intercom buzzed: it was Mabel with a jar of pickles. “Take it—no room at mine. How are you?” “I’m well,” Anne smiled. “Just mulling something over…” She hesitated, feeling foolish to confess. “What’s on your mind?” Mabel asked, pulling out her knitting. “A concert,” Anne admitted. “Season tickets at the Community. I used to go before. But it’s expensive.” Mabel raised her eyebrows. “Why ask me, Anne? If you want to go—go.” “The money…” Anne started. “Money, money—don’t start. You’ve always helped everyone. Look at you! Did you lend your son again? Grandkid presents? Always. And for yourself? That same old shawl, same old coat. Why not treat yourself to music for once?” “It’s not once, though,” Anne objected. “I used to go before.” “Back when ice-cream was fifty pence,” Mabel scoffed. “That was another era. You’re not asking them for it—it’s yours, your money.” “They’d only say it’s daft,” Anne murmured, “should give it to the grandkids.” “Don’t tell them, then. Say you went to the doctor instead. Actually, why should you hide? You’re not a child.” ‘Not a child’ stung unexpectedly, mixing shame and a flicker of pride. “I’m always at the clinic anyway…” Anne said. “But I’m still scared—what if I can’t make it, stairs, my heart and all.” “There’s a lift,” Mabel scoffed. “You’ll sit through it, not run laps. I went to the theatre last month. Survived—my feet ached, but it was worth it.” After Mabel left, Anne picked up her phone and, before her nerves failed her, called the box office: “I’d like a season ticket. For the ‘Evening Song’ series, please.” The woman explained she’d need to come in with her ID; Anne wrote down the address and opening times, stuck them to the fridge. Her heart thudded as if she’d run for a bus. That evening, her daughter-in-law rang. “Anne, you’re still fine to watch the kids Saturday? We need to catch the sales at the retail park.” “Yes, I’ll manage.” “Thank you so much. We’ll bring you something. Tea? Towels?” “No, thank you,” said Anne. “I don’t need anything.” After hanging up, she looked at her fridge. The box office closed at six—she’d leave early, no need to rush. That night, she dreamed of the concert hall—plush seats, soft lights, people in smart clothes. She sat in the middle, clutching her programme, scared to move in case she distracted anyone. When morning came, a familiar weight pressed on her chest. “Why did I bother? So much fuss…” But the scrap of paper on her fridge hadn’t vanished. She dusted off her best coat, checked for loose buttons, chose a warm scarf and comfortable boots. In her bag went her ID, purse, glasses, blood pressure pills, a bottle of water. She sat for a minute on the hall stool, taking stock. No dizzy spell, legs steady: “I’ll manage,” she told herself, and closed the door. The bus stop wasn’t far, but she walked slow, counting steps. The bus came quickly—a young lad offered her his seat. The Community Theatre was two stops from the town centre, a grand old building with columns and bright posters. At the entrance, two women chatted animatedly. Inside, it smelled of dust, old timber, and something sweet from the snack bar. The box office was on the right—a kind voice at the window. Anne handed over her ID, chose her concert series. “We have a senior rate,” said the cashier. “Good seats left in the centre.” She tried to make sense of the seating plan, but just nodded. When she heard the price, her hand trembled. For a moment she nearly said she’d changed her mind, but the queue shuffled behind her and, quickly, she counted out the banknotes. “Here’s your ticket booklet,” the woman smiled, handing her a thick card with concert dates. “First show’s in a fortnight. Do come early to find your seat.” The season ticket was beautiful—a photo of the stage on the cover, neat lines inside. Anne tucked it carefully in her bag, between her ID and her recipe book. Outside, her legs were wobbly. She sat on a bench, sipped water. Beside her, two teens smoked and debated music she’d never heard of. She caught herself listening as if it were a foreign language. “Well, there you are. Bought it. No turning back.” The next two weeks blurred as usual—the grandkids were ill, she nursed them, made stewed fruit, checked thermometers. Her son brought more shopping, whisked away supper. A few times she almost told him about the concert ticket, but changed the subject at the last minute. On the morning of the first concert, she rose early, gut clenching as if for an exam. She made supper in advance, rang her son: “I won’t be home this evening—call ahead if you need me.” “Where are you off to?” he asked, surprised. She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie. “The Community Theatre,” she said. “A concert.” Silence. “What concert? Mum, do you need that? Crowds, noise, it’s all young people.” “It’s not a nightclub,” she said, keeping calm. “It’s a song recital.” “And who asked you along?” “No one. I bought the ticket myself.” A longer silence. “Mum,” he said at last, “you sure? You know things aren’t easy for us. You could have used that money for…” He trailed off. “I know,” she replied firmly. “But this is my money.” She surprised herself with her own certainty. She tightened her grip, waiting for a fight. “Alright,” sighed her son. “Yours to spend. Just don’t come crying if you run short. And don’t catch cold. At your age—” “At my age, I can sit in a hall and listen to music,” she said. “I’m not climbing Everest.” He sighed again, gentler now. “Okay. Just call me when you get home, so I don’t worry.” “I will,” she promised. Afterwards, she sat, staring at the ticket. Her hands shook—it felt reckless, almost improper. But no turning back. By evening, she dressed up in her best: deep blue dress, proper collar, ladderless tights, comfy low shoes. She spent extra time brushing her hair. It was nearly dark outside. She clutched her bag—inside, the note for the concert, her ID, tissues, pills. The bus was crowded. Someone stepped on her foot, apologised. She held the rail, counting stops. At last, she squeezed out. At the Community Theatre, people of all ages stood at the entrance. Older couples, younger women, a few lads in jeans. Anne felt her tension ease. She wasn’t the oldest. She checked her coat in, hesitated, then followed the “Auditorium” sign, gripping the handrail. Inside, the lights were low—only the rows gently lit. An usher checked her booklet. “Row six, seat nine. This way.” Anne edged past knees; found her seat, lowered herself carefully. Her heart pounded, not from fear now, but excitement. Around her, people chatted, leafed through programmes. So did she: the song names unfamiliar, but one composer’s name glowed with distant memories. The lights dimmed. The compère said a few words—Anne barely listened. The thrill was just being there, among others, not slaving over a stove at home. As the first chords played, chills ran down her spine. The singer’s voice was deep, smoky, yearning. Songs about love, loss, journeys far away—suddenly not so alien. She remembered another concert hall, another city, a different her, next to someone long gone. Her eyes prickled, but she didn’t cry. She just sat, clutching her bag, and listened. Gradually, she felt her body soften, her breath steady. Music filled the hall—and, for once, her life seemed bigger than savings and responsibilities. During the interval, her legs ached, back stiff. She stepped into the foyer. People chatted, some munched cakes; Anne bought a tiny chocolate, something she’d normally scold herself for. “Tasty,” she murmured, breaking off a corner. A woman her age in a light suit turned. “Lovely concert, yes?” “Yes,” Anne nodded. “It’s been so long.” “Me too,” the woman smiled. “Always something—grandchildren, garden. Then I thought, if not now, when?” They chatted about the programme, the singer. The bell rang; they returned for the second half. It flew by. Anne no longer thought about the cost, or pennies per act. She just listened. When the concert ended, applause thundered; she clapped until her hands tingled. Outside, the air was cool and lively. She walked slow, tired but warmed by something new. Not euphoria, not bliss—just the sense that she’d given herself something, no matter how small. At home, she called her son. “I’m home now, all fine.” “How was it? You didn’t get cold?” “No,” she answered. “It was… lovely.” He paused, then said, “Alright. If you’re happy. Just don’t overdo it, Mum—we do need to save up for the kitchen.” “I know,” Anne replied. “But I already have my ticket. Three more left.” “Three?” he echoed. “Well, if you’ve paid, go on then. Carefully.” Later, she filed away her coat, put her bag aside. In the kitchen, she poured tea and opened her ticket booklet, lightly battered at the corners. She copied the concert dates into her wall calendar, circling each one. The next week, when her son asked for another contribution, she opened her notebook and eyed the numbers for a long time. Then said: “I can give you half. I need the rest.” “What for?” he asked automatically. She looked at him, at his drawn face. “For myself,” she said calmly. “I need a little, too.” He started to protest, then sighed. “Alright, Mum. As you wish.” That evening, alone, Anne found her old photo album. There she was, young, in a light dress outside another concert hall, clutching a programme, with a shy smile. She studied that face, trying to connect it with her reflection. Then she closed the album and put it away. On the fridge, beside the magnet, she pinned up a new note: “Next concert—15th.” Below, in neat script: “Don’t forget to leave early.” Her life didn’t transform. She still made soup, did laundry, waited at the GP, babysat the grandkids. Her son still asked for favours, and she gave what she could. But somewhere deep, there was now a sense she had her own time, her own small plans—she didn’t need to explain to anyone. Sometimes, passing the fridge, she’d touch the note. Each time, she felt a stubborn, quiet certainty: she was still alive, still allowed to want. One evening, flicking through the local paper, she spotted an advert for a free English class for older adults at the library. Registration required. She tore the page out, slid it next to her concert booklet. Then poured herself a tea and wondered—was that too daring? “I’ll finish my concerts first,” she resolved. “We’ll see after that.” She tucked the newspaper into her notebook, yet the thought—that she could still learn—no longer seemed impossible. Before bed, she peered out at the orange-lit estate; a teenager with headphones passed, a boy bounced a ball. Anne Peterson stood by her window, hand on the sill, feeling peace pool quietly in her chest. Life outside went on: routines, limitations. But now, among them, she had made room for four musical evenings—and, perhaps, new words in a new tongue. She switched off the kitchen light, headed for bed, and pulled her blanket up neatly. Tomorrow would be the same: shopping, calls, cooking. But on the calendar, a small circle was marked. And that, even if only she noticed, changed everything. A Belated Gift

A Late Gift

The bus jolted to a stop, and Anne Thompson gripped the handrail with both hands, feeling the tough plastic flex slightly under her fingers. The carrier bag bumped against her knees, and the apples rolled dully inside. She stood by the exit, quietly counting the stops to hers.

Her granddaughter had made her promise: Gran, keep your headphones in, just in case I call. The phone weighed heavily in the outer pocket of her handbag. Even so, Anne checked her bag again to make sure the zip was done up tight.

She was already picturing her arrival back at the flatsetting the shopping down on the footstool in the hallway, changing into her slippers, hanging up her raincoat and folding her scarf neatly onto the shelf. Next, unpack the groceries: carrots in with the other vegetables, chicken straight into the fridge, bread into the bread bin. Then water in the pan for soup, her palm just covering the bottom.

Her son would come by in the evening to pick up the containers. He was on shift workthere simply wasnt time for cooking.

The bus jerked to a halt. The doors opened wide. Anne stepped carefully down, clutching the rail. Children dashed across the courtyard with a football, and a little girl on a scooter nearly clipped her, swerving away at the last moment. Near the entrance, she caught the unmistakable scent of cat food with a hint of tobacco smoke.

In the hallway, Anne placed her shopping down, slipped off her shoes, and lined them up, toes to the wall. She hung her coat, folded the scarf, and began to sort the shopping in the kitchen. The carrots with the potatoes, chicken to fridge, bread away. She filled the pan with water for soup.

The phone hummed on the table. She wiped her hands on the tea towel and pulled it closer.

Yes, Simon, she said, leaning a little towards the speaker, as if that helped her hear her son better.

Mum, hiits me. How are you doing? Cooking? In the background, someone else was asking him something.

Im fine. Making soup. Will you pop in?

Yes, in a few hours. Listen, Mum, the nurserys collecting againfor the room repairs. I dont suppose He paused. Do you mind helping out again? Like last time.

Annes hand was already searching for the grey notebook in her drawer, where she recorded every expense.

How much do you need? she asked.

If you can… sixty pounds. Everyones chipping in, but you know how things are. He sighed. Its tough at the moment.

I understand, she said. Ill sort it.

Thank you, Mum. Youre a star. Ill drop by tonight for the soup too. My favourite.

By the time she hung up, the water was nearly boiling. She dropped the chicken in, salted it, added a bay leaf. Then she sat and opened her notebook. In the pension column, the numbers sat lined up in careful ballpoint. Belowbills, prescriptions, grandchildren, unexpected.

She wrote nursery and the amount beside it, her pen hovering. The numbers shuffled, as if propped up from beneath. Not quite as much left as shed like, but not catastrophic. Well manage, she thought, closing the notebook.

On the fridge, a little calendar magnet advertised: Community Centre. Season tickets: classical music, jazz, theatre. Pensioner discounts. Her neighbour, Mabel, had dropped it in with a cake for her birthday.

Anne had caught herself reading those words more than once while waiting for the kettle to boil. Today her eyes snagged again on season tickets. Once, before she married, she and her friend would queue outside the concert hall for hours. Tickets were cheap then, but there was always a line, and theyd laugh and stamp their feet in the cold. Shed worn her hair up in a bun, her best dress, the only pair of smart shoes she owned.

Now she pictured the concert hallshe hadnt been in years. The grandchildren dragged her to nativity plays, but that was different: noise, streamers, enthusiastic clapping. Here she didnt even know what sort of concerts they had anymore, or who went.

She pulled the magnet off and turned it over: a website she ignored, but a phone number too. She put it back, but the thought lingered.

Silly, she told herself. Better save for a new coat for her granddaughtershes growing, its all so dear nowadays.

She turned the heat down on the hob and sat again. This time, instead of the notebook, she took out an old envelope from the drawerher rainy day money. She flicked through the notes, thinking about the advert off the magnet. Not a fortune, but if she was careful, probably enough for the odd emergencyand perhaps a ticket or two.

That evening, Simon arrived. He hung up his coat, brought in the containers.

Ooh, borschtlegend! Did you eat?

Ive eaten, yes. Sit down, help yourself. The moneys here. She counted out sixty pounds from the envelope.

Mum, you should note whats left, he said as he took it. You dont want to run short.

I keep track, dont worry. She gave him a little smile.

Youre our family accountant, he laughed. By the way, could you babysit on Saturday? Tania and I need to go to Tesco, nowhere for the kids.

I can, she nodded. Im not exactly rushed off my feet.

He updated her on work, his new line manager, changing rotas. As he pulled on his shoes, he asked, And do you ever get yourself anything? Its all for us or the grandchildren.

I have what I need, she replied quietly.

He waved. Alright, but just remember yourself. Ill pop over in the week.

After hed gone, the flat was quiet again. Anne washed up, wiped the table, then turned to the fridge magnet. His words echoed in her head: Do you ever get yourself anything?

The next morning, with the grandchildren at nursery and school and Simon at work, the flat was peaceful but crowded with choreswatering plants, dusting, sorting the newspapers. She did her stretches as the doctor recommended. While the kettle boiled, she looked again at the magnet.

Community Centre. Season tickets

She dialled the number, her heart quickening. After a few rings, a womans voice answered: Community Centre, Box Office, how can I help?

Hello, Anne said, mouth dry. Im phoning about your season tickets.

Yes, certainly. Which series are you interested in?

Im not sure. What have you got?

The woman patiently listed them: symphony orchestra, chamber music, Evenings of Song, childrens events.

We do have a pensioner discountbut the season is still a little dear. Its four concerts in the package.

And individually? asked Anne.

You can buy single tickets, but it works out more expensive. Seasons better value.

Anne calculated silently. She could stretch to it, but it would empty her rainy day fund almost completely.

Do have a think, the woman said. They sell quickly.

Thank you, Anne replied and hung up.

The kettle was boiling. She poured herself tea and opened her notebook. On a blank page, she wrote Season ticket, the price beside it, then: Four concerts.

Dividing the amount over four months, it seemed less daunting. She mentally crossed off a few thingsless sweets, hold off on the hairdresser, do it herself.

But the faces of her grandchildren hovered at the edge of her mind: the youngest wanted new Lego, the eldest needed dance trainers, Simon sighed about the mortgage. And here was her own wish, feeling faintly improper, as if she were planning some mischief rather than a concert.

She closed the notebook without making up her mind. She mopped the floor, did the laundry, hung it on the radiator. The thought niggled at her.

After lunch, the entry phone buzzed. It was her neighbour, Mabel, bearing a jar of homemade pickled onions.

Take these, love, running out of cupboard space. How are things?

Managing, Anne smiled. Just thinking.

Thinking about what? Mabel settled at the table with her knitting.

A concert. Theres a brochure on my fridge. Used to love the concert hall in my youth. Thought about a season ticket, but its a bit expensive.

Mabel raised her eyebrows. Why ask me? Its your decision. If you fancy it, go.

Money Anne began.

Money, money, Mabel waved her hand. Youve given everything to your lot. Helped Simon again? You did. Presents for the grandchildren? All the time. And what for yourself? Youve worn that same old shawl as long as Ive known you. Surely you can spend on musicjust once.

Its not just once. I did go before.

Back when a choc ice was ten pence, Mabel snorted. Its a different world now. Youre not asking them to pay. Its your money.

Theyll still say its foolish, Anne said softly. Better for the grandchildren.

Dont tell them then, shrugged Mabel. Say you went to the doctor. Or, to be honest, why hide it? Youre not a child.

Funny, you say that, Anne admitted, feeling a cocktail of embarrassment and pride rising.

She confided her worrieswhat if she didnt make it there, what if there were too many stairs, what if her heart played up?

Lifts working, I was there myself last month for a play, Mabel told her. Feet ached a bit, but the memories were worth it.

They chatted a bit longer, then, after Mabel left, Anne picked up the phone and called the box office back, before she could lose her nerve.

Id like the Evenings of Song season, please.

The lady told her shed need to come in with ID. Anne wrote the address and opening times on a slip and stuck it on the fridge. Her heart pounded as if from a brisk walk.

Later that evening, her daughter-in-law called. Anne, you can do Saturday for sure? We want to go to Currys, theres a sale.

Ill be there, Anne promised.

Thank you! Well bring something back for you. Maybe tea or a new towel?

No need, love, Im alright.

Afterwards, Anne checked the address on the fridge again. Box office open until sixshed leave early to give herself plenty of time.

That night she dreamt of a concert hall: plush seats, gentle light, people in dark coats. She sat somewhere in the middle, program in hand, hardly daring to breathe.

Come morning, her chest felt heavy. Why did I start this? she wondered. So much rigmarole.

But the note hadnt disappeared. After breakfast, she got out her best coat, brushed it, checked the buttons. She chose a warm scarf and comfortable shoes. Her handbag carried her ID, wallet, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a bottle of water.

Before she left, she sat on the hallway stool, taking a moment to check how she felt. No dizziness, steady legs. Ill be fine, she told herself and locked the door.

It wasn’t far to the bus stop, but she took her time. A young man stood up for her once aboardshe thanked him and sat by the window, holding her handbag close.

The Community Centre was two stops from the town centrea grand old building with columns, bright posters outside. At the entrance, two women chatted animatedly. Inside, it smelled of wood polish and sweets from the café.

The box office was just on the right. Anne handed over her ID and asked for the song series.

Good timing, we still have seats in the middle, the cashier said, pointing at the chart.

Anne nodded, not really following the dots and rows. When she heard the final price, her hand faltered before counting out the notes. For a moment she wanted to say never mind and leave it for another day, but the queue behind her began to murmur, and she pressed the money across the glass.

There you are, said the cashier, handing her a sturdy card marked with dates. First concerts in a fortnight. Come early, its easier to find your place that way.

The pass was beautifully printed: a photo of the stage, neat lines with the programme list. Anne slipped it into her bag between her ID and her little recipe notebook.

She sat on a bench outside to steady herself. Teenagers nearby smoked, loudly debating music shed never heard of. Anne found herself listening, the words almost foreign to her.

Well, there it is. Ive bought it nowno going back.

The next two weeks slipped by in the usual routine. The grandchildren caught colds, she boiled fruit drinks, checked thermometers. Simon dropped in with groceries, took leftovers. She almost told him about the season ticket several times, but always dodged it.

On concert day, she got up early, anxious as if before an exam. She prepped dinner ahead, rang Simon.

I wont be in this evening, she said lightly. Call ahead if you need anything.

Where are you off to?

She hesitated, not wanting to lie but not brave enough for the truth. The Community Centrefor a concert.

A what? Simon asked, startled. Mum, is that really necessary? Isnt it all youngsters, noise, crowds?

Its not a discoits an evening of songs, she replied, keeping her voice even.

Who took you along?

NobodyI bought the ticket myself.

A long silence.

Mum, are you serious? You know things are tight. That sort of money couldvewell, you know.

I know, she cut in, but its my money.

Her words surprised even herself with their firmness. She braced herself for his retort.

Alright, he sighed. Its yours. Just dont blame me if you run short. Wrap up warm. And honestly, at your age

At my age, Im allowed to sit in a theatre and listen to music, she said. Not climbing a mountain.

He softened. Fair enough. Just ring when youre home, will you? So I dont worry.

I will, she promised.

After the call, she sat with the pass in her hands, her fingers trembling. She felt audacious, almost improper, but refused to back down.

That evening, she put on her best navy blue dress with the tidy collar, ladder-free tights, sensible low heels. She brushed her hair smooth.

It was nearly dark as she left. Shop fronts glowed, the bus stop was crowded. She clutched her bag with her pass, ID, tissues, and pills.

The bus was packed. Someone stepped on her toe and quickly apologised. She counted off the stops. At hers, she squeezed her way to the door.

Outside the venue, people of all ages gatheredolder couples, women in smart skirts, some youngsters in jeans. Anne relaxed a littleshe wasnt the oldest there.

She checked her coat in and hesitated, scanning for directions, then spotted the sign for the hall.

Inside it was dim, only little bulbs twinkling above. An usher checked her ticket.

Row six, seat nine, the woman said. Anne mouthed apologies as she shuffled along the row and settled in. Her heart thudded, but it was anticipation now.

Around her, people murmured and glanced through their programmes. She did the same, her finger trailing down unfamiliar titlesthen, at the bottom, she spied a composer shed once heard on the radio.

The lights dimmed fully. The compère said a few words, but Anne barely caught them. What mattered was being here, not at home by the cooker.

The music started, and a shiver ran down her spine. The singers voice was rich and slightly huskytales of love, of loss, of longing for far-off places. Suddenly, those feelings werent foreign or long agothey belonged to her too. She remembered sitting in another city, beside someone long gone, in a hall much like this.

Her eyes prickled, but she didnt cry. She just listened, hands clasped on her bag. Eventually her posture slackened and her breathing grew even. The music filled her up, and her lifeso often a string of selfless errands and small economiesfelt just for a moment, like more.

During the interval, her legs ached and her back was stiff. She strolled the foyer where people chatted over tea, ate cake. She bought herself a small chocolate even though she usually would have thought it wasteful.

Delicious, she said aloud, snapping off a piece.

A woman about her age in a pale jacket smiled. Good concert, isnt it?

Yes, Anne agreed. Its been ages since I was at something like this.

Me too, the woman said, Always too busygrandkids, the allotment. But I thought: if not now, when?

They exchanged thoughts on the music, then the bell sounded and back to their seats they went.

The second half passed quickly. Anne stopped worrying about the money or the number of pieces leftshe simply listened and lived. At the end, applause shook the air. She clapped too, until her palms stung with it.

Outside, the cold refreshed her. She strolled to the bus stop, feet tired but suffused with a quiet glownot excitement or euphoria, but the contented knowledge shed done something for herself.

At home, she called Simon.

Im back, all fine.

How was it? Not too cold?

No, it was lovely.

He paused, then said, If youre happy, Mum, thats what matters. Just dont go mad; well still need to save for the house.

I know, she replied. But Ive got tickets for three more nights.

Three? he sounded surprised. Well, if youve done it, enjoy them. Just be careful, thats all.

She hung up, put away her coat, set her bag down. With a cup of tea, she took out the pass and carefully copied the concert dates onto her kitchen calendar, circling each one.

The next week, when Simon asked her to help with a school fundraiser, Anne paused over her notebook, eyes on the numbers. Then she said, I can give half. The rest I need for myself.

For what? he asked, out of habit.

She looked at himhe seemed exhausted, eyes ringed.

For me, she replied. I need a little, too.

He nearly argued, but gave in. Alright, Mum. As you say.

That evening, alone, Anne took down an old photo album. Inside, a younger Anne gazed timidly at the camera, clutching a concert programme outside a hall in another city. She stared at the face, marrying it to her reflection in the mirror, then slipped the album away.

She pinned a fresh note to the fridge beside the magnet: Next concert: 15th. Below it: Leave early.

Life carried on, unchangedsoup to cook, washing to dry, prescriptions to collect, grandchildren to mind. Simon still asked for help and she gave what she could. But deep down, she now had her own time, her own little plans, with no need for anyones validation.

Sometimes, passing the fridge, shed run a finger over the note. Each time, that quiet, stubborn thought: I am still hereI still have the right to want.

One evening, flicking through the local paper, she noticed an announcement for free English classes for the over-sixties at the library. Places were limitedfirst come, first served.

She tore it out, tucked it next to her ticket. Then poured herself a cup of tea and wondered, Is that too much?

Ill see out my concerts first, she decided. Then maybe Ill think about new words.

The paper went away, but the idea that she could still learn something didnt seem so outlandish. That night, standing at the window, she watched the streetlamps glimmer, a teenager walked past with headphones, a boy bounced a ball on the pavement.

Leaning on the sill, Anne felt a gentle calm spread through her. Life ran its usual coursefull of cares and never enoughyet, now, between all that, there was space for four evenings in a concert hall, and perhaps, for new words in a new language.

She switched off the kitchen light, drew the duvet over her in bed. Tomorrow would be the sameshopping, phone calls, cooking. But now the calendar held a small circle, and that changed something real, even if no one else noticed.

Life, she realised, is made of all the little beginnings we give ourselves, no matter what our age.