Just a Little Longer—A Story of Family Sacrifice, Unfulfilled Promises and Breaking Free

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 1

Hang On a Bit Longer

Mum, this is for Emilys next term.

Mary placed the envelope on the battered, plastic-covered kitchen table. A thousand pounds. Shed counted it three timesat home, on the bus, and again by the front door. Each time, it added up to precisely what was needed.

Eleanor set aside her knitting and peered at her daughter over the rim of her glasses.

Mary love, you look a right sight. Shall I put the kettle on?
No time, Mum. Ive just popped roundIve got to rush off to my second shift.

The kitchen smelt of boiled potatoes and something a tad medicinalperhaps Eleanors arthritis cream or the eye drops Mary bought her every month. Those cost a hundred quid a bottle and lasted barely three weeks. Add the blood pressure pills and the quarterly check-ups, and Marys mental spreadsheet grew tragically familiar.

Em was chuffed to bits when she got that placement at the bank, Eleanor said fondly, taking the envelope as gingerly as if it were spun glass. She said its got prospects.

Mary said nothing.

Just tell her, will you? This is the last of the money for her studies.

Final term. Five years Mary had been slogging at this. Every month: an envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Every month: the calculator in handsubtract rent, minus medicine, minus a food shop for Mum, minus Emilys tuition. What did that leave? A rented room in a house-share; a winter coat, now six years and three buttons short of stylish; and dreams of a flat of her own, chucked in with the charity shop bags.

Once upon a time, Mary had fancied a weekend in London. Just because. See the National Gallery, stroll along the South Bank. Shed even started savingthen Mum had her first big health scare, and all her hard-earned went to the NHS, or rather, what it didnt cover.

You ought to put your feet up for once, love, Eleanor said, patting her hand. You dont half look peaky.
I will. Soon.

Soonas in, when Emily found a job. When Mum stabilised. When it was finally Marys turn to breathe and think of herself. It was a mantra on repeat, five years running.

Emily graduated in June. First-class degree in economics, mind youMary had pulled favours for a day off just to watch. Emily had strutted across the stage in a new dress, Marys gift, obviously, and Mary had thought: Thats it. Itll change now. Em will get a job, start earning, and well finally stop counting every penny.

Four months later…

You just dont get it, Maz, Emily said, perched on the sofa, feet tucked under her in fuzzy socks. I didnt slog through five years at uni to slog away for peanuts.
Peanuts? They offered you twenty-two grand starting. Thats not peanuts.
Well, maybe to you its not.

Mary tightened her jaw. Her main job brought in twenty thousand, and temping gigs were good for another ten, if she was lucky with cleaning houses or late-night supermarket shifts. Thirty grand a yearif a tenner was left for her by the weekend, it was a gold star week.

Emily, youre twenty-two. Time to start somewhere, anywhere.
Yeah, well, not in some dead-end office for scraps.

In the kitchen, Eleanor made busy clattering teacupsher usual trick when her daughters started in on each other. Shed vanish, then later, as Mary rifled in her bag for the bus pass, shed whisper, Do go easy on Em, loveshes only young. Shell come round.

Shes only young. Twenty-two, and still not clued in.

Im not immortal, Em, Mary ventured.
Oh, dont be dramatic. Its not like Im asking for handouts. Im just holding out for something worth it.

Not asking, not technically. Mum was the mouthpiece instead. Mary love, Em wants to do an advanced Excel course, can you help? Mary, Ems phones packed in, and she needs to email CVs. Mary, Ems coat is falling apart, winters on the way.

So Mary transferred, bought, paid. Quietly. Thats just how it was: she grafted, they accepted it as the natural order.

Ive got to goanother shift tonight.
Ill do some pasties for you to take, hang on! Mum called from the kitchen.

The pasties were, predictably, cabbage. Mary accepted the bag, then headed out into the damp, cold corridor that smelt of mildew and cats. Ten minutes brisk walk to the bus stop, then an hour wedged on the number 47. Then eight hours on her feet in the dull blue haze of late-night retail. Then, if she was lucky, four more hours sorting spreadsheets on her ancient laptop.

Meanwhile, Emily would be at home flicking through Indeed, waiting for the universe to present her with a job at fifty grand and optional working from bed.

The first real blow-up came in November.

Do you actually do anything? Mary snapped, when she caught Emily in her familiar pose on the settee, Netflix thrumming quietly, a week after the last check-in. Have you even sent out one flaming CV?
Ive sent three, Emily replied, eyes glued to her phone.
In a month. Three?

Emily rolled her eyes and dived further into the mobile.

You just dont get the job market nowadays. Competitions fierce, you have to be strategic.
Strategic as in… lying on the sofa all day?

Eleanor poked her head through the doorway, wringing her hands on the tea towel.

Tea? Theres cake as well…
Not now, Mum, said Mary, rubbing the sides of her forehead, headache mounting for the third day running. Just tell me why I have to work two jobs while she doesnt have one?
Mary love, Emilys still young. Shell find her feet
When? In a year? In five? I had two jobs myself at her age!

Emily flinched.

Sorry Im not desperate to turn into yousome knackered old workhorse who only knows how to graft!

Silence. Mary grabbed her bag and left. On the way home, watching London drizzle streak the window, she thought: Workhorse. Thats how I look from the outside.

Eleanor rang the next day, pleading for calm.

She didnt mean it, love. Shes just struggling. Give her timeshell get there.

Give it time. Mums favourite phrase. Give it time for Dad to get his act together. Give it time for Em to grow up. Give it time for the world to magic itself into something manageable. Mary had given it her whole life.

The rows became routine. Every trip to see Mum ended in Mary trying to get through to her sister, Em biting back, and Eleanor buzzing fretfully between them, desperate for peace. Then Mary would leave, Eleanor would ring with apologies, and round the carousel they went.

Youve got to understand, shes your sister, Mum would say.
And shes got to understand Im not a cash machine.
Mary…

January brought a phone call from Emily herself. She sounded unusually chirpy.

Maz! Maz, Im getting married!
What? To who?
His names Ben. Weve been together three weeks. Hes… Maz, hes perfect!

Three weeks. Three. Mary bit back the urge to say it was barking mad, that she ought to get to know Bens last name at least, but she kept schtum. Maybe this was a blessing. Maybe Ben would keep her, and Mary could finally breathe.

That hope lasted exactly until the family dinner.

Ive got it all worked out, Emily gushed. Venue for a hundred, live music, and Ive found the dressproper boutique down Oxford Street

Mary lowered her fork, eyebrow cocked.

And whats all that going to cost?
Well Emily shrugged, beaming. Five grand. Maybe six. But its only once in your life, Maz!
And whos paying?
Well, you see Bens parents wontwhat with their mortgage. Mum barely scrapes by on her pension. So, youll have to take out a loan.

Mary looked at her sister. Then her Mum, who averted her eyes.

You cant be serious.
Love, its only rightweddings are special, Eleanor soothed in her best wheedling voice, the one Mary remembered from when she was five. Once in a blue moon, you know. Cant be mean about it
You want me to go into debt for five thousand quid, for a wedding for a person who cant be bothered to work?
Youre my sister! Emily slammed her hand on the table. You HAVE to!
Have to?

Mary stood. The inside of her skull went oddly peaceful.

Five years. Five years of paying for your degree. For Mums pills. For your tea, clothes, rent. I work two jobs. No house, no car, no holidays. Im twenty-eight and the last time I bought myself anything that wasnt from Primark was eighteen months ago.
Mary, steady Eleanor began.
No! Enough! I have spent years keeping the two of you afloat and you sit here, telling me about my obligations? Well, thats it. From now on, I live for myself!

She escaped, just remembering to grab her coat. It was minus five outside, but Mary barely felt the chill. For the first time in years, she felt lightlike shed finally dumped the sack of bricks that had been crushing her all these years.

Her phone wouldnt stop. She declined the calls, blocked the numbers.

Six months rolled by. Mary moved into a tiny one-bed flatthe first place shed been able to afford alone. That summer, she took a trip to Londonfour days, the National Gallery, the South Bank, and the best white wine spritzers shed had in her life. She bought a new dress. Actually, two. And shoes.

She heard about her family only by chancefrom a school friend working round Mums way.

Oi, is it true your sisters weddings off?

Mary froze mid-cappuccino.

What?
Well, the word is the fiancé did a runner. Found out there was no money in the pot, did a bunk.

Mary took a sip. The coffee was bitter, and oddly, delicious.

I wouldnt know. Were not in touch.

That evening, Mary sat by her window in her dolls house of a flat, not feeling the slightest bit smug. Not even a pinch of schadenfreude. Only a gentle, quiet sense of satisfactionof finally being done playing workhorse for everyone else.

Sunday Dad. A Story. “Where’s my daughter?” repeated Olga, her teeth chattering with a mixture of fear and cold. She had left Zoe at the birthday party, in the children’s playroom of the shopping centre. She barely knew the birthday girl’s parents, but she’d left her daughter there before—it was routine for these kinds of kids’ parties, nothing unusual. Only this time, Olga was late—the bus hadn’t come for ages. The shopping centre was in an awkward spot, everyone drove but Olga didn’t have a car. So she took Zoe by bus, then went home for work—teaching lessons she couldn’t miss—then came back for her. Only a quarter of an hour late—she’d raced across the icy car park, breathless. And now, the birthday girl’s mum, a short woman with big blue eyes, was watching Olga with surprise and repeating: “But her dad picked her up.” But Zoe had no dad. Well—there was one, technically. He’d never even met his daughter. Olga met Andrew by chance—walking the Embankment with a friend who’d twisted her ankle, the lads stopped to help. Like in a film, they bragged they were at Oxford, one’s dad a general, the other’s a professor. Why lie? Youth and stupidity. And when Olga got pregnant, and Andrew found out she was at teacher college, her dad a bus driver, he shoved money at her for an abortion and vanished. Olga didn’t have the abortion—and never regretted it. Zoe was her little partner, wise beyond her years and endlessly reliable. They always had fun together; while Olga taught, Zoe played quietly, and afterwards they cooked up milk soup or poached eggs, tea with biscuits and butter. Money was tight, everything went on rent, but they didn’t complain. “How could you give my daughter to a stranger?” Olga’s voice shook, tears stinging her eyes. “Don’t be silly—he’s her father!” the blue-eyed woman snapped. Olga could have told her no father existed, but what for? She had to run to security, demand the CCTV footage and— “When was this?” “About ten minutes ago…” Olga turned and ran. How many times had she warned Zoe—never go off with a stranger! Her feet refused to cooperate, vision blurred, crashing into people as she ran, apologizing to no one. By instinct she screamed: “Zoe! Zoe—!” The food court was packed, her cries mostly ignored, though a few looked up. Gulping air, Olga tried to decide where to go first—maybe he hadn’t taken her yet, maybe— “Mummy!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her daughter—with an open coat, ice cream smeared face—raced towards her. Olga clutched Zoe as if letting go would make her collapse (which, maybe, it would), and fixed her gaze on the man. Respectable, short hair, stupid jumper with a snowman, ice cream in hand. He seemed to read Olga’s face and started babbling: “Sorry, this is my fault! Should have waited right here, but—wanted to show up those little monsters! You know, they were teasing her, saying she had no dad and he’d never come, that she’s ugly! So I thought—I’d teach them. Said, ‘Come on, sweetheart, while mum’s not here, let’s go buy ice cream.’ I didn’t mean to scare you…” Olga trembled. She wasn’t about to trust a stranger. But were those kids really teasing Zoe? She caught Zoe’s eye—the girl instantly understood, sniffed, lifted her chin. “So what? I’ve got a dad now too!” The man shrugged awkwardly; Olga couldn’t find her voice. “Come on,” she finally managed. “We’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” the man jumped forward, hesitated, waved. “Maybe I can drive you home? After all this… I swear I’m not a creep! My name’s Arthur, I’m harmless! There’s my mum—she’ll vouch for me!” He pointed to a woman with purple curls at a table, absorbed in a book. “If you’d like, I’ll introduce you—she’ll give me glowing reviews!” “I’m sure,” Olga muttered, still ready to whack him over the head. “Thanks, but we’ll walk.” “Mum…” Zoe tugged at her coat. “Let them see—my dad’s giving us a lift!” The birthday girl and her mum still stood by the playroom with another girl whose name Olga couldn’t remember. Zoe’s eyes pleaded; walking on ice in this state would be tough. Olga relented. “Fine.” “Brilliant! I’ll just tell my mum!” “Mummy’s boy,” Olga thought acidly. At that moment, the woman waved at her, and Olga quickly looked away. What a stupid situation… On the way she dodged Arthur’s gaze, but couldn’t help noting his gentle chatter with Zoe. The girl chattered away—Olga had never seen her so lively. But when they pulled up outside their block, Zoe’s face fell. “Will we see you again?” she whispered, watching her mum. Arthur glanced at Olga—asking permission. She wanted to say no, Zoe, that’s rude, but seeing the girl’s disappointment, couldn’t. She nodded. “Well, if your mum says yes, I can take you to the cinema next weekend—see a cartoon movie. Have you ever been?” “Really? No! Mum, can I go with dad?” Olga felt awkward—now she babbled. “Okay, Zoe, but two conditions. First—you understand calling a stranger ‘dad’ isn’t polite; call him Uncle Arthur, all right? And second—I’m coming too—what did I tell you? Never go anywhere with strangers, even nice ones!” “I told her that too,” Arthur added. “About not going off with strangers.” “So can I go?” “I said yes.” “Hooray!!!” Olga knew she should nip this nonsense in the bud, but couldn’t. She and Zoe—against the world. If only she had someone to talk to! Like her own mum… Olga barely remembered her—her mother died when Olga was five, same age as Zoe now. A boy fell through the ice, nobody dared help, but she did—saved him, but caught pneumonia and died in a week. She’d been diabetic, always frail. Now Zoe had diabetes too—Olga blamed herself for passing it on. By next weekend, Olga had worried over everything, but her fears were unfounded—Arthur showed up at the cinema with his mum. “So you won’t think I’m dodgy, let mum give me a reference,” he joked. “Oh, you are dodgy!” his mother grinned, clearly adoring her son. When Arthur took Zoe for popcorn, his mum “advertised” him. “You see—may I call you Olga? He grew up without a dad too. I was married four times—the last was perfect! Arthur’s just like him, but fate… He died before he could hold his son. Heart attack. I gave birth early, no idea how I survived. The other husbands helped, mind you—why the look? We’re all still friends: the first still loves me, second wasn’t interested in women, third liked women far too much. They tried to be there for Arthur, but a dad’s a dad. So he connects with Zoe—he was teased too, you know. Poor boy, I was forever talking to teachers, no use! He did all sorts of dares to prove himself, nearly got himself killed once…” What a character—short, wiry, violet hair, Chanel suit and a mystery novel in hand. Olga found herself liking her. “Don’t worry, Arthur has no hidden agendas, he just has a golden heart,” she winked. “And I think he’s quite taken with you.” Olga blushed. Just what she needed! She knew she shouldn’t start anything, but felt so bad for Zoe… After the film, she offered Arthur ticket money; he refused. “If I ask a girl out, I pay!” That annoyed Olga too—she was used to paying her own way. As for his interest—nonsense, that doesn’t happen. When Arthur dropped them off, Zoe asked: “Dad, where shall we go next?” “Zoe!” Olga scolded. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “I think we should visit the Natural History Museum,” Arthur replied, ignoring the slip. “What do you think?” “Great! Mum, let’s go?” “You go without me,” Olga snapped. “Take Catherine with you—she loves butterflies.” She was first out of the car, desperate to end this. She heard Arthur whisper: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me dad.” So Zoe gained a Sunday dad. Sometimes Olga joined them; sometimes Zoe went along if Catherine came too—Olga still considered Arthur a stranger, suspicious, though Zoe gushed every time about how fun and kind he was. Olga found herself catching her daughter’s mood, but didn’t let it grow—life isn’t a fairytale; men don’t appear on white horses. And his mum always raved about him—why? What was wrong with him? Would someone like her really want her son with a nobody? But gradually Olga’s heart thawed. Arthur was so respectful—he’d leave a chocolate on her shelf, always check with her before inviting Zoe, and sought her gaze in the car. Mostly, she cherished Catherine—such good company! If Arthur wasn’t her son, Olga could have confided in her. One day he called to ask about a film. Zoe piped up—whispered: “Is that Arthur?” And plopped herself down beside her mum. “Of course, Zoe will love it,” Olga answered absently. “Wait…I’m inviting you, too. I mean, just us two. Together.” Catherine’s voice piped up in the background. “At last!” “Mum, stop listening in! Oh, Olga, sorry… She’s always eavesdropping.” Zoe whispered: “Is he asking you out?” Olga laughed. “I’ve got big ears too. Listen, Arthur…I…” “Just—please don’t say no! Just one date, I promise I’ll be a proper gentleman!” “Mum, tell her what you told me—about her mum’s eyes!” Like being doused with ice water. Olga was stunned—her mum? Arthur argued with Catherine, then said: “Olga, I’ll come over and explain. May I?” She could do with some explanations. Olga paced until he arrived, Zoe quietly drawing. “I should’ve confessed straight away,” Arthur began. “Meant to, but I liked you so much… Didn’t want you to think it was because of your mum. I was scared you’d hate me. She died because of me…” He rambled, jumping from point to point, begging with his eyes. Olga shook, just like when she thought Zoe was gone. “Will you forgive me?” Olga managed just one sentence: “I need to think.” “Mum, come on, forgive dad…” Arthur gave Zoe a warning look, reminded her of their deal. Then looked at Olga. She repeated: “I need time, do you understand?” She wanted to ask a million questions—but no words came. When Catherine called, it was different—she shared everything. “He had no idea she died—I protected him, he was just a boy. I let it slip; Arthur wanted to find you. That night, he wanted to offer help, but then everything got jumbled—then you…He fell for you at first sight! He was afraid you’d misunderstand. He was just trying to prove himself to those boys—that he was a real man, even with no dad. Nobody else would cross the ice, but he did…” Catherine never pushed, just defended her son. Zoe pushed, hard! “Mum, he’s good! And he LOVES you, he told me! He can be my real dad, understand?” Olga understood. But…it didn’t feel right? Almost a month passed. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. Didn’t answer calls, ignored his messages. The longer she waited, the more she wanted to call—but it got harder. Zoe woke her in the night—crying, stomach pain. She’d complained last night, blame it on sour milk. Now she was burning up—no thermometer needed. Shaking, Olga called emergency services, then—no idea why—Arthur. He arrived with the ambulance—sleepy, in pyjama bottoms, hair sticking up. He came to hospital, calming Olga, voice shaking as he promised all would be fine. “Peritonitis isn’t so bad—she’ll be fine, really!” Olga took his hand—maybe comforting him, maybe herself. The waiting room was freezing; they sat as close together as possible, sharing warmth. Arthur pounced on the doctor first, demanding updates. Olga sat, terrified to breathe. If anything happened to Zoe, she’d never survive. But everything was fine. Doctors did well, Zoe was a fighter—the situation, they said, critical. “It’s like she’s watched over by a guardian angel,” the doctor said. Olga whispered, Thank you, mum! Arthur thanked the doctors, who told them both to go home—no visitors yet, get some rest. He drove Olga home, and she waited for him to ask up—but he just sat. So she said: “It’s nearly sunrise. Come in—let me make you coffee.” And realised she meant it, wanted him to stay. For good. Zoe recovered surprisingly fast—nurses remarked on it. “Because I have a mum and a dad,” she bragged. And no-one, except Olga and Arthur, understood why that made a little girl so happy…

Reigniting the Marriage — “Listen, Liz… How about we try an open relationship?” Victor suggested cautiously. — “What?” Liz didn’t catch on at first. “Are you actually serious?” — “What’s so strange about it? It’s perfectly normal,” her husband shrugged, working hard to keep his tone casual. “People do it all the time in Britain—super modern. They say it even reignites the marriage. You always said a little chocolate on a diet doesn’t hurt, helps keep you on track. Same principle, a bit of variety and all that.” Liz blinked slowly, taking it in. Comparing a bit on the side to a chocolate bar was… impressively daft. Or just cheeky. — “Victor…” she started, “if you want to leave, just go. I’ll give you your ‘freedom’, but don’t drag me into your nonsense.” — “Lizzie, no need to get all prickly,” he protested. “I do love you! It’s just… the spark’s gone. Could do with a bit of excitement, you know? Otherwise it’s just shopping lists and the electric bill. Too dull. We both need a shake-up. I’m not putting you in a box here—you can have fun with someone else too! What’s the harm?” Liz narrowed her eyes. Suddenly it was plain as day: her husband was lying. The darting eyes, fingers drumming nervously on the table… Yeah, he wanted his freedom. But not today, not tomorrow,—he’d wanted it yesterday. — “Vic? Come on. Tell me straight. Have you already found someone? Is this just to ease your conscience?” — “Oh, here we go!” Victor waved a hand irritably. “Would I really bring it up if that were true? Regret even asking now. You haven’t changed a bit—still living in the Stone Age. Forget it.” He stalked off with the air of a wronged saint, leaving Liz alone with her thoughts. Twenty-five years. She’d given him the best part of her life, stood by him through thick and thin, through skint stretches, all those late nights at work that suddenly looked suspicious… And now he sat there, fat and happy, wanting her to become an accomplice in a crime against their marriage. “Reignite”… Please. How convenient. That night, they slept in different rooms. Well—slept was a stretch. Liz lay awake, staring sometimes at the ceiling, sometimes out the window, wondering how they’d got there. Once, Victor had run to buy her armfuls of bluebells, worked extra shifts for their dream wedding, cried with joy when their daughter was born. Now… She almost wished he’d just leave. Where was the point of no return? When she stopped putting on mascara at home? When he forgot their anniversary, blaming overtime? Not that it mattered anymore. Half of her wanted to file for divorce and erase it all. The other half rebelled—how can you just throw away half a life? Maybe there never really was passion, but habit, a shared mortgage, and a well-oiled routine made up for it. Victor still felt like a safe pair of hands. Their daughter had left home, old age was ahead, but they’d always looked out for each other. Once, he’d even taken out a loan to help Liz’s mother. Not every man would do that. Inside, Liz burned with hurt, fear, and anger. Maybe Victor thought she was past it—just some old housewife who’d boil up Bisto and knit for the grandkids, waiting like a faithful dog for him to roll home from his escapades. No chance. — “Alright,” she declared the next morning, “have it your way.” — “What do you mean?” — “Let’s do your open relationship.” Victor nearly choked on his tea. He expected a row—she just calmly agreed. — “Well… good. You might like it,” he threw over his shoulder. “By the way, I’ll be late tonight.” Her heart twisted. That fast? …The evening was grey and silent. Liz felt wrecked. Unwanted. Like she’d been weighed and found wanting—like an out-of-date iPhone model. She studied her reflection. Tired eyes, crow’s feet, skin not as smooth as it once was. But still a trim figure, thick hair. Maybe she was still attractive? Maybe it was Victor who’d lost the plot. Other men had noticed her—like Andy, the manager next door, only transferred in a month ago. A handsome man, silver at the temples, a rumble in his voice, always with a sly glint. He’d watched her from day one—opening doors, bringing coffee, offering compliments. Asked her to lunch, and just last week, dinner. — “Andrew, I’m on a diet. The ‘married’ kind,” she’d quipped. — “Lizzie, marriage is a stamp in a passport, not a life sentence,” Andy had grinned. “But I won’t push it.” Victor wanted her to “reignite”? Wanted her to get out more? Why not. — “Good evening, Andy. You still up for that dinner? I seem to have found both a free evening and an appetite for breaking diets,” she messaged. It wasn’t vengeance. Liz just wanted to feel like a woman again. To breathe some life back into herself, after two days of Victor trampling on her sense of self. …The rest of the night, she felt a strange mix of shame and giddy excitement. Andy was all a date should be—thoughtful, attentive, making her feel like the only woman in the room. She was embarrassed, but those long-lost sensations came rushing back: anticipation, being at the centre of attention. Finally, something in her life besides Victor’s dinners and dirty socks. — “Come back to mine?” Andy suggested as she finished her dessert. “We’ll pick up wine, watch something… keep the evening going?” She nodded. Part of her screamed “What are you doing?” But Victor’s face flashed up, the way he said she should “enjoy life”. They’d barely made it to Andy’s when her phone started shrieking. Husband. She declined, again and again. — “Yes?” she answered, steadying her voice. — “Where are you?! It’s ten o’clock! There’s nothing but a mouse in the fridge and you’re out gallivanting! Have you lost your mind?” Liz froze. Andy, sizing up the row, quietly left the room. Romance quickly faded. — “Actually… I’m on a date, Vic.” — “A what?!” — “Are you daft? You suggested open relationships. You literally said: enjoy yourself, meet other people. Well, here I am, meeting someone. Problem?” A silence thick as fog, broken only by Victor’s huffing. — “So you actually went off with someone?! I was JOKING! I wanted to check you, you understand? CHECK! And you—just waiting for an excuse, yeah? Played the part for a day then straight into someone else’s arms?” Liz was stunned. — “Who did you run off to tonight, then?” — “No one! Just work. That’s all. Here’s what: I don’t want any filth from you. Either you pack up, or I’m leaving. We’re getting divorced.” He hung up. Liz stared at the wall, feeling spat on, humiliated. — “You alright?” Andy called through. — “Yeah… just nothing.” Liz tried to smile, and failed. — “Liz…” Andy checked his watch. “I think, given the circumstances, you probably need to go sort things out at home.” The fairytale collapsed; the pumpkin replaced the carriage; the gallant date didn’t want to drown in someone else’s family mess. Fair enough. He’d wanted a pleasant evening, not a soap opera. Maybe she should’ve just gone for a divorce right off. But hindsight always gets the best lines. That night, Liz didn’t go home—she booked a hotel. No desire for a blazing row. She needed space to admit it would never be the same. Three years passed… And life, like a sculptor, carved away all the excess—though not without pain. Victor was quick to get a new girlfriend. Even before the divorce was through. She vanished the minute they sold the house—taking his share of the money on the way out. Nothing ever happened with Andy. They still bumped into each other at work, but no more banter—just a polite nod. Liz realized something: men happy to play “lover” backed away the moment “life partner” or even “shoulder to cry on” flickered onto the screen. So Liz didn’t look for anyone else. Alone in her new flat, she found time and energy she’d never dreamed of—energy that household chores and Victor’s demands had always drained. Now she used it for herself. Morning swims banished her back pain; English courses kept her mind sharp. She chopped her hair short, changed her wardrobe—everything for herself. And most importantly, she became a grandma. Her daughter, Mary, had a baby girl six months ago. When the divorce storm was at its peak, Mary turned on Liz—Victor played the victim brilliantly, spinning tales of a cheating wife who broke the family for a bit of fun. Time put everything right. Mary visited to confront her mum, but saw not a fallen woman, but an honest, tired one. Liz told the truth: Victor had wanted all this. He’d been absent for years. She’d been lonely for longer. Now Mary, married herself, finally understood. When Victor paraded his new “girlfriend”, Mary sided firmly with Liz. Now, Liz was in Mary’s kitchen with her granddaughter. Little Sophie was reaching enthusiastically for her finger. — “Dad called again…” Mary grimaced. “Wanted to visit, see Sophie.” — “And?” Liz asked. — “Told him we’d be out of town. I don’t want him around, Mum. One minute he slags you off, the next he expects me to get you back together. I just get stressed every time he shows up. And I’m not letting him twist Sophie against you. He can enjoy his so-called freedom on his own…” Liz said nothing, just hugged her granddaughter closer. Victor got exactly what he wanted—complete and utter freedom. No one left to ask for anything, no one to stop him watching TV all night. And only then did he taste the real flavour of his freedom—a sharp, lonely bitterness. But now, it was far too late.

Just Hold On a Little Longer – Mum, this is for Anna’s next semester. Mary set the envelope down on the scratched plastic tablecloth. One thousand pounds. She’d counted it three times—at home, on the bus, at the front door. It was always exactly the amount needed. Eleanor put aside her knitting and looked over the top of her glasses at her daughter. – Mary, love, you look a bit peaky. Shall I put the kettle on? – No need, Mum. I’m just popping in, have to dash straight to my second shift. The kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes and something medicinal—maybe Mum’s joint cream or the drops Mary bought every month. Forty pounds a bottle, lasting just shy of three weeks. Plus blood pressure tablets. Plus quarterly check-ups. – Anna was so pleased about the bank internship, – Eleanor said gently, taking the envelope as if it were made of the finest glass. – She says there are good prospects. Mary kept quiet. – Tell her these are the last funds for uni. The final semester. Mary had carried this weight for five years. Each month—an envelope for Mum, a bank transfer for her sister. Each month, the calculator came out: minus rent, minus medicine, minus groceries for Mum, minus Anna’s tuition. What was left? A rented room in a shared flat, a winter coat now six years old, and forgotten dreams of her own place. Mary once dreamed of a weekend in London—just to wander Tate Britain, walk along the Thames. She’d started to save, but then Mum had her first serious turn and all the savings vanished on doctors. – You ought to take a break, love, – Mum stroked her hand. – You look done in. – Soon, Mum. I will. Soon. Soon meant once Anna got a job. Once Mum’s condition settled. Once Mary could exhale and care for herself, just as she’d been telling herself for five years. Anna got her economics degree in June—first class, Mary had taken a day off to attend the ceremony. She watched her little sister cross the stage in a new dress—her gift, obviously—and thought: this is it. Now it all changes. Anna would start earning, and Mary could finally stop counting every penny. Four months passed. – You don’t get it, – Anna sat curled on the sofa in fluffy socks – I didn’t go to uni for five years to slave away for peanuts. – Fifty grand a year isn’t peanuts. – For you, maybe. Mary bit down on her annoyance. At her main job, she earned forty-two. Her second job—an extra twenty, on a good week. Sixty-two thousand, with luck. If she kept fifteen for herself, she was lucky. – Anna, you’re twenty-two. You need to start work somewhere. – I will. Just not for a pittance in a dingy office. Eleanor busied herself in the kitchen, clattering plates—always acting like she couldn’t hear. Every time her daughters argued, she absented herself, then later, as Mary went to leave, she’d whisper, “Don’t be hard on Anna, love. She’s still young. She just doesn’t get it.” Doesn’t get it. Twenty-two, and still doesn’t get it. – I’m not made of time, Anna. – Stop dramatising. It’s not like I’m asking for handouts. I just want to find something decent. Not asking directly. But Mum asked: “Mary, Anna needs some money for a course; she wants to brush up on her English.” “Mary, Anna’s phone is broken, she needs it for job searching.” “Mary, Anna’s coat is wrecked, and winter’s coming.” Mary sent the money, bought the coat, paid the bills. Silently. Because that was how it always went: she toiled, and the rest just accepted it. – I’ve got to run, – she stood up. – Evening shift tonight. – Wait, I’ll pop some pasties in a packet for you! – Mum called from the kitchen. Cabbage pasties. Mary took the bag and stepped into the chilly, cat-scented stairwell. Ten minutes at a brisk clip to the bus stop. Then an hour on the bus. Then eight hours on her feet. Then four more on her computer, if she made it in time for her freelance shift. And Anna would be home, scrolling vacancies, awaiting the universe to provide her with the perfect hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pounds, work-from-home role. The first blow-up came in November. – Are you even doing anything? – Mary snapped, seeing Anna sprawled on the sofa just as she was the week before. – Have you sent a single CV? – I’ve sent three. – In a whole month—three? Anna rolled her eyes and buried her face in her phone. – You don’t get how the job market is now. The competition is brutal, you have to pick the right jobs. – The “right” ones? The ones where you get paid to lie on the sofa? Eleanor popped her head round from the kitchen, wringing her hands on the tea towel. – Girls, fancy a cuppa? I made cake… – Not now, Mum, – Mary rubbed her temples. Third day running with a headache. – Just tell me why I have to work two jobs when she won’t take on one? – Mary, Anna’s still young. She’ll find her way… – When? In a year? In five? I was working at her age! Anna jerked upright. – Sorry for not wanting your life! Slaving away, never doing anything but work! Silence. Mary took her bag and left. On the ride home, she stared at the rain-streaked window and thought: a workhorse. That’s how I look from the outside. Eleanor called next day, pleading for peace. – Anna didn’t mean it, darling. She’s just upset, it’s hard for her. Just hold on a little longer, she’ll get a job soon. Hold on. Her mother’s favourite phrase. Hold on till Dad gets better. Hold on till Anna grows up. Hold on till things improve. Mary had been holding on all her life. The arguments became routine. Every visit to Mum ended the same way: Mary tried to reason with Anna, Anna snapped back, Eleanor darted between them, fretting and begging for calm. Afterwards, Mary left. Eleanor phoned with apologies. And it all repeated. – You have to understand, she’s your sister, – Mum said. – And she needs to understand I’m not a cash machine. – Mary… In January, Anna called herself. Her voice sparkled with excitement. – Mary! I’m getting married! – What? To who? – He’s called Dave. We’ve been seeing each other three weeks. He’s just perfect! Three weeks. Three weeks—and now marriage. Mary wanted to say it was crazy, to get to know someone first, but held her tongue. Maybe it was for the best. If she got married, her husband could support her, and Mary could finally breathe. That fragile hope evaporated at the family dinner. – I’ve got it all planned! – Anna beamed. – Hundred-guest reception, live band, found a dress in a designer boutique… Mary put her fork down. – And all that costs…? – Well…—Anna shrugged, disarmingly—Five grand? Maybe six. But it’s once in a lifetime! A wedding! – And who’s paying? – Mary, come on… Dave’s parents can’t help, he says, mortgage and all. And Mum’s nearly on the breadline. You’ll have to get a loan, probably. Mary stared at her. Then at her mum. Eleanor looked away. – Are you serious? – Mary, it’s a wedding, – Mum used that syrupy tone Mary remembered since childhood. – Once in a lifetime, love. Can’t be stingy… – You want me to take out a six grand loan to pay for a wedding for someone who’s never even bothered to find a job? – You’re my sister! – Anna slapped the table – You have to! – Have to? Mary stood. The world went strangely calm and quiet. – Five years. Five years I paid for your education. For Mum’s medicines. For your food, clothes, heating. I work two jobs. I have no car, no flat, no holidays. I’m twenty-eight, and I haven’t bought myself anything new in a year and a half. – Mary, calm down… – Eleanor started. – No! Enough! For years I’ve supported both of you, and you’re sitting here demanding more from me? That’s it. From today, I live for myself. She left, snatching her coat from the hook. It was minus five outside but Mary didn’t feel the cold. She felt a strange warmth instead—as if she’d finally shrugged off the sack of stones that had weighed her down all her life. Her phone buzzed endlessly. She blocked both numbers. …Six months later. Mary moved into a tiny one-bedroom flat—her own, finally. In summer she visited London—four days, Tate Britain, the Thames, long summer evenings. She bought herself a new dress. And another. Some shoes, too. She found out about her family by chance—from a school friend who worked near her mum’s place. – Hey, is it true your sister’s wedding was called off? Mary froze with her coffee cup. – What? – Oh, they say the groom bailed. Heard there was no money, so he legged it. Mary sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter—and, strangely, delicious. – Don’t know. We don’t speak. That evening, Mary sat by the window of her new flat and realised she felt no spite. Not an ounce. Just a quiet, peaceful satisfaction of someone who has finally stopped being the family workhorse…