Towards a New Chapter: “Mum, how much longer must we stay in this backwater? We’re not just in the sticks—we’re in the sticks of the sticks,” sang my daughter Masha as she returned from a coffee shop. “I’ve told you a hundred times—this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” I replied from my place on the sofa, legs propped up like what I call the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose.’ “Roots, roots… Give it ten more years and you’ll wilt, and then another ‘beetle’ will show up for you to introduce as my new dad.” After those painful words, I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “My roots are just fine, don’t exaggerate…” “That’s what I’m saying—right now they’re normal, but soon enough you’ll have to decide if you’re a turnip, pumpkin, or sweet potato—whatever takes your chef’s fancy.” “If you want to move, go yourself, darling. You’re legally an adult. Why do you need me?” “For peace of mind, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “My insurance, my salary, the internet—there’ll be another beetle, like you said. It’s easy for you, being young and savvy. I’m already halfway to Valhalla.” “But you joke like my friends and you’re barely forty…” “Why say that out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s only five,” she quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, while there’s still time, let’s hop on a train and go. There’s nothing here for us.” “I only just got them to spell our name right on the gas bill and we’re registered at the clinic here,” I protested with my last arguments. “They’ll take us anywhere with our NHS numbers. We don’t have to sell—if it doesn’t work out, we’ve somewhere to come back to. I’ll show you how to REALLY live, Mum.” “My sonographer said you’d never let me rest. Thought it was a joke—until he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’. Alright, we’ll go, but if it all goes wrong, promise you’ll let me come back in peace.” “Pinky swear!” “Your co-creator made that same promise at the registry office, and look how that turned out.” *** Masha and her mum skipped the county town and headed straight for London. After emptying three years’ savings, they splurged on a studio flat out in Zone 6, squeezed between a market and the bus station, and paid four months’ rent up front. The money ran low before they’d even started spending. Masha was calm and full of energy. She skipped the tedious unpacking and dove straight into the city’s creative, social, and nightlife scene. She blended in fast, mastering local slang and style as if she’d lived here forever, not just beamed in from some parallel suburb of the universe. Meanwhile, Mum lived between morning cups of herbal tea and evening chamomile. She ignored Masha’s pleas to go exploring and instead scoured job sites, only to find salaries and vacancies that made no sense together and felt like a trap. Her prediction: they’d last six months, tops, before heading home. She brushed off her daughter’s ‘modern’ criticism and landed a job as a cook at a private school, plus evenings washing dishes at a café. “Mum, you’re back at the stove round the clock! Might as well never have left. Why not retrain—become a graphic designer, a sommelier, or even a brow stylist? Ride the Tube, drink overpriced coffee, adapt!” “I’m not ready. But don’t worry about me, love—I’ll manage. Just get yourself sorted.” Masha set about fitting in: holing up in cafés on the tabs of other regional migrants, building mental and mystical ties with the city as decreed by a rune-reading blogger, and hanging out in groups where only money and ‘success’ were discussed. She wasn’t rushing into work or relationships; she and the city needed to grow into each other first. Four months in, Mum paid the rent from her own earnings, quit dishwashing and started cooking for an extra school. Masha meanwhile dropped several courses, auditioned at a local radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film where they paid her in pasta, and briefly dated two aspiring musicians—one a complete donkey, the other a family man (and a real ‘tomcat’ in every sense) who wasn’t looking to settle. *** “Mum, fancy going out tonight? Or shall we get pizza and watch a film? I’m too knackered to move,” yawned Masha, sprawled on the sofa in the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose’ as Mum did her makeup. “You order, I’ll transfer you some money—don’t worry about me, I’m not likely to be hungry when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up straight, frowning. “I’ve been invited out to dinner,” Mum replied with a shy giggle. “By who?” Masha couldn’t muster any excitement. “We had an inspection at school. I served the head of the commission your childhood-favourite meatballs. He joked about meeting the chef, and one thing led to another—we grabbed a coffee, like you always say to. Tonight I’m cooking dinner at his.” “Are you mad? Going to a stranger’s house? For dinner!” “So what?” “You know he’s not just after your lasagne, right?” “Darling. I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, clever and not married. Honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever he expects.” “You sound like a desperate villager with no options.” “You don’t sound like my daughter. You dragged me here to LIVE, not just exist.” Masha realises they’ve swapped roles—and promptly self-medicates with an XXL pizza. Mum comes home after midnight, lit up by happiness, and sidesteps Masha’s questions. “A thoroughly British beetle—definitely not a foreign invader,” she jokes, and heads for the shower. Dates, theatres, stand-up shows, jazz concerts, book clubs, and tea clubs follow. In six months, she signs up for cooking courses, earns certificates, and learns to make complex dishes. Masha tries not to freeload and applies to posh firms. No luck—big roles keep eluding her, friends only paid for her out of novelty, so she lands a job as a barista, then later, a night bartender. The city’s grind sets in, painting insomnia circles under her eyes. No love story emerges; drunken bar guests offer blurred romance, but nothing worthy of a fairy tale. Eventually, it’s all too much. “You were right, Mum—this was a mistake. I’m sorry I dragged you here. We need to go home,” declares Masha after a rough shift, stuffing her suitcase. “Going home? Why?” Mum asks, in the middle of packing. “Back where they spell our surname right, where we belong, where we’re registered at the proper clinic. You were always right.” “I’m settled here now and don’t want to leave,” Mum says, studying her daughter’s red eyes. “I don’t care—I want out. I hate this place: the Tube, the overpriced coffee, everyone in the bar is so pretentious. Let’s just go home. You’ve packed too, haven’t you?” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum suddenly reveals. “You mean, MOVING IN with him?” “I reckon you’re set now—grown up, gorgeous, working, and living in London! Opportunity here flows faster than the Thames. Thank you for bringing me. If not for you, I’d still be pining in our backwater. Here, life truly sparkles! Thank you!” Tears fall, but Masha isn’t reassured. “Mum, how will I cope? Who’s going to look after me?” “Health insurance, a steady wage, the internet—plus, you’ll find your own beetle,” Mum quips back, echoing Masha’s words. “So you’re just abandoning me?” “I’m not. You promised—no tantrums.” “Yeah, yeah… Hand me the house keys.” “They’re in my bag. But just one thing—can you help Grandma? She’s moving down too. I’ve sorted it all with her. She’s landed a job at the local post office—after forty years, she could send a letter to the North Pole and it’d get there! Time she takes a chance before her ‘roots’ dry out.”

Towards a New Life

Mum, how much longer do we have to rot here? Lucy complained, slamming the front door behind her after returning from the coffee shop. Were not just out in the sticks, were in the sticks of the sticks!

Ive told you a hundred times, Lucy, her mum replied, sprawled on the sofa with her feet propped up on a cushiona pose she called The Queen at Restthis is our home, its where our roots are. Im not budging.

Oh, not that roots speech again! Lucy rolled her eyes. Mum, give it ten more years and youll shrivel up, then another one of your so-called gentlemen callers will slide into your lifeand youll parade him around pretending hes my new dad.

Mum rose, a little wounded, and stood before the wardrobe mirror. My roots arent shrivelling, thank you very much…

For now, Lucy insisted. But give it timesoon youll be more parsnip than person. Or maybe a swede. Honestly, Mum, you could be a master chef with all these fruit and veg references.

Look, Lucy, if youre so desperate to leave, just go. Youre old enough, you know. Why keep me around?

For peace of mind, Mum. If I head off to a better life, wholl look after you here?

Theres always pension, my steady wage, the internet, and Im sure Id find a fella if thats really necessary. Leaving is easy for youyoure young, you get the way things work these days, youre not driven mad by teenagers yet. Im halfway to the great British pub in the sky.

Oh come off it, Mum! You joke like my mates, and youre forty, not ancient.

Did you say that just to spoil my day?

If you were a cat, youd only be five! Lucy grinned, quick to backtrack.

Youre forgiven.

Mum. Its not too latelets take the train and start again somewhere new. Whats tying us down here?

I only just got our name spelt right on the gas bills, and were registered at the local surgery, Mum argued as a last resort.

The NHS will take us anywhere, and we dont have to sell the house. If it doesnt work out, well have somewhere to come back to. Ill polish you up and show you how much life there is!

My sonographer did warn me: she wont let you rest. Thought he was jokinghe went on to win third place in Britains Got Second Sight, didnt he? Alright, lets give it a whirl, but if it falls apart, youll let me come back without the dramatics or door-slamming. Promise?

Promise, Mum.

Your co-creator in the registry office promised me the same, and look where that got usyou share a blood type, at least.

***

Lucy and her mum skipped the sleepy nearby town and went straight for London. After drawing out three years worth of savings, they splashed out on a tiny studio flat squashed between a market and the bus station, rent paid up for four months. The money disappeared faster than they could spend it.

Lucy was calm but bubbling with resolve. Uninterested in dull unpacking and arranging, she threw herself headlong into city lifethe creative side, society, and nightlife. She made friends in a flash, learned the coolest spots, picked up the local lingo and dress sense, as though shed been born in the capital and had never known rural England.

Mum, meanwhile, lived between her morning herbal tea for nerves and her evening cup of chamomile. On day one, despite her daughters pleas to go exploring, she started job-hunting in earnest. Londons job market looked promising, but the wages and the work on offer never quite matched up. Running some quick sums, she predicted shed last six months at best before crawling home.

Taking no heed of Lucys modern advice, she took the safe route and became a cook for a private school, washing dishes in the evening at the café next door.

Not this again, Mum! Lucy groaned. Its like you havent left home. Why not reinvent yourself? Train as a designer or a sommelieror even an eyebrow technician! You could ride the Tube, drink overpriced coffee, blend in.

Im not ready to retrain. Dont worry about me, Ill adapt. You focus on yourself.

Lucy sighed, disappointed at her mums lack of vision, and got comfortablevery comfortablein various local cafes, letting other newcomers buy her coffee; she settled into groups that talked of nothing but success and money, meditated as some Instagram rune coach advised, and put off both romantic commitment and a real job, wanting time for the city and herself to get acquainted.

Four months in, Mum could afford the rent from her own wages, gave up dishwashing, and cooked for a second school location. Lucy, by now, had quit a handful of courses, auditioned at a local radio station, played a background role in a student film for a plate of spaghetti, and briefly dated two Bohemian singersone a fool, the other a musician with more children than patience.

***

One evening, Lucy, feet perched in her mothers favourite Queen at Rest position, yawned, Fancy a film and a takeaway tonight, Mum? Im knackered, just want to veg out.

Order what you likeIll send you the money on your card. I might not need any, wont be hungry when Im back.

What do you mean, when youre back? Lucy bolted upright. Where are you off to?

Ive been asked out to dinner, her mum said, bashfully.

And whos this? Lucy wasnt as happy as she expected.

Well, this school inspector came in for a check and I made him those meatballs youve always loved. He joked hed like to meet the head chefturned out he meant me. So we had coffee, just like you advised, and today Im going to cook him a homely supper.

Are you mad? Dinner at some mans flat?

Whats wrong with that?

Did it occur to you that maybe he expects something other than supper?

Lucy, Im forty and single. Hes forty-five, good-looking, clever, and not married. Frankly, I wouldnt mind whatever it is he expects.

Youre talking like youve got no standards, like youre desperate.

Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter? You dragged me here to actually *live* life, remember?

It was hard to argue with that. Suddenly, Lucy realised theyd swapped rolesand she didnt like it one bit. She ordered the biggest pizza she could, wallowing in misery until midnight. Just then, her mother floated in, not even bothering to turn on the hall lighther happiness was enough to fill the room.

Well? Lucy asked, gloomily.

Hes a good sort, and definitely not a foreignerproper local lad, her mother said, heading off to shower.

From then on, Mum went out more, attending the theatre, a stand-up night, jazz concerts, got a library card, joined a neighbourhood tea club, and registered at the local GP surgery. Six months later, she even enrolled on some training courses, collected certificates, and learned to cook all sorts of sophisticated dishes.

Lucy didnt waste time either. She refused to let her mum bankroll her and tried for jobs with posh companies, but each promising application knocked her back. Eventually she lost touch with fair-weather friends unwilling to keep footing the bills, became a barista, then a night-time bartender.

Routine set intired eyes, lost hours, fraying nerves. Her love life was a non-starter: drunken bar customers made suggestive, half-hearted advances, none of which could be mistaken for true romance. In the end, Lucy had had enough.

You know what, Mum? You were righttheres nothing here for us. Sorry I brought you here. Lets just go back, Lucy declared one morning after another rough shift.

Go back? What are you on about? Mum saidand at that very moment, was packing a suitcase.

Home, obviously! Lucy started whirling around the flat, grabbing clothes. Where our names spelt right on the post, and we know the doctors! You were right all along.

Well, Im all sorted here, and honestly, I dont want to leave, Mum replied, looking into Lucys red eyes, searching for the real problem.

But *I* do! I hate it herethe Tubes a nightmare, coffee costs as much as roast beef, everyone in the bar is so stuck up. I want genuine friends, my own place. I thought you were packing too?

Im moving in with David, Mum said, out of the blue.

What do you mean, moving in with David?

I thought you were settled, and could handle the rent now. Lucy, Im giving you a gift! Youre an adult, lovely, with a job, living in London. Theres nothing stopping youthe citys brimming with opportunities, Mum said, genuinely. Thank you for getting me here. Id have wilted back home. Here, everythings buzzingits wonderful! Thank you! She kissed Lucy on both cheeks, but Lucy struggled to find her own smile.

But, Mum, what about me? Lucy asked, tears now spilling over.

Theres the NHS, a steady income, the internet, and, with luck, a good man to look out for you, her mum repeated, echoing her own old words.

So youre just going to leave me? Lucy muttered.

No, but you promisedno meltdowns, all right?

I remember Fine. Pass me the keys, then.

Theyre in my bag. Theres just one favour I need.

What?

Nans thinking of moving, too. Ive chatted to her about it. Can you pop round and help her get ready?

Nans moving here?!

Yes. I told her all about your big city dreams, and how even old roots can grow new shoots. Theres a vacancy at the Post Office, and after forty years, you know she can send a letter anywhere in the worldeven the North Pole, without a stamp. Let her have a go before she fades away.

***

In the end, Lucy realised that starting over was never about a postcode, but about daring to dig out your own corner in the world. Sometimes its your turn to leave the safety of homeand sometimes, you just need to help someone else find their better life. The roots are still with you, wherever you choose to grow.