Once a Month — How a Noticeboard, a List of Neighbours, and a Helping Hand Transformed Nina Sergeevna’s Life in Her English Apartment Block

Author Walton MerrittReading 12 minViews 1

Once a Month

Edith Johnson clutched a bulging black rubbish bag to her chest and paused by the noticeboard near the lift. On a bit of lined paper, stuck up with coloured pins, bold letters announced: Once a MonthEach Neighbour. Beneath, dates and surnames, and in the corner, Mark, flat 34. Someone had already scrawled underneath: Need 2 people Saturday, help with boxes. Edith read it twice, feeling that familiar irritation, as if someone was yammering in her hallway.

Shed lived in this building for ten years and knew precisely how it worked: you said hello if you bumped into someone at the front door, and that was that. SometimesDo you know where the electrician lives? SometimesWould you mind passing on my post? But rotas, surnames, pushpins… It all reminded her of those old office team meetings where everyone mouthed were all in this together! before scarpering at the first sign of trouble.

By the communal bins, she bumped into Val from the fifth floorthe one who always lugged two bags at once, presumably fearing the apocalypse would pop one mid-journey.

Seen the board? Val bobbed her head in its direction. Mark came up with it. Said its easier this way. Not all running around on your own. Bit of teamwork.

Teamwork, Edith echoed, putting extra effort into sounding neutral. And what if youre not keen?

Val shrugged. Well nobodys forcing you. Just so theres help if anyone needs.

Edith wandered out into the courtyard, now mentally debating with Mark-from-thirty-four: Needs helpwhat does that even mean? Who decides whos in dire straits? And whys it everyones business anyway?

On Saturday morning, she heard muffled bangs and voices from the corridor. Through her kitchen door came, Carefulwatch the corner! and Hold the lift, mate! She gripped her damp dishcloth, trying not to listenfailing spectacularly, as usual. She pictured the usual crowd (faces, no names) hauling someones sofa and mystery boxes, people bossing and grumbling. The thought of strangers glimpsing anothers life through cardboard flaps made her squirm. Stillshe felt a twinge of envy: at least someone wanted them around.

An hour later, peace finally prevailed. That evening, returning from Tesco, Edith saw a pile of flattened boxes outside, and tape abandoned on the bench. Mark, tall and thoroughly knackered, collected stray rubbish in a bag.

Evening, he greeted her, as if theyd known each other since year seven. Were not disturbing, are we?

No, she replied. Just bit noisy, thats all.

Fair enough. We tried to get it all done before lunch. Tanya down on two, moving out. Its just her and the little one. Wellnot just never mind. If you ever need anything, jot it on the board. Doesnt have to be moving boxes. Could be anything.

He said anything in a way that Edith couldnt quite object to. No hard sell, no guilt-tripping. He just said it, tied up his bag, and cracked on.

Over the following weeks, the noticeboard gained a life of its own. Every time Edith passed, there was some fresh scribble: Mr. Potts, flat 19pick up meds post-op, anyone popping to Boots? Can someone fit a shelf in 27? Got a drill. Collecting £2 each for the intercom, pay later if you dont have change. The handwriting changedsome neat, some frantic, pressing the pen like it owed them cash.

She didnt sign up herself. She thought that was only rightbeen independent this long, why start poking her nose about now? But she watched.

One evening, on her way home, she found a teenage girl from the next block sobbing by the lift, nose buried in her jacket sleeve. Val, ever reliable, had a comforting arm round her and murmured:

Dont cry, love. Well sort it. Marks got some.

Whats happened? Edith couldnt help askingthough she could have walked on.

Val glanced at her, as if shed already decided Edith wasnt the sort to find this funny.

Her grans not well. Blood pressures shot, and theyve run out of tablets. Boots is shut. Marks fetching his until morning.

Edith nodded and let herself in, coat still on, standing motionless in the hall. She kept replaying Vals easy well sort it. Not call an ambulance, or none of our business, but well sort it. And that Mark was handing over his own medswithout making a song and dance about it.

A couple of days later, the block had its customary drama. Someone had written under the intercom collection notice: Always wanting money. If you want a new one, pay for it yourself! No signature, dodgy handwriting. By the lift, a duo of ladies squabbled, volume set to ten.

Thats the third floorId know that chicken scratch anywhere, hissed one.

Oh, you would, would you? the other snapped. Some of us have to survive on pension, and youre always after a whip-round.

Edith breezed past them, the familiar group project feeling risingthe inevitable tangle over who owes what, who refuses, who freeloads. Why couldnt the board go back to plumbing announcements?

But later, she saw Mark at the noticeboard. He carefully took down the offending note, folded it, pocketed it. Put up a fresh sheet: Intercom. If you can chip in, great. If not, no worries. As long as it works. Mark. Nothing more.

Edith found herself respecting that final nothing moreno lectures, no threats, just a solid boundary you could lean on.

Meanwhile, real life creaked on, like Mrs. Farrells front door that hadnt seen WD-40 in decades. First, minor nuisance: the sink tube started dribbling. Edith shoved a bowl underneath, twisted a spanner, wiped the floor, sighed. Then, work delayed her bonus, and her manager muttered, not meeting her eyes: For now, Edith. Try to hang on. Edith did hang on; she was good at it.

Early in the month, her back went. Nothing ambulance-worthy, but each morning shed rise clutching the bed for one icy minute until the pain fizzed away. She bought some heat rub, wrapped herself in a scarf, and told no one. In her mind, complaints only bred chat, and chat bred pity.

One evening, shopping bag dangling, Edith heard a weird noise at her own front door. Something was scritchingher lock was sticking, the key refusing to do its job. She pressed harder; it finally turned, but with a crunch that made her wince.

She kicked off her shoes, plonked the bag on the stool, fetched a screwdriver, and attempted surgery on the lock. Her hands trembled with fatigue. Her back ached. The silence inside pressed down, heavy as wet laundry.

Next day, the lock seized up properly. Edith dragged herself home, weighed down with bag and paperwork, and was locked out. She leaned her forehead against the frigid door, biting back panic. Her mind racedlocksmith, spare keys, cash, darkness. She phoned emergency maintenance. Two hours, they said.

Two hours on the landingembarrassing, not for the neighbours but herself, helpless as a kitten. She perched on a step, bag by her side, staring at her own handsdry and cracked from a lifetime of scrubbing. Hands that always coped.

The lift doors pinged open; Mark stepped out. He spotted her instantly.

Edith Johnson? he asked, double-checking.

She raised her head, face igniting.

Locks gone, she muttered. Waiting for the bloke.

How long?

They said two hours.

Mark eyed the door, and then her bag.

Ive got a little kit. Fancy letting me have a go, while you wait? If its bust, at least Ill find out. Only if youre okay with it.

He said if youre okay with it, which mattered. Not Come on, let me, or You cant just sit there. He asked.

Edith nearly said, Thanks but no thanks. That would be familiar, safe. But her back was throbbing, phone dying, and two hours on the stairs suddenly felt ludicrous.

Go on, then, she agreed, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

Mark nipped off and returned with a sturdy little toolbox. He set a newspaper down for the bitsstandard Mark, not wanting to spoil the tiles. Neat, respectful.

Im no locksmith, he warned. But Ive seen enough locks.

He removed the cover, lined up the screws in a jam jar lid. Edith sat alongside on the step, holding her bag, oddly at peaceas if, somehow, her private battle was now ordinary, and that wasnt bad at all.

Looks like the barrels knackered, Mark ventured. Can oil it for now, but best to swap it out. Got a spare?

No, she admitted. Didnt think.

Mark just noddedno judgement.

After ten minutes, the door relented. Not gracefully, but it did. Edith stepped into her hall, flicked the lights, and felt the tension shiver off. She turned to Mark.

Thanks, she told him. And then, because leaving it there risked ending the chat: Just dont tell everyone.

Mark looked her in the eye.

Course. I wont say a word. But youll want to change it. I can message you a proper bloke tomorrow. Does the job, keeps stum.

Edith nodded, relieved he wasnt about to rally the entire block to replace her lock. Just a simple tipquiet, useful.

Once Mark had gone, she locked up and stood in the hallway, listening to the fridge hum. She could have laughed or criedhelp didnt feel like pity. Help was simply a tool handed over because your own hands were full.

Next evening, Edith rang Marks recommended locksmith. He turned up, swapped out the old barrel, showed her the mangled innards, fitted a shiny new bit. Edith paid by contactless, pocketed two keys, and hid one in a tin on the wardrobes top shelfneatly labelled spare in permanent marker. Her small confession: maybe you dont always cope solo.

A week later, a fresh notice appeared: Saturdayhelp Mr. Potts, flat 19, carry shopping/meds after hospital. Need 2, 11-12am. Edith read it and, quite suddenly, realised she could.

On Saturday she left her flat early. In her bag: two packs of biscuits and a box of tea. Not charityjust something to hold, so she didnt arrive empty-handed. Mark was already waiting.

You too? he asked, no surprisejust checking.

Yes, Edith said. But let me do the light stuff. And none of that how are you feeling? chat, alright?

She heard her own confidence. Not pleading, not apologisingjust clear terms.

Deal, Mark replied.

They headed up for Mr. Potts. An elderly chap answered, pale, in his jumper. Tried to smile.

Oh, committee, is it? he joked.

Not committee, Edith said, passing him her bag. Weve brought your bits. Theres tea and biscuits if you fancy.

Potts took the bag in both hands, like precious cargo.

Thank you. I couldve managed just my legs

No could haves, Mark cut in, kindly. Just point where you want it.

They trooped into the kitchen. Edith stacked the bags on the table, clocked a list of meds, an empty pill box. She didnt ask. Simply offered:

Want the bin taken out?

If its not too much trouble, Potts mumbled, embarrassed.

Edith tied up the rubbish and took it away. On the way back she realisedher back barely ached. Not because it magically healed, but because her insides felt steadier.

On the way out, Potts tried to slip Mark some coins.

No need, Mark said.

Well, at least Potts glanced at Edith. Pop in, if you need anything. I dont bite.

Edith nodded.

Same goes for youno heroics, please. Just stick it on the board if you need.

She said it and found, in her chest, a quiet confidence: she had the right to speak up, just as Mark did. Not bossing, not pleadingsimply side by side.

Back by the noticeboard that night, someone had left a tub of pins and a mini notepad. Edith took her pen and wrote, neat and simple: Flat 46. Edith Johnson. If anyone needs, I can do Boots runs or pick up parcels weekday evenings after seven. Not great at heavy lifting. Tacked the note down, checked it held, stashed her pen.

At home, she put the kettle on, took the spare key from the cupboard, and tucked it in a little envelope. On the outside, Marks number. Then slipped it into the hall drawernot a sign of defeat, but security she allowed herself.

When a door slammed and footsteps echoed in the block, Edith didnt flinch. She simply switched off the hob, poured her tea, and thought: once a month wasnt really about the crowd. It was knowing you didnt have to clutch everything in one handif there are other hands nearby.

The Cupboard and the Scales She went rummaging through the cupboard—not for memories, but for a jar of pickled cucumbers for her salad. On the top shelf, behind a battered box of tangled Christmas lights, the corner of a long-forgotten case caught her eye. The fabric had faded, the zip stubborn. She tugged, and from the depths slid a long, narrow shape, thin as a stretched shadow. She put the jar on a stool by the door so she wouldn’t forget it, then crouched down, as if that might make decisions easier. On the third try, the zip finally gave way. Inside lay a violin. Its varnish dulled in places, strings slack, bow bedraggled like an old broom. But the shape was unmistakable, and something inside her clicked, like a switch flicked on. She remembered lugging that case around the neighbourhood in Year 9, embarrassed by how silly she must look. Then came college, work, a wedding, and one day she simply stopped going to music lessons, too busy chasing a different life. The violin went to her parents for safekeeping, travelled with her to new flats, and now lay here, forgotten but not rejected, wedged amongst bags and boxes. She lifted the instrument gingerly, as though it might crumble. The wood was warm from her palm, despite the cupboard’s chill. Her fingers automatically found the neck—and then it felt awkward, as if she were trespassing on something no longer hers. On the stove, water boiled. She stood, closed the cupboard, but didn’t return the case. Instead she props it by the corridor wall and goes to switch off the hob. Salad could be made without cucumbers. Already, she finds herself searching for excuses. That evening, after the dishes are washed and only breadcrumbs linger in a plate on the table, she brings the case into the lounge. Her husband sits at the television, channel-hopping absent-mindedly. He glances up. ‘What’ve you dug up there?’ ‘A violin,’ she says, surprised at how steady she sounds. ‘Oh. Still alive?’ He grins, not unkind, just the familiar, gentle home humour. ‘Not sure. About to find out.’ She opens the case on the sofa, sliding an old towel underneath so the upholstery won’t scratch. Out come the violin, the bow, a tiny cracked box of rosin. She rubs the bow; its hairs barely catch the surface. Tuning is a separate humiliation. The pegs are stiff, the strings squeal, one snaps and stings her finger. She mutters a curse, quietly, not for the neighbours to hear. Her husband hums. ‘Maybe best leave it to the professionals?’ he suggests. ‘Maybe,’ she replies, but feels a surge of frustration—not at him, but herself, for forgetting how to even tune. She downloads a tuning app, sets her phone on the coffee table. The screen flashes notes, the needle dances; she twists the pegs, listens to the sound drift and peak. Her shoulder aches, her fingers clumsy with the unfamiliar task. When the strings finally stop groaning, she brings the violin up to her chin. The chinrest is cold, and her neck feels suddenly thin and exposed. She tries to stand as taught in lessons, but her back protests. She laughs at herself. ‘A concert, is it?’ her husband calls, his eyes still on the screen. ‘For you,’ she says. ‘Brace yourself.’ The first note comes out as more of a complaint than a sound. The bow shivers, her hand can’t hold a straight line. She pauses, exhales, tries again. It’s a little better, but still embarrassing. The shame is different now—grown-up. Not the teenage kind, when you think the whole world is watching. Here, the world isn’t watching—just the walls, her husband, and her own disobedient hands. She plays open strings, like in childhood, slow, counting silently. Then attempts a D major scale; her left-hand fingers tangle, and she can’t remember which finger goes where. Her hands are thicker now, and the pads miss each spot. No familiar ache at the fingertips, just a dull sensation, the skin strangely soft. ‘It’s alright,’ her husband says unexpectedly. ‘Well… it’s early days.’ She nods, unsure who it’s ‘alright’ for—him, her, or the violin. The next day, she brings it to the local music shop by the underground. Romantic? Not really: glass doors, a counter, guitars and violins on the wall, the air thick with varnish and dust. The repairman, a young chap with a stud, takes the violin like it’s a tool of trade. ‘Definitely need new strings,’ he says, ‘pegs oiled, bridge adjusted. The bow could do with a rehair, but that’s pricier.’ She hears ‘pricier’ and tenses. Bills, medicine, birthday gifts for the grandchild flit through her mind. She almost says, ‘Never mind, don’t bother,’ but instead asks, ‘Could I just have the strings and bridge for now?’ ‘Of course. It’ll play.’ She hands over the violin, tucks the receipt into her purse. Outside she feels as if she’s left behind not just an instrument, but a part of herself for repair. Back home, she opens her laptop and searches ‘adult violin lessons near me.’ The phrase makes her grin. Adult. As if there’s a whole separate breed that needs slower and gentler instruction. She finds a handful of ads: some promise ‘results in a month’, others ‘personalised approach.’ She shuts the tabs—it’s daunting. Then opens them again and writes a message to a female tutor in the next neighbourhood. Brief: ‘Hello. I’m 52. Want to relearn violin. Is it possible?’ Sent, and instantly she regrets it, wishing she could unsend, like erasing a confession of weakness. But it’s done. That evening, her son drops by. In the kitchen, he kisses her cheek, asks about work. She puts on the kettle, brings out the biscuits. He spots the case in the lounge. ‘Is that a violin?’ Genuine surprise. ‘Yes. Found it. Thinking… might give it a go.’ ‘Mum, seriously?’ His smile is lost, more puzzled than mocking. ‘But you… it’s been ages.’ ‘It has,’ she agrees. ‘That’s why, really.’ He sits down, spins a biscuit between his fingers. ‘Why, though? You’re already run off your feet.’ She feels the old reflex to explain, justify, convince him of her right. But explanations always sound a bit pitiful. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘I just want to.’ He looks closer, like he’s seeing—maybe for the first time—not just the mum who does it all, but a woman who wants something for herself. ‘Well… alright then. Just don’t wear yourself out. And spare the neighbours.’ She laughs. ‘Neighbours will cope. I’ll stick to daytime.’ When he leaves, she realises she’s lighter. Not because he gave permission, but because she didn’t have to justify. Two days later, she picks up the violin from the shop. The strings gleam, the bridge is true. The repairman shows her how to tune gently, how to store it. ‘Keep away from the radiator,’ he tells her. ‘And in the case.’ She nods, as obedient as a student. Home again, she sets the case on a chair, opens it and stares at the instrument as if afraid to break it. Her first exercise is the simplest: long bows on open strings. Boring punishment in childhood, now it’s salvation. No tune, no judgement. Just sound, and the attempt to make it smooth. After ten minutes, her shoulder aches; after fifteen, her neck is stiff. She stops, packs the violin into its case, zips up. Anger rises—at her body, her age, the way everything is harder. She goes to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, and stares out at teenagers on scooters, laughing on the playground. She envies—not their youth, but their shamelessness; how they fall, get up, keep going, never thinking it’s too late to learn balance. She returns to the room and opens the case again—not because she must, but because she refuses to end with irritation. The tutor’s reply arrives that night: ‘Hello. Of course it’s possible. Come along, we’ll start with posture and simple exercises. Age is no barrier, but do bring patience.’ She reads it twice. That word—patience—is honest, and it calms her. On lesson day, she travels with the case, clutching it like something precious and fragile. In the Tube, people steal glances, some smiling. Let them, she thinks. Let them see. The teacher is a petite forty-ish woman, short hair, keen eyes. The studio has a piano, shelves of music, a child’s violin on a chair. ‘Let’s have a look,’ she says, and invites her to hold the violin. She takes it—and it’s clear she grips it wrong. Her shoulder hitches, chin clamps, left hand wooden. ‘That’s fine,’ the teacher assures. ‘You haven’t played. Let’s just stand for now. Remember, the violin isn’t your enemy.’ It’s strangely liberating—and a bit funny—to stand at fifty-two and learn to hold a violin. No one asks her to be good. Just to show up. After the lesson, her hands tremble as if from PE. The teacher hands her a routine: ten minutes of open strings daily, then a scale, no more. ‘Better little and often,’ she advises. Her husband asks, ‘Well, how’d it go?’ ‘It’s tough,’ she says, ‘but alright.’ ‘Are you happy?’ She thinks. Happy isn’t quite right—anxious, amused, self-conscious, but lighter somehow. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It feels like I’m doing something for me, with my hands, and not just working or cooking.’ A week on, she dares to play a short tune she remembers from childhood. She finds the notes online, prints them at work, slips them into her folder so colleagues won’t ask questions. At home, she props the music on a DIY stand—an old book and a box. The sound is patchy, the bow snags neighbouring strings, her fingers stray. She stops, starts over. Eventually her husband pops in. ‘You know… that’s lovely,’ he says gently, as if afraid to interrupt. ‘Don’t lie,’ she retorts. ‘I’m not—it’s just… familiar.’ She smiles. Familiar is almost a compliment. At the weekend, her six-year-old granddaughter visits, spots the case immediately. ‘Nanna, what’s that?’ ‘A violin.’ ‘Can you play?’ She wants to say, ‘Once, maybe.’ But for a child there is only ‘now’. ‘I’m learning,’ she says. Her granddaughter perches on the sofa, hands neatly folded, like at a recital. ‘Play for me.’ The nerves tighten in her belly. Playing for a child is scarier—you can’t fool them. ‘Alright,’ she says, and lifts the violin. She plays that tune she’s struggled with all week. At bar three, the bow skids, a sharp squawk. Her granddaughter doesn’t flinch, just tilts her head. ‘Why does it squeak?’ ‘Because Nanna holds the bow crooked,’ she laughs, relieved. Her granddaughter giggles, too. ‘Go again!’ she cries. She does, and it’s not much better, but she doesn’t stop out of embarrassment. She just finishes. In the quiet later, when everyone else has gone, she sits in the lounge. Printed music on the table, a pencil for marking tough bits. Violin in its case, zipped but not put away. Standing by the wall—a reminder that it’s part of her day now. She sets a ten-minute timer on her phone—not to force herself, but to avoid burning out. Opens the case, checks the rosin, tightens the bow. Brings the violin to her chin and breathes. The sound is softer than this morning. It falters; she doesn’t curse, just adjusts and keeps trying for a steady note. When the timer rings, she finishes the bow stroke, carefully puts the violin away, and places the case by the wall—not back in the cupboard. She knows tomorrow will be the same: a little embarrassment, some fatigue, a few pure seconds worth opening the case for. And that’s enough to keep going.

I Saw It Happen She was closing up the office accounts when her manager poked her head out and softly asked if she could “pick up” the supplier report tomorrow—a gentle request you don’t refuse. She nodded, inventorying her day: picking up her son from school, stopping at the chemist for her mum’s tablets, checking homework at home. She’d long learned not to argue, not to stand out, never give anyone an excuse. At work, they called it reliability; at home, peace of mind. That evening, carrying a bag of groceries, she walked home from the bus stop, her son beside her, nose in his phone, negotiating “just five more minutes.” She answered, “Later”—because later always came soon enough. At the shopping centre crossroads, she waited at the green light, cars lined up, horns impatient. Stepping onto the zebra crossing, a dark SUV suddenly surged forward from the right lane, overtaking the queue and gunning for the fading green. The impact sounded dry and heavy, like a wardrobe falling. The SUV struck a white Ford just pulling onto the junction, spun it out, sending the rear towards the crossing. Shoppers scattered, kids pulled back. She managed to grab her son’s sleeve in time. A second of stillness, then someone screamed. The Ford’s driver slumped, dazed. In the SUV, the airbags deployed, and behind the cracked windscreen appeared a sharply dressed man already reaching for the door. Setting her shopping on the tarmac, she grabbed her mobile and dialled 999. The operator’s voice was steady—like it wasn’t happening here, now. “There’s been a collision at the shopping centre junction—injured at the scene,” she stated as evenly as possible. “The car spun onto the crossing, driver in the white Ford… I’m not sure if he’s conscious.” Her son stood pale, looking at her as if she’d suddenly become truly grown up. While she answered questions, a young man ran to the Ford, spoke to the driver. The SUV man exited confidently, surveyed the chaos, spoke into his mobile. Expensive coat, no hat; he moved as if this were a minor travel delay. Ambulance first, then police. The officer asked who witnessed the crash. She raised her hand—after all, she’d been right there. “Name, address, phone please,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “Just tell it as you saw.” She replied: SUV sped out from the right; Ford had the signal; there were people on the crossing. The officer nodded, jotting it all down. The SUV man drifted closer—not menacing, just enough to unsettle. “You sure?” he murmured. “There’s CCTV, you know.” “I said I saw it,” she replied, instantly regretting her firmness. He half-smiled and walked away. Her son tugged her sleeve. “Mum, can we go home?” The policeman handed back her ID, said she might be called in to clarify. She nodded, picked up her shopping, led her son through the estate. At home, she washed her hands for ages, though they were clean. Her son was quiet, then asked: “Will they send that man to prison?” “I don’t know. It’s not up to us,” she said. That night she dreamt of the crash, the SUV slicing through the air. At work next day, numbers blurred—her mind returned to the crossroads. After lunch, an unknown number called. “Afternoon, you witnessed the accident yesterday,” a polite male voice said. “Just want to reassure you—” “Who are you?” she asked. “Doesn’t matter. It’s an awkward situation—witnesses these days get pressured, dragged into court. Do you want that? You have your job, your son.” He spoke gently, like recommending laundry powder, and it scared her more. “No one’s pressuring me,” she said, voice trembling. “Good,” he replied. “Just say you’re not sure. It’s easier for everyone.” She ended the call, stared at her screen, then hid the mobile in her desk drawer as if dropping the whole conversation there. That evening after work, she visited her mum, who greeted her in a dressing gown and immediately launched into complaints about her blood pressure and muddled surgery records. “Mum,” she asked, sorting out the tablets, “if you saw a crash and people told you to ‘stay out of it,’ would you?” Her mother sighed. “I’d keep out. I’ve no need for heroics at my age. You shouldn’t either—with a child, you know?” The words stung, as if her mum doubted her strength. Next day, another call, another number. “We’re just concerned,” that familiar voice soothed. “The driver has family, job—mistakes happen. Witnesses end up dragged through it for years. Why deal with it? Maybe best to say you didn’t see the moment.” “I saw it,” she said. “You sure you want to get involved?” the voice cooled. “What school does your son go to?” She froze. “How do you know?” “Small town,” came the unfazed reply. “We’re just thinking of your peace.” She hung up, staring at her kitchen worktop. Her son quietly did homework. She locked the door with the chain, knowing it wouldn’t stop phone calls. A few days later, a man in a plain jacket stopped her at her building door. “You’re flat twenty-seven?” he asked. “Yes,” she replied, automatically. “About that crash—don’t worry,” he said, holding up his hands as if she were already backing off. “I’m a friend of friends. You don’t want years in court, do you? Let’s keep it civil. Say you’re unsure—done.” “I don’t take money,” she blurted. No idea why. “No one mentioned money,” he smiled. “Just… peace. You have a child—you get it. Unsettled times: in your son’s school, your job. Why bother with more?” He spat out “more” like it was rubbish to be binned. She walked past, silent, made it home, and realised her hands were shaking. Dropping her bag, she went straight to her son. “Don’t leave school on your own tomorrow—I’ll come for you,” she tried to sound casual. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing,” she lied—for the first time, it felt alive and real. Monday brought a summons: she was called to the station to give evidence, identify the crash parties. The letter was official, with a seal. Tucking it in her folder felt like storing a heavy stone. That evening her manager kept her back. “So, some people came about you. Very polite: asked me not to stress you out, because you’re a witness. I don’t like that—it affects the whole team. Be careful.” “Who came?” she asked. “No names—just… confident types,” her manager shrugged. “As a friend, maybe stay out of it? We’ve got audits coming. If the calls start, it’s everyone’s problem.” She left, feeling stripped of not just speech but the safety she found in spreadsheets. At home, she told her husband. He listened quietly, finished his soup, finally asked: “You realise this could end badly?” “I do.” “Then why bother?”—not angry, just weary. “We’ve got the mortgage, your mum, the boy. You want us shaken up?” “I don’t,” she said. “But I saw it.” He looked at her as if she was being childish. “Saw it and forget it. You owe no one.” She didn’t argue. Arguing meant admitting she had a choice, and choice pressed heavier than threats. On the day, she woke early, packed her son’s breakfast, charged her mobile, took her passport and summons, texted her friend where she’d be, and when to expect her out. “Got it—let me know when you’re done,” her friend replied. The station smelt of paperwork and damp carpets. She hung her coat, approached the desk, and was sent to the detective’s office. He was young, tired, switched on the recorder. “You know the consequences of false statements?” “I do.” He went through questions with no pressure: where she’d stood, what was the traffic signal, which way the SUV came, how fast. She answered plainly, nothing extra. He finally looked up. “Anyone contacted you?” She hesitated. To say so meant admitting she’d been intimidated; not to meant facing it alone. “Yes,” she said. “Called. Came to my building. Told me to say I wasn’t sure.” He nodded, as if not surprised. “Got the numbers?” She showed him; he copied, asked for screenshots to the police email. Her fingers barely cooperated. Afterwards, she was asked to wait in the corridor for a line-up. On the bench, clutching her bag, she watched as the SUV man passed with his lawyer, murmuring quietly. He glanced at her: calm, tired, resigned—like he’d seen it all solved before. The lawyer paused. “You’re the witness?” he smiled. “Yes.” “Be careful with your wording,” he advised sweetly. “People confuse things under stress; you wouldn’t want consequences.” “I’ll tell the truth,” she replied. He raised his eyebrows. “Truth’s different for everyone.” Then walked away. In the next room, they showed her photos and asked her to identify the driver. She pointed, signed the statement. The pen made sharp lines on paper—comforting, leaving marks no threat could erase. It was dark when she left the station. She kept glancing back—though no one followed. On the bus, she sat close to the driver, like people who need some sense of safety. At home, her husband was silent. Her son peeked round the door. “Well?” he asked. “I told them what I saw.” Her husband sighed. “You know they won’t drop it?” “I do.” She didn’t sleep that night, listening for every door, every step on the stairs, each movement a warning. Morning, she took her son herself, asked his teacher not to release him to anyone—even someone “from Mum.” The teacher observed her, nodded with no questions. At work, even her manager spoke more brusquely. Less work was handed to her; she was now a risk. Colleagues glanced, quickly looked away. No one spoke outright, but a hollow space formed around her. Calls stopped for a week, then came a message from a faceless number: “Think about your family.” She showed it to the detective, who just said, “Logged. Let us know if there’s anything else.” She wasn’t protected, but her words hadn’t vanished. One night a ground-floor neighbour caught her at the lift. “Heard you’re involved in that thing—look, my husband’s home often, just call us if. We’ve been meaning to get a camera for the entrance—let’s split the cost and put one up.” The neighbour spoke plainly, no heroics, just like fixing the intercom. It made her throat sting. A month later, the detective called again. The case was going to court; there’d be more hearings. No promises of justice—just procedures, tests, diagrams. “Any more threats?” he asked. “No,” she said. “But I’m always waiting.” “That’s normal,” he replied. “Try to keep life as before. Report anything odd.” She left, thinking “normal” sounded alien. Life had changed. Now, she took different routes home, never left her son alone, used call recording, messaged her friend whenever she got indoors. She didn’t feel brave, just someone holding a line to keep from collapsing. In court, she saw the SUV man again: upright, attentive, taking notes, never glancing at her. That hurt more than a stare—she felt like paperwork. When asked if she was certain, fear surged. Images of her son at the gates, her manager, her mother urging her not to interfere. Yet she said, “Yes. I’m certain.” Afterwards, outside, she paused at the steps. Her hands were cold, gloves on. Friend texted: “How are you?” She replied, “Alive. Coming home.” She stopped at the corner shop for bread and apples—still had to make tea. The ordinariness was a strange comfort: life hadn’t stopped, it still asked for simple chores. At home, her son met her at the door. “Mum, are you still coming to the parents’ meeting?” She looked at him and knew she’d endured for the sake of that question. “I’ll be there. Dinner first though.” Later, locking door with both bolts, checking the chain, she realised it wasn’t panic—it was the new routine. This was the price of the calm she’d had to relearn. No victory, no gratitude, no hero status. Just the hard, clear knowledge: she hadn’t strayed from what she saw, and now she no longer needed to hide from herself.

Even now, there are nights I wake up and wonder: When did my father manage to take everything away from us? I was 15 when it happened. We lived in a small but well-kept house—furnished, with a fully stocked fridge after grocery trips, and the bills mostly paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Things began changing when Dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without a word, toss his keys onto the table and disappear into his room, phone in hand. Mum would say: — “Late again? Do you think the house runs itself?” And he’d reply, his voice flat: — “Leave me be, I’m tired.” I’d hear it all from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was wrong. One night, I saw him talking on the phone outside. He was quietly laughing, saying things like “It’s almost sorted” and “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straightaway. My stomach twisted, but I said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I got home from school and saw his suitcase on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway with her eyes red. I asked: — “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me: — “I’ll be away for a while.” Mum shouted: — “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He exploded: — “I’m leaving with another woman. I can’t stand this life anymore!” I burst into tears: — “What about me? My school? Our home?” All he said: — “You’ll manage.” He closed his suitcase, grabbed papers from the drawer, picked up his wallet and left without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to get money from the cashpoint and the card was blocked. The next day at the bank, they said the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the savings. Then we found out he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan, listing Mum as guarantor, without telling her. I remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table—checking bills with an old calculator, crying over and over: — “It’s not enough… it’s not enough…” I tried to help add up the numbers but didn’t understand half of it. A week later, our internet was cut off, and the electricity nearly went too. Mum started working—cleaning people’s houses. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed to stand during break with a bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because at home we didn’t have the basics. One day I opened the fridge: there was just a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried by myself. That night we ate plain rice, nothing more. Mum apologised, saying she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw on Facebook a photo of Dad with that woman—raising a toast with wine in a restaurant. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. He never rang again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He simply disappeared. Today, I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But the wound is still there—not just from the money, but the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us in debt and moved on as if nothing happened. And yet, so many nights I still wake up with the same question stuck in my chest: How do you get through it when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out survival while you’re still just a kid?