My Son Brought Home His New Girlfriend—She Seemed a Bit Suspicious A few days ago, my son introduced his girlfriend to our family. She’s a little younger than me, maybe four or five years. My son has fallen in love with a woman my own age and wants to marry her. The next surprise: she has a young daughter. I welcomed them warmly. The most important thing is that my son is happy, and that means I’m happy too, but I felt I had to speak to someone about it. As soon as they left, I called my best friend, who I fondly call my “calming medicine.” No matter what happens, she’s always there for me, offering wise advice that never fails. I told her the whole story and asked for her help in handling things the right way. We talked for ages, and who knows how long it would have gone on if my son hadn’t come home just then. He wanted to talk. I was nervous, worried he’d reveal something even more shocking. “Mum, I want her and her daughter to move in with us,” he said. I didn’t know how to react, but I agreed: let them move in. He was thrilled and went to tell them the news. All I could think was: Does she really love my son, or is she only interested because we have a lovely big house in central London and come from a wealthy family? With that thought, I drifted off to sleep. In my dream, my late husband told me, “It’s alright.” When I woke up, I understood: my son isn’t foolish. He knows what he’s doing, and even if he makes a mistake, he’ll fix it.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 2 minViews 2

Just a few days ago, my son brought his girlfriend home. She appeared a bit suspicious to me. Shes a little younger than I amperhaps four or five years. Hes fallen in love with someone about my age and wants to marry her. What surprised me even more was that she has a young daughter.

I welcomed them warmly. Above all, my son is happy, and that makes me happy, but I needed to talk it over with someone. As soon as they left, I rang my closest friend, Emma, whom I affectionately call my calming remedy. No matter whats happening, shes always by my side, supportive, and her advice never fails. I told her about what had happened and asked for her guidance.

We chatted for quite some time, and Im sure we would have spoken even longer if my son hadnt returned home just then. He wanted to talk. I worried he had more surprising news to drop on me. Mum, I want her and her little girl to live with us, he said.

I didnt know quite how to respond, so I simply said, Yes, let them move in. He was thrilled and left at once to share the good news.

But I couldnt shake one thought from my mind: Surely this woman cant truly love my son. Maybe shes realised we have a large house here in the centre of London and that our family is well-off, and thats why shes attached herself to him.

I fell asleep with those thoughts swirling in my mind. That night, I dreamt of my late husband, who simply said, Its alright. When I woke up in the morning, I understood that my son isnt foolishhe knows perfectly well whats happening, and even if he makes a mistake, hell be able to sort it out.

I’m 58 Years Old and I Made a Decision That Cost Me More Than Most People Could Imagine: I Stopped Supporting My Daughter Financially—And It Wasn’t Because I Don’t Love Her, or Because I’ve Become “Tight-Fisted” My daughter married a man who, right from the start, made it clear he doesn’t like to work. He hopped from job to job, always with a different excuse—the boss, the hours, the pay, the atmosphere… there was always something. She worked hard, but the money was never enough. Every month, he would come to me with the same words: rent, food, debts, school for the kids. And every time, in the end, I would help. At first, I thought it was temporary. A phase. That he would pull himself together, take responsibility, become a real man. But the years went by, and nothing changed. He would stay at home, sleep in, go out with friends, promise he was “almost” about to find work. And the money I gave my daughter really covered expenses that he should have taken care of—or worse, paid for his drinking. He didn’t look for a job because he knew, no matter what, I would be the one to “fix” it. My daughter didn’t confront him either. It was easier to ask me than to face up to him. So I was paying bills that weren’t mine, carrying the burden of a marriage that wasn’t mine. The day I decided to stop was when my daughter asked me for money for an “emergency”—and happened to mention it was needed to cover a debt her husband had racked up playing snooker with his mates. I asked her: —Why doesn’t he work? And she replied: —I don’t want to pressure him. That’s when I made it clear: I will continue to support her emotionally. I will always be there for her and my grandchildren. But I won’t give any more money as long as she stays with a man who does nothing and takes no responsibility. She cried. She was angry. She accused me of abandoning her. And it was one of the hardest moments I’ve faced as a mother. Tell me… was I wrong?

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The Secret Word When Sarah stood at the till clutching a bag of yoghurt and bread and heard the terminal beep—“Transaction declined”—she swiped her card again, as if she could reason with a machine, but the cashier was already looking at her with wary fatigue. “Do you have another card?” asked the cashier. Sarah shook her head, checked her phone, and saw a text from her bank: “Account operations suspended. Contact support.” Another text immediately followed, this time from an unknown number: “Loan approved. Agreement No….” Heat flooded Sarah’s face as someone tutted impatiently behind her. Paying with emergency cash she kept just in case, Sarah left the shop. The bag’s handles bit into her fingers. All she could think was: This must be a mistake. It had to be. On the walk home, Sarah called the bank. An endless wait—pressing numbers, rote music, and finally a monotone operator. “Your account is locked for suspected fraudulent activity,” he said. “Your credit history now shows new obligations. You must visit a branch with your ID.” “What obligations?” Sarah tried to keep calm. “I haven’t taken anything out.” “According to our system, there are two payday loans and an application for a new SIM card in your name,” he droned, as if reciting a grocery list. “We can’t unlock the account until this is investigated.” Sarah hung up and stared at her phone at the bus stop. There were more loan texts—three in all. One offered a “grace period” and another warned “interest applied.” She tried to log in to her bank app, but access was denied: “Restricted.” Cold, clinical worry crept in, as if waiting for a verdict. She put her groceries down at home without even removing her coat. Her husband, Mark, sat in the lounge with his laptop. “Something up?” he asked, looking up. “My card didn’t work. The bank’s blocked it. And…” she showed him her phone, “apparently I’ve got loans out.” Mark frowned. “You’re sure you didn’t apply for something? Maybe you ticked the wrong box online.” “Me?” Sarah felt a flicker of irritation. “I’ve never even looked at those loan sites.” He sighed, as if it were an annoying, yet solvable household glitch. “We’ll get it sorted. Pop to the bank tomorrow.” His “pop to the bank” made it sound like paying the electric bill. Sarah went to make tea, realising her hands were trembling. She shoved her phone away, then pulled it back out. Another missed call: “Debt Collection.” She didn’t ring back. She slept badly. Phrases like “suspected fraud,” “obligations,” “SIM card” circled in her mind. She imagined going to the bank, being told “It was you” and having to prove otherwise, as if apologising for a crime she didn’t commit. She left early the next day, taking a holiday from work, breezily saying it was a “bank matter.” Her manager’s silent scrutiny was worse than sympathy. At the bank, people queued with paperwork and passports. When Sarah reached the front, the bank clerk pecked at the keyboard. “You have two payday loan agreements,” she said, not looking up. “One for £2,000, the other for £1,500. Plus a SIM card request at your mobile provider—and an attempted transfer to a third-party card.” “I didn’t do any of this,” Sarah repeated. Her words sounded flat and formulaic. “In that case, you’ll need to file a dispute for each transaction and a fraud report,” the clerk replied, sliding forms across. “We’ll issue a statement and a confirmation of the account block. Also advise you to check your credit file.” Sarah took the paperwork, scanning the fine print warning the bank “does not guarantee a positive outcome.” She signed, carefully. “How could this happen? I’ve got SMS confirmation on my accounts.” “The SIM could have been swapped,” the clerk replied evenly. “Then codes go to a new number. You’ll need to check with your provider.” Sarah left with a folder of documents—statement, claim, block confirmation. They felt heavier than evidence of someone else’s life. At the mobile shop, the young man smiled blandly. “Yes, there is a SIM card in your name,” he confirmed after checking ID. “Issued two days ago, at another branch.” “I never collected it,” Sarah’s insides twisted. “How was it handed out without me?” He shrugged. “You need a passport. Maybe a copy. Or a letter of authority—that’s logged. Want to dispute the issue? We’ll block the number.” “Block it,” Sarah said. “And give me the address where it was issued.” He printed the sheet: date, time, reference. Her old mobile number was listed, but next to it, a note: “SIM swap.” Someone had cloned her SIM. Sarah phoned a credit agency next, following endless instructions, codes, registrations—each code felt like a taunt, not protection. By midday, another call. “Sarah Jenkins?” A dry male voice. “You’re overdue on a payday loan. When will you pay?” “I didn’t take any loans,” she replied. “This is fraud.” “They all say that,” he retorted. “We have an agreement, your details. Don’t pay, we’ll send someone round.” Sarah hung up. Her heart raced. Shame coloured by fear, as if she’d been caught doing something dirty, though she’d done nothing wrong. That evening she went to the police. Paper and linoleum smell in the corridor, the desk sergeant quietly noting as she outlined: payday loans, SIM swap, attempted transfers. “You still have your passport? Never lost it?” “Never,” Sarah said. “But I have given photocopies for work insurance. Our letting agency asked for one, too.” “Copies get around,” he sighed. “But a SIM swap—that’s a clue. Write it all down; attach your statements and the shop address.” She wrote, fighting back tears. “Unknown persons” sounded silly, but it was almost worse knowing it was surely someone who knew her day-to-day. Home, Mark met her at the door. “Well?” “I’ve filed a police report. SIM blocked. Tomorrow: council offices and credit check.” Mark grimaced. “Look, maybe just pay the loans and move on? It’s not worth the stress.” Sarah stared at him. “Pay someone else’s debt?” she asked quietly. “And wait for more?” “I just meant, I… look, you know what the police are like…” She realised it was fear—he wanted it all to vanish, even if her identity went with it. Next day at the council’s One Stop Shop, surrounded by hands clutching paperwork, Sarah sat hugging her folder, certain the word “debts” was stamped on her forehead. The clerk detailed which documents she could get, how to bar future loans on her credit file. Sarah wrote everything down, her head already full to bursting. That evening her credit report arrived. Two payday lenders, one rejected application—her own passport, address, workplace in each entry. And in the “security word” field, the codeword only her close family knew. She re-read it, stunned. That word was created years ago as “extra security” when the bank suggested it. She chose something simple and, once, had said it aloud at home when setting up a family account. Mark and their son heard it. She also remembered helping Mark’s nephew, Daniel, set up a bank account on her laptop last winter; she’d said the codeword aloud to check it. Daniel had joked about forgotten passwords. Rooting through old folders, Sarah found the copy of her passport she’d made for Daniel to “prove address at work”—her signature “not for other use” scrawled on the side. She was staring at that paper, recalling Daniel’s request for a loan last month, the way Mark reassured her “not to fuss, he’s finding his feet,” when Mark walked in. “What’s up?” he asked. She put the copy and credit report on the table. “It’s got my codeword,” said Sarah. “And the SIM card was issued with my details. Daniel had the passport copy.” Mark frowned. “Are you serious? He wouldn’t do that. He’s just going through a rough patch.” “‘A rough patch’?” Sarah’s anger was cold. “I’m being threatened and muzzled. You want me to just pay and shut up?” Mark’s silence spoke of fear of upheaval, of needing to believe family wouldn’t do this. The next day, Sarah went to the phone shop where the swap had been done. The manager wouldn’t reveal details, but did confirm, quietly, “Original passport was shown. Photo matched. Signature done here.” Someone with her details had collected the SIM. Perhaps a lookalike, perhaps a clever fake, perhaps someone close enough to pass for her in hurried, tired eyes. She rang her friend Rachel, a solicitor. “I need advice; I think I know who did it.” Rachel didn’t ask for names. “Come over with everything. And don’t pay a penny to scammers.” At Rachel’s office, amongst coffee and papers, Sarah spread out every document. “Good—get it all in writing. Since the police complaint’s in, contest every agreement with the lenders, demand document copies, activate a No-Credit alert. If it’s a relative, don’t shy off. If you do, you’re saying it’s okay. It’s about your boundaries, not theirs.” Sarah nodded. “Boundaries” sounded alien in her family, where “helping” was unconditional. That Saturday, Daniel showed up. Mark had called him to “talk.” In the hallway, Daniel, pale, shifting his weight, caught Sarah’s eye. “Hi, Sarah. Mark said you’re having some trouble.” She didn’t invite him into the kitchen, just stood, folder ready. “It’s not just trouble,” Sarah said. “Someone’s taken out loans and swapped my SIM. My codeword’s in the application forms. You had my passport copy.” Daniel hesitated, the easy smile fading. “I… I really needed it. I thought you wouldn’t notice. Meant to pay it back; the interest just kept growing. I’m stuck. You’ve always helped.” Those words hurt more than the crime. “You’ve always helped” sounded like a right. Mark moved closer. “Do you realise… you could go to jail for this?” “I’ll pay it back! I just need more time—please, don’t…” Sarah handed over the police report copy. “Too late,” she said. “The report’s in. I won’t withdraw it.” Daniel turned pale. “But we’re family,” he choked out. “Family don’t do this,” Sarah answered. Her hands shook, but it was a new kind of strength. Mark dismissed him: “Go now, Daniel.” With Daniel gone, silence settled, heavy and final. Mark slumped on a stool. “I never thought he’d…,” he began. “Nor did I,” Sarah replied. “But I’m done trusting without reason.” “What now?” “I’ll see this through,” she said. “No sharing documents. No discussing codes. If anyone wants my phone, it’s no.” Mark nodded in defeat, recognising what was at stake. Weeks passed in procedural grind: contesting loans, sending claims, locking accounts, changing numbers, filing every paper. Sarah forwarded all harassment calls to Rachel, coolly demanding written contact only. One day, a lender confirmed: “Agreement flagged as disputed, charges frozen pending investigation.” Not victory, but at last an admission she didn’t have to argue forever. Mark became quieter, accepting as Sarah installed a lockbox for documents and changed her phone password. She refused to talk about Daniel while the investigation was live. At month’s end, the bank confirmed: “Account unlocked. Change your passport if possible and monitor your credit closely.” Sarah stepped out into the spring air, bought a new notebook, and wrote on the first page: “Rules”—no slogans, just practical steps. “No paper copies given out. Never say codewords aloud. Phone stays with me. Loans only to those I could say ‘no’ to.” She closed the notebook, zipped it away. The anxiety remained, now a functional kind—her trust wasn’t gone, but wasn’t free any longer. At home, while making tea, Sarah moved her new passwords into a small fireproof pouch. Mark handed her two mugs. “You were right,” he said quietly. “I just wanted everything to go back the way it was.” Sarah met his eyes. “It can’t be the way it was,” she replied. “But it can be better—if we protect each other by what we do, not just what we say.” Mark nodded as she locked away the pouch. The click was small, but it meant the world: a life reclaimed, one careful step at a time.

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Two Columns She had already kicked off her boots and set the kettle boiling when a message from her manager pinged: “Could you cover for Claire tomorrow? She’s got a fever and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were still wet from doing the dishes, and she smeared the screen trying to unlock the phone. She dried her palms on a tea towel and glanced at her calendar. Tomorrow was the only evening she’d planned to turn in early, ignore her phone, and prepare for the report due in the morning—as it was, her head was buzzing. She typed, “Sorry, I can’t, I’ve got…” then stopped. That familiar nausea rose: if you say no, you’re letting people down. That means you’re not kind, not dependable. She deleted it and wrote instead: “Yes, I’ll come in.” Sent. The kettle rumbled. She poured her mug, pulled up a stool at the window, and opened a note on her phone she simply called “The Good List”. It already had today’s entry: “Covered Claire’s shift.” She put a full stop and added a little plus sign at the end, as though this balanced something out. That note had lived with her for almost a year. She’d started it in January, when the post-Christmas lull felt especially bleak and she needed proof her days weren’t evaporating unnoticed. The first line read: “Gave Mrs. Baker a lift to the surgery.” Mrs. Baker from the fifth floor shuffled along with her medical bag, too nervous to trust the bus. “You’re driving, aren’t you? Do me a favour, I’ll never make it otherwise,” she’d said through the intercom. So she dropped her off, waited in the car while tests were done, and took her home again. On the way back, she’d caught herself feeling annoyed—late for work, her mind crowded with other people’s complaints. The irritation made her feel guilty. She bit it back and washed it down with a coffee at the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it down neatly, as if it had been pure kindness, untainted. In February, her son’s business trip meant she had her grandson for the weekend. “You’re home anyway, it’s no trouble for you,” he said—it wasn’t a request but a fact. Her grandson was lovely and lively, with endless “can you look”, “let’s play”. She loved him, but by evening her hands shook with fatigue, her head rang like after leaving a concert. She put him to bed, washed the dishes, gathered up the toys—he knocked them out again the next morning. On Sunday, when her son returned, she said, “I’m exhausted.” He grinned, as if it was a joke: “You’re Grandma, that’s what you do.” He kissed her cheek. In the note she added: “Looked after grandson for two days.” She put a little heart to make it feel less like mere obligation. In March, her cousin phoned and asked to borrow money until payday. “It’s for medicine, you get it,” she pleaded. She did get it. She transferred the money, didn’t ask when it’d be paid back, then sat in her kitchen, figuring out how to make it to next payday and gave up on the new coat she’d wanted for months. The coat wasn’t a luxury—the old one was just worn thin at the elbows now. Her note said: “Helped my cousin out.” She didn’t write, “Put off buying something for myself.” That felt trivial, unworthy of recording. In April at work, one of the younger girls, eyes puffy and red, got stuck in the loo and couldn’t come out. She was crying softly that someone had left her and she felt disposable. She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat together on the freshly painted stairwell as dusk fell, and she listened, nodding while the girl repeated herself again and again. She missed her physio class for her bad back but stayed until it was dark. At home, her back ached. She wanted to be angry with the girl, but really, she was angry at herself: Why can’t you ever say you need to leave? In her phone, she added: “Listened to Katie, supported her.” She put her name because it felt more personal. Again, she didn’t write, “Skipped something for myself.” In June, she gave a colleague a lift to her allotment since her car had broken down. The colleague spent the drive arguing with her husband on speakerphone and never once asked if it was convenient. She said nothing, just watched the summer traffic. At the allotment, the colleague hefted out her shopping and said, “Thanks, I knew you wouldn’t mind—it’s on your way anyway.” It wasn’t. She battled traffic back, got home later than promised, and didn’t have time to check in on her mum—who was then upset. Her note that night read: “Gave Tania a lift to her allotment.” “On your way” seemed to sting, and she stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for it to dim. In August the phone rang late—her mum. Her voice was small, jittery: “I don’t feel well, love. My blood pressure. I’m scared.” She jumped up, grabbed her coat, called a taxi, and shot across the sleeping city. In the flat, it was stuffy. Blood pressure monitor on the table, tablets scattered. She checked her readings, handed out medicine, sat till her mum nodded off. In the morning she went straight to work, skipping her own home. In the Tube, she kept nearly dozing off, afraid of missing her stop. That day, in her note, she added: “Stayed overnight with Mum.” She started to add an exclamation mark, but deleted it—too loud, too much. By autumn the list had grown long, an endless scroll. The longer it got, the more she started to suspect she wasn’t living so much as submitting a report, collecting receipts of goodness in case anyone ever asked: “What do you even do?” She tried recalling the last time she’d added something just for herself. Not “for herself,” but “because of herself.” The entries were all about other people: their pain, their errands, their plans. Her own wishes seemed like silly whims to be hidden. In October something happened—not dramatic, just enough to leave a scratch. She took her son some documents he’d asked to have printed. She stood in the hallway holding the folder as he hunted for his keys and spoke into his phone. Her grandson zoomed around, demanding cartoons. Her son covered the receiver and tossed over his shoulder, “Mum, since you’re here, can you pop to the shops for bread and milk? I won’t have time.” She said, “I’m actually tired too.” He didn’t even look at her, just shrugged: “But you can, can’t you? You always can.” He went back to his call. Those words felt like a stamp. Not a request, a given. Something hot rose inside her—along with shame. Shame for wanting to refuse, for not wanting to be so endlessly accommodating. She went to the shops anyway. Bought milk, bread, some apples because her grandson liked them. Dropped them on the table and heard: “Thanks, Mum.” It was as flat as ticking a box. She smiled her usual smile and went home. There, she opened her note and typed: “Bought groceries for my son.” She stared at the line. Her fingers trembled with anger, not fatigue. She suddenly realised her list wasn’t a buoy anymore—it was a leash. In November, she booked a GP appointment at last. Her back pain was unbearable; she couldn’t even stand in the kitchen for long. She did it online, chose a Saturday morning slot so she wouldn’t miss work. Then Friday night, her mum called: “Will you come over tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I’m all alone.” “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” she said. There was a pause, then her mum replied: “All right. So I’m not important.” That line always worked. It used to send her into a spin of apologies and promises, pushing back her own things. She actually opened her mouth to say, “I’ll come after the doctor,”—but paused. It wasn’t stubbornness, just tiredness, as if realising her life mattered too. She whispered, “Mum, I’ll come after lunch. The doctor’s important.” Her mother sighed, as if left in the cold. “All right,” she said, packing all her resentment and old habits inside. She slept poorly that night. Dreamt of running down corridors with files as doors slammed one after another. In the morning she calmly made her porridge, swallowed some painkillers, and set out. At the clinic, waiting her turn, half-listening to pensioners discuss tests, she wasn’t thinking about the diagnosis—but about the strangeness of doing something for herself. Afterwards she visited her mum anyway, picked up medicine at the chemist, climbed to her mum’s flat. Her mum was silent at first, then asked: “So—you got seen to?” “I did,” she said. “I needed to.” Her mum looked at her closely, as if seeing a person not just a role. Then she turned away towards the kitchen. As she walked home, she felt a relief—not happiness, but space. By December, as the year wound down, she found herself waiting for weekends not as a breath, but as a chance. Saturday morning her son texted again: “Can you have your grandson for a couple of hours? We’ve errands.” She was about to type “sure”—automatic—but hesitated. She sat on the edge of her bed, phone warm in her palm. The flat was quiet; only the heater clicked. She thought of the day she’d planned—heading to the city, the museum, the exhibition she’d been putting off. Wandering among paintings, listening only to herself. She wrote: “Sorry, I can’t today. I have my own plans.” She sent it, put the phone facedown as if that could shield her from the reply. It came quickly: “Okay.” Then: “Are you upset with us?” She flipped the phone over, read it, and felt her old urge—to explain, to smooth things over. She could have typed a long reply: she was tired, she needed to live too. But explanations turn into bargaining, and she didn’t want to bargain for her own time. She wrote: “No. It’s just important to me.” That was all. She got ready calmly, like for a shift. Checked the iron twice, shut the windows, took her wallet, her card, her phone charger. At the bus stop, surrounded by shopping bags and sleepy faces, she realised—this time, there was nothing and no one she urgently had to save. Unfamiliar, but not frightening. In the museum she moved slowly, taking in faces and hands and the play of light in painted windows. She felt herself becoming attentive again—not to others’ pleas, but to herself. She had coffee in a cosy café, bought a postcard print and tucked it in her bag—a sturdy card, soothing to hold between her fingers. When she got home, the phone stayed in her bag. She took off her coat, hung it up, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Only then did she sit down, open “The Good List”, and scroll to today’s date. She stared at the empty line. Then she hit “plus” and typed: “Went to the museum on my own. Chose myself.” She stopped. “Chose myself” felt too loud, as if blaming someone. She deleted it and wrote simply: “Went to the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then she did something new. At the top of the note, she created two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” So far, the “For Myself” column had just that entry. She stared at it and felt something inside align, like a spine after a stretch. There was nothing left to prove to anyone. She just needed to remember she was here. Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t hurry. She poured her tea, took a sip, then checked. Mum had sent, simply: “How are you?” She replied: “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” And paused, then added: “I was busy today.” She sent it and left the phone on the table, screen up. The room was quiet, and the silence wasn’t oppressive. It was like space—space finally cleared, just for her.

02

Two Columns She had already kicked off her boots and set the kettle boiling when a message from her manager pinged: “Could you cover for Claire tomorrow? She’s got a fever and there’s nobody else.” Her hands were still wet from doing the dishes, and she smeared the screen trying to unlock the phone. She dried her palms on a tea towel and glanced at her calendar. Tomorrow was the only evening she’d planned to turn in early, ignore her phone, and prepare for the report due in the morning—as it was, her head was buzzing. She typed, “Sorry, I can’t, I’ve got…” then stopped. That familiar nausea rose: if you say no, you’re letting people down. That means you’re not kind, not dependable. She deleted it and wrote instead: “Yes, I’ll come in.” Sent. The kettle rumbled. She poured her mug, pulled up a stool at the window, and opened a note on her phone she simply called “The Good List”. It already had today’s entry: “Covered Claire’s shift.” She put a full stop and added a little plus sign at the end, as though this balanced something out. That note had lived with her for almost a year. She’d started it in January, when the post-Christmas lull felt especially bleak and she needed proof her days weren’t evaporating unnoticed. The first line read: “Gave Mrs. Baker a lift to the surgery.” Mrs. Baker from the fifth floor shuffled along with her medical bag, too nervous to trust the bus. “You’re driving, aren’t you? Do me a favour, I’ll never make it otherwise,” she’d said through the intercom. So she dropped her off, waited in the car while tests were done, and took her home again. On the way back, she’d caught herself feeling annoyed—late for work, her mind crowded with other people’s complaints. The irritation made her feel guilty. She bit it back and washed it down with a coffee at the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it down neatly, as if it had been pure kindness, untainted. In February, her son’s business trip meant she had her grandson for the weekend. “You’re home anyway, it’s no trouble for you,” he said—it wasn’t a request but a fact. Her grandson was lovely and lively, with endless “can you look”, “let’s play”. She loved him, but by evening her hands shook with fatigue, her head rang like after leaving a concert. She put him to bed, washed the dishes, gathered up the toys—he knocked them out again the next morning. On Sunday, when her son returned, she said, “I’m exhausted.” He grinned, as if it was a joke: “You’re Grandma, that’s what you do.” He kissed her cheek. In the note she added: “Looked after grandson for two days.” She put a little heart to make it feel less like mere obligation. In March, her cousin phoned and asked to borrow money until payday. “It’s for medicine, you get it,” she pleaded. She did get it. She transferred the money, didn’t ask when it’d be paid back, then sat in her kitchen, figuring out how to make it to next payday and gave up on the new coat she’d wanted for months. The coat wasn’t a luxury—the old one was just worn thin at the elbows now. Her note said: “Helped my cousin out.” She didn’t write, “Put off buying something for myself.” That felt trivial, unworthy of recording. In April at work, one of the younger girls, eyes puffy and red, got stuck in the loo and couldn’t come out. She was crying softly that someone had left her and she felt disposable. She knocked and said, “Open up, I’m here.” Then they sat together on the freshly painted stairwell as dusk fell, and she listened, nodding while the girl repeated herself again and again. She missed her physio class for her bad back but stayed until it was dark. At home, her back ached. She wanted to be angry with the girl, but really, she was angry at herself: Why can’t you ever say you need to leave? In her phone, she added: “Listened to Katie, supported her.” She put her name because it felt more personal. Again, she didn’t write, “Skipped something for myself.” In June, she gave a colleague a lift to her allotment since her car had broken down. The colleague spent the drive arguing with her husband on speakerphone and never once asked if it was convenient. She said nothing, just watched the summer traffic. At the allotment, the colleague hefted out her shopping and said, “Thanks, I knew you wouldn’t mind—it’s on your way anyway.” It wasn’t. She battled traffic back, got home later than promised, and didn’t have time to check in on her mum—who was then upset. Her note that night read: “Gave Tania a lift to her allotment.” “On your way” seemed to sting, and she stared at the screen for a long time, waiting for it to dim. In August the phone rang late—her mum. Her voice was small, jittery: “I don’t feel well, love. My blood pressure. I’m scared.” She jumped up, grabbed her coat, called a taxi, and shot across the sleeping city. In the flat, it was stuffy. Blood pressure monitor on the table, tablets scattered. She checked her readings, handed out medicine, sat till her mum nodded off. In the morning she went straight to work, skipping her own home. In the Tube, she kept nearly dozing off, afraid of missing her stop. That day, in her note, she added: “Stayed overnight with Mum.” She started to add an exclamation mark, but deleted it—too loud, too much. By autumn the list had grown long, an endless scroll. The longer it got, the more she started to suspect she wasn’t living so much as submitting a report, collecting receipts of goodness in case anyone ever asked: “What do you even do?” She tried recalling the last time she’d added something just for herself. Not “for herself,” but “because of herself.” The entries were all about other people: their pain, their errands, their plans. Her own wishes seemed like silly whims to be hidden. In October something happened—not dramatic, just enough to leave a scratch. She took her son some documents he’d asked to have printed. She stood in the hallway holding the folder as he hunted for his keys and spoke into his phone. Her grandson zoomed around, demanding cartoons. Her son covered the receiver and tossed over his shoulder, “Mum, since you’re here, can you pop to the shops for bread and milk? I won’t have time.” She said, “I’m actually tired too.” He didn’t even look at her, just shrugged: “But you can, can’t you? You always can.” He went back to his call. Those words felt like a stamp. Not a request, a given. Something hot rose inside her—along with shame. Shame for wanting to refuse, for not wanting to be so endlessly accommodating. She went to the shops anyway. Bought milk, bread, some apples because her grandson liked them. Dropped them on the table and heard: “Thanks, Mum.” It was as flat as ticking a box. She smiled her usual smile and went home. There, she opened her note and typed: “Bought groceries for my son.” She stared at the line. Her fingers trembled with anger, not fatigue. She suddenly realised her list wasn’t a buoy anymore—it was a leash. In November, she booked a GP appointment at last. Her back pain was unbearable; she couldn’t even stand in the kitchen for long. She did it online, chose a Saturday morning slot so she wouldn’t miss work. Then Friday night, her mum called: “Will you come over tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I’m all alone.” “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” she said. There was a pause, then her mum replied: “All right. So I’m not important.” That line always worked. It used to send her into a spin of apologies and promises, pushing back her own things. She actually opened her mouth to say, “I’ll come after the doctor,”—but paused. It wasn’t stubbornness, just tiredness, as if realising her life mattered too. She whispered, “Mum, I’ll come after lunch. The doctor’s important.” Her mother sighed, as if left in the cold. “All right,” she said, packing all her resentment and old habits inside. She slept poorly that night. Dreamt of running down corridors with files as doors slammed one after another. In the morning she calmly made her porridge, swallowed some painkillers, and set out. At the clinic, waiting her turn, half-listening to pensioners discuss tests, she wasn’t thinking about the diagnosis—but about the strangeness of doing something for herself. Afterwards she visited her mum anyway, picked up medicine at the chemist, climbed to her mum’s flat. Her mum was silent at first, then asked: “So—you got seen to?” “I did,” she said. “I needed to.” Her mum looked at her closely, as if seeing a person not just a role. Then she turned away towards the kitchen. As she walked home, she felt a relief—not happiness, but space. By December, as the year wound down, she found herself waiting for weekends not as a breath, but as a chance. Saturday morning her son texted again: “Can you have your grandson for a couple of hours? We’ve errands.” She was about to type “sure”—automatic—but hesitated. She sat on the edge of her bed, phone warm in her palm. The flat was quiet; only the heater clicked. She thought of the day she’d planned—heading to the city, the museum, the exhibition she’d been putting off. Wandering among paintings, listening only to herself. She wrote: “Sorry, I can’t today. I have my own plans.” She sent it, put the phone facedown as if that could shield her from the reply. It came quickly: “Okay.” Then: “Are you upset with us?” She flipped the phone over, read it, and felt her old urge—to explain, to smooth things over. She could have typed a long reply: she was tired, she needed to live too. But explanations turn into bargaining, and she didn’t want to bargain for her own time. She wrote: “No. It’s just important to me.” That was all. She got ready calmly, like for a shift. Checked the iron twice, shut the windows, took her wallet, her card, her phone charger. At the bus stop, surrounded by shopping bags and sleepy faces, she realised—this time, there was nothing and no one she urgently had to save. Unfamiliar, but not frightening. In the museum she moved slowly, taking in faces and hands and the play of light in painted windows. She felt herself becoming attentive again—not to others’ pleas, but to herself. She had coffee in a cosy café, bought a postcard print and tucked it in her bag—a sturdy card, soothing to hold between her fingers. When she got home, the phone stayed in her bag. She took off her coat, hung it up, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Only then did she sit down, open “The Good List”, and scroll to today’s date. She stared at the empty line. Then she hit “plus” and typed: “Went to the museum on my own. Chose myself.” She stopped. “Chose myself” felt too loud, as if blaming someone. She deleted it and wrote simply: “Went to the museum on my own. Looked after myself.” Then she did something new. At the top of the note, she created two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” So far, the “For Myself” column had just that entry. She stared at it and felt something inside align, like a spine after a stretch. There was nothing left to prove to anyone. She just needed to remember she was here. Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t hurry. She poured her tea, took a sip, then checked. Mum had sent, simply: “How are you?” She replied: “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” And paused, then added: “I was busy today.” She sent it and left the phone on the table, screen up. The room was quiet, and the silence wasn’t oppressive. It was like space—space finally cleared, just for her.

09

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Son Brought Home His New Girlfriend—She Seemed a Bit Suspicious A few days ago, my son introduced his girlfriend to our family. She’s a little younger than me, maybe four or five years. My son has fallen in love with a woman my own age and wants to marry her. The next surprise: she has a young daughter. I welcomed them warmly. The most important thing is that my son is happy, and that means I’m happy too, but I felt I had to speak to someone about it. As soon as they left, I called my best friend, who I fondly call my “calming medicine.” No matter what happens, she’s always there for me, offering wise advice that never fails. I told her the whole story and asked for her help in handling things the right way. We talked for ages, and who knows how long it would have gone on if my son hadn’t come home just then. He wanted to talk. I was nervous, worried he’d reveal something even more shocking. “Mum, I want her and her daughter to move in with us,” he said. I didn’t know how to react, but I agreed: let them move in. He was thrilled and went to tell them the news. All I could think was: Does she really love my son, or is she only interested because we have a lovely big house in central London and come from a wealthy family? With that thought, I drifted off to sleep. In my dream, my late husband told me, “It’s alright.” When I woke up, I understood: my son isn’t foolish. He knows what he’s doing, and even if he makes a mistake, he’ll fix it.