The white tablecloth, the grey life
The stew was just right. Helen was sure of it shed tasted it three times while cooking and felt satisfied each time. Shed picked out the young carrots and potatoes at the market, let the beef cook slowly on the bone for hours, and finished with a gentle swirl of parsley at the end, just as her nan used to do. On the table, candles glowed, and that special white linen tableclothher treasure, saved for proper occasionsset the scene. Fifteen years. Thats definitely an occasion, isnt it?
Outside, evening was falling and October in Manchester was the same as ever: damp, dreary, with the smell of fallen leaves and the constant hum of traffic. Helen straightened the fork to the right of the plate, tugged at the tablecloths corner even though it already sat perfectly. Then she stopped and stood in the middle of the kitchen, just listening to the clock tick above the fridge.
Richard walked in at half past eight. She heard him fumbling with the lock, dropping a bag with a thud on the floor, flicking the hallway light.
Well, whats on then? he called into the kitchen, still wrapped up in his coat, his nose red from the chill.
Come in, wash your hands, sit. Stews ready, roast chicken, and a proper salad, Helen said with a smile.
Richard shrugged his coat off right there in the kitchen doorway and slung it over a chair, glancing round.
Whats with the candles?
Well, Richard, its our anniversary.
He didnt reply, just stalked to the sink, quickly rinsed his hands, and sat down. Helen ladled out the stew and put the bowl in front of him. The cream was from the farm shop, the one she knew he liked, and she spooned some on top.
Richard sniffed, scooped up a mouthful, chewed it for a moment.
A bit tangy.
Helen sat across from him.
Is it? I thought it was spot on.
Mum makes stew differently. Hers is, I dont know, richer. Hers always tastes proper.
Helen took up her spoon.
Well, eat upits hot.
I am, Richard muttered, pivoting his bowl. Whyd you bother with the white tablecloth? Youll end up spilling on it.
I wont.
Hm. Mum always puts the dark one out for things like this. Burgundy. Practical, but looks good.
Helen gazed at the candles, their flames flickering as Richard shifted in his chair.
Richard, she said, keeping her voice steady, today makes fifteen years weve been married.
I know.
You didnt say anything when you came in.
He looked up at her, surprised, almost wounded.
Say what? Give you a congratulations? We live together, its not a birthday.
I just thought fifteen years is
Is fifteen years, he cut in. All right, wheres the chicken?
Helen stood and fetched the roast from the ovengolden, with herbs, just the way he liked it.
Bit dry, he remarked as he cut off a piece.
I literally just took it out.
Mustve left it in too long. Mums is always juicy. She says you have to cover it with foil.
Helen served herself a small helping. Outside, a car swept past, briefly lighting the ceiling.
Did you see your mum today? she asked quietly.
Popped in after work. Why?
No reason.
His gaze went to the tablecloth again.
Honestly, Helen, whites a daft choice. Mum just gets everything rightplates match, tablecloth fits, she slices the bread nice and thin. And you he nodded at the bread, look at these chunks, you could build a wall with them.
Helen quietly set her fork down. Not sharply, just gently beside her plate.
Something clenched and uncurled inside her. Like a hand into a fist.
Richard, she said, calm enough that she surprised herself, do you even realise what youre saying?
He looked at her, a hint of annoyance, the way people react when their meals interrupted.
What? Im just saying Mum does it better. Its not an insult.
You walked in the door, didnt acknowledge the day, then started criticising dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. Ive been in here three hours, Richard.
Yeah, so? Am I supposed to applaud? Thats your job.
Helen paused.
My job?
Yeah. Youre at home, you cook. I work. It all makes sense.
Right. And fifteen years is just what, the fine print?
Helen, what do you even want? For me to recite some poem? Mum always said, Less fuss, more order at home, thats how you keep a family together.
A candle flickered, as if it too heard something new.
Helen stood, cleared her plate, and went to the window for a moment, staring at the damp rooftops, the warm yellow lights in other homes, the half-bare tree in the little back garden.
She turned back.
Richard, pack your things.
He looked up.
What?
Pack your things and leave. Please.
He stared at her as if shed started speaking Greek. Then he gave a short, cough-like laugh.
Are you serious?
Im serious.
Because of some stew?
Its not the stew.
Then what? Because I mentioned my mum? Helen, seriously, this is ridiculous.
I dont think its funny.
Youre offended now? Fine, sorry, all right? Now sit, eat.
No, Richard.
He kept on staring. Maybe he expected tears, a dramatic scene, slammed doors. Anything but this quiet.
Youre not joking, he said, slowly.
No.
Silence. The tick of the clock, candlelight holding steady.
All over a single row, he tried.
No, not just one. Fifteen years of the same row. Please, Richard. Take what you need now, the rest later.
He waited another minute, then disappeared into the bedroom. She could hear the wardrobe open, a carrier bag rustling. Helen stayed in the kitchen, watching the candles. Their flames were steady now.
When he came back with his bag, he hesitated in the kitchen doorway. Looked at the table, at the white tablecloth, the stew, the thick wedges of bread.
Youll regret this, he said.
Maybe I will, Helen replied. Goodbye, Richard.
The door closed, lock clicking. She listened as his footsteps faded down the stairs.
Then she snuffed out the candlesno point keeping them burning nowand did the washing up. She put the stew away in the fridge. She wasnt hungry.
The flat smelled of roast onions and a hint of damp. That always happened in October, when the hallway windows stayed open but the radiators werent fully on yet.
Helen went to bed at half ten. She didnt sleep right away, just stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant murmur of the neighbours telly, thinking only this: she wasnt crying. Funny, that.
***
Jean opened the door before Richard could ring a second time. She always did; it was as if she could sense him, hovering behind it, waiting.
Oh, Ricky! She threw up her hands, eyeing his bag. God, whats happened?
Shes kicked me out, he said drily.
Who? Her? Jean stepped back, letting him in. I told you, didnt I? Didnt I always say? Come in, come in, Ive made souppotato with chicken, just the way you like it.
He kicked off his shoes, headed into the kitchen, and sat down. The flat smelled of foodand of that very particular scent that fills an older persons home: a little mothballs, a hint of something medicinal, and that pervasive background of old cookery.
His mum busied herself at the stove, chattering on.
I always knew she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Ricky, cold. You know what they saycold women never have kids. Nature knows best. Here, eat, look, Ive sliced the bread.
The bread was cut thin, perfectly even. Richard stared at it, remembering how Helen always hacked off massive chunks.
Mum, dont, not now.
What? Im just saying! Fifteen years, and what for? No kids, no proper home. Try the soup.
It was good, hearty and warming, exactly as shed advertised. Richard ate in silence.
The first few days went by in a fog. He commuted to work, came back, had dinner with his mum, and watched TV. Jean cooked every day, happily, busy from morning. Shed lay out cutlets, set his plate: You need proper meals, you look like death warmed up.
By the third day, shed unpacked his bag while he was out.
Dont wear that shirt again, its a crumpled mess, she informed him over dinner. Ill iron the blue one for you. Blue suits you.
I like the grey, Richard countered.
Doesnt matterits blue today.
He said nothing, ate his dinner, sipped his tea. His mum prattled on about the woman from the fourth floor who ran wild and still does finemeaning Helen, but Richard tuned out.
A week later, his mum said his shoes needed replacing and that theyd go on Saturday.
Mum, my boots are fine.
Theyre falling apart, Ive seen it.
Theyre not.
They are, Im telling you. Saturday.
So off they went. Jean fussed and tested pairs by mashing them onto his feet, all the ones she liked, never his choice. He wanted simple black ones. She bought him brown ones, with a pointless buckle.
Look, see, nice, she beamed.
I dont like them.
Dont be childish, Ricky. These are better, trust me.
The sales assistant looked away. Richard caught himself in the shop mirror, in those ridiculous brown shoes. A middling man with no expression, staring blankly back.
He bought the brown shoes.
Evenings, Jean would sit opposite, reminiscing about him as a boy, how she raised him alone, how hard itd been and how Helen had never appreciated it. Richard would nod.
Sometimes hed think about the white tablecloth. The candles. And hed wonder: why did she do all that? Fifteen yearsso what? Was it really anything to mark?
But he kept thinking of it.
And about how Helen hadnt cried. She wasnt furious. Shed just stood there, composed, and told him to leave. He wasnt used to that calm. He was used to shouting or tearsnot this.
By the end of the first month, Jean had drawn up a schedule for him. She wouldnt call it a schedule, she just said, Tuesday youve got the doctor, I booked it, Thursday were at Auntie Carols, Friday dont be late, Im making a pie and hate waiting.
He was late on Friday due to a staff meeting, rang his mum on the bus home. She talked at him all the way, and he pressed the phone to his ear, staring out into the darkness.
Pie was ready when he got in. It was good. Everything she made was good.
Richard sat at the table, feeling a tightness in his chestnot pain, just a steady pressure, like there was never quite enough air in the room.
***
The first three weeks were a blur for Helen.
She went to work, came home, cooked herself something basic, ate, went to bed. Evenings were hardestnow the flat was so quiet, and at first it felt suffocating, but then it just became quiet.
Her friend Sarah rang every other day: Hel, how are you? Come over? Helen always said she was fineno need to worry. But Sarah showed up anyway that first Saturday, with wine and a pack of biscuits, and they sat in the kitchen until two, Helen telling her about the candles, the stew, the mother-in-laws perfect table setting. Sarah listened, swearing under her breath at Richard, and somehow that helped.
You did the right thing, Sarah told her as they finished off the biscuits. Honestly, Hel, you truly did.
Im scared, Helen admitted quietly.
It passes. I promise.
When Sarah left, Helen stood in the lounge, staring at those thick, heavy navy curtains. Richard had chosen them himself, eight years back: Blackout curtains, practical, stop the light. Theyd just always been there, part of the furniture.
She took them down the next day.
Nearly ninety minutes it took, wrestling with the stubborn track, balancing on the table. She folded them up, stashed them away. Suddenly, the room was new. The grim grey October daylight was cold and flat, but better than the gloom behind velvet.
She got the old neighbour, Mr. Phillips, to help shift the sofa. Moved it under the windownow the light struck it differently.
It felt odd. It felt good.
By the second week, Helen was actually sleeping. Not perfectlynot without the odd two a.m. ceiling-starebut she was getting there.
Work ticked on as normal. Helen was a good accounts assistantorganised and reliable. Always on time, always on top of paperwork. Colleagues respected her, especially Mrs. Carter, the chief accountantpetite, stern, her trademark pearl earringsa woman who rarely confided anything but always recognised effort.
At the end of October, Mrs. Carter called Helen into her office.
Im leaving next year, she announced bluntly. Moving to live with my daughter. Management want to offer you my job. Chief accountant.
Helen was silent a few moments.
Me? she managed at last, more for something to say than out of real surprise.
You. Ive been thinking it over all year. Take it.
Helen rode the bus home thinking about it the whole way. Chief accountant. It meant more pressure, more responsibilityshed always been wary of that. Richard had once told her, Why bother with career stuff? Im working, you dont need to. And shed agreed, barely protesting.
Now she stared out at the streetlights flicking by and wondered, why not?
November was filled with busy-ness and little projects. She did some decoratingnothing fancy, just painted the bedroom walls a soft yellow, swapped heavy curtains for thin, linen ones, bought a new orange lampshade, and used that cosy glow instead of the main light in the evenings. The flat slowly became hers.
She picked up some geranium pots for the windowsill. The green scent suited the linen curtains and yellow paint perfectly.
She and Richard took care of the paperwork through solicitors. It was all civil. The flat was Helen’s; Richard didnt contest. He kept his head down, maybe at his mums urging, or maybe he just didnt have the fight in him.
In December, Helen accepted the chief accountant job. Mrs. Carter shook her hand.
Well done, she said, and, for the first time, gave her a real, kind smile.
Helen saw in the new year with Sarah at hersloads of people, kids, dogs, and potato salad in mixing bowls. It was noisy, fun, and tinged with the familiar holiday melancholy you get looking back. She sipped a glass of fizz, watched the fireworks, and thought: another year gone, but Im still here. Still standing.
***
Winter didnt suit Richard.
Jean decided he needed medical attention, booking him in to see the GP, the heart specialist, even a gastroenterologist. Youve gone grey, Ricky, weve got to get you sorted. He dutifully showed up, got prodded and scanned, and the doctors told him he was perfectly healthy for his age, which just left his mum disappointedalmost as if shed hoped for a diagnosis to worry over.
He started snapping at everyone at work. People noticed. Peter, his mate for smoke breaks, cornered him once on the landing:
Whats up with you lately?
Nothing, Richard replied.
Trouble at home?
No.
Peter shook his head and went off. Richard stayed at the window, watching the dirty snow in the loading yard. He didnt want to go back to work. Didnt want to go home. Didnt want to go anywhere.
Then he realisedhe didnt actually know where he did want to go.
Jean was waiting at home every night with dinner and a new list for tomorrowwhat he should wear, where he should be, when he should get back. If he was late, she rang. If he didnt answer, she rang again. Im worried, Ricky, where are you?
Once, in February, he ended up round at Peters for a beer and a bit of football on telly. Came home gone half ten.
His mum sat in the kitchen in the dark. When he came in, she clicked the light on and looked at him with such sorrow he almost flinched.
Where have you been?
I told you Id be late.
Said youd be held upthats not the same. I didnt know where you were. My blood pressures sky-high now.
Mum
Eat. Ive left out your tea. She slid over a plate of reheated cutlets. And dont turn your mobile off, I rang you three times.
I didnt, I just didnt hear it. The football was on.
Football, she repeated, as if it were a dirty word.
He ate, eyes on the table.
He noticed he was always explaining himself, everywhere, on every tiny detail. Why he was late. Why that shirt. Why he hadnt rung sooner. Why he ate, or didnt eat, or ate the wrong thing.
He remembered once telling Helen, Mum just gets things right. Hed said it with pride. Now it felt awkward, embarrassing.
In March, Richard looked at renting a room. Scanned ads, found a cheap one not too far from work. Told his mother.
She cried. Not loud, not angryjust quietly said, So you hate it here. So Im a burden now. I understand.
He didnt move out.
Sometimes, at night, Helen would slip into his dreamsnot in any dramatic way; she was just there, making tea, or theyd be driving somewhere. Mundane stuff. Hed wake, staring up at his mums ceiling, where there was nothing worth seeing.
Hed wonder what Helen was doing. If she was all right.
Then hed think, Oh, shes probably met someone by now.
And for some reason, that stung.
***
February that year was dazzlingly bright. The real kind of snow, glimmering white. Mornings, on the walk to the bus, the sun would blind Helen so she squinted and promised herself some half-decent sunglasses at last.
She did buy them. Pink, thin-wire frames. Tried them in the shop and actually laughedsilly but fun.
Work was busy. The new responsibilities were tough, but manageable. Sometimes she stayed late, up to eight, poring over spreadsheets with the director, Mr. Palmera steady, plain-spoken man who looked for precision and seemed satisfied with her.
Colleagues treated her with respect. The new assistant, Eve, watched her with something like awe, bringing coffee over now and then without asking. Helen would say a simple thanks and Eve would blush.
In March, Sarah twisted her arm to attend her mate Debbies birthday. Helen protesteddidnt like gatherings, small talk, strange faces. Hel, enough hidingitll do you good, trust me.
Debbie turned out to be a warm, bubbly woman with two enormous cats and a flat full of plants. There were about a dozen guests. Helen clung to Sarah at first, then got chatting to a maths teacher next to her, and the two spent hours rambling on about books.
Opposite sat Alex. She didnt spot him straight awayhe was one of those quietly present people, greying, soft-spoken, in a plain woolly jumper. He mostly listened, only smiling now and then.
Towards the end of the night, Helen found herself standing near him at the window with a cup of tea. He asked her something, she replied, it blossomed into an easy conversationthe sort that just flows. Alex was an engineer. His wife had passed away of cancer; hed lived alone for four years now. He said it plainly, as if hed already grieved and learned to live with it.
Known Debbie long? Helen asked.
Through her ex-husband. He moved, but we stayed mates. And youSarah?
Yep. Shes an old uni friend.
Having an old friend is a good thing, he said.
It is.
They swapped phone numbers, casually, not expecting anything. Alex texted after a few days, suggested coffee. She agreed.
They met in a tiny café near her office, talked for a solid two hours. Helen found herself telling him about her divorce; he just listened, no advice, no judgement. He shared his story, too. Afterwards, outside in the cold, he asked if he could call again. She said yes.
Later came a riverside walk, a film, then one April evening, he invited Helen over for dinner.
***
Alex had a flat on the fifth floor of an old brick block. Helen carried a bottle of wine, nervously wondering what chaos might greet her insidea classic bachelor mess? Shed have to pretend to ignore it. She felt that familiar knot, always braced for a test or criticism.
She rang the bell.
Alex opened up and she caught a waft of applessweet, warm, and a hint of cinnamon.
Come in, Alex smiled. I went ahead with apple pie, hope thats all right?
More than all right! Helen grinned.
The flat was straightforward. Not neat as a pin, but lived-in: books and tools jumbled on the hall shelf, newspaper on the kitchen table. No show home nerves, just a real place.
They fixed the salad togethershe sliced tomatoes, he chopped cheese. Sometimes quiet, sometimes chatting, but the silence wasnt awkward.
Helen found herself tense, half-waiting for It would be better with cucumbers, or a remark about her choices, a glance at the table like the one shed seen for fifteen years.
But it never came. They sat down, and Alex poured the wine, looked at the table, then at her.
Thanks for coming, he said.
Just three little words. No caveats.
Helen looked down at her plate and felt something inside her gently, almost imperceptibly, let go. As if shed been holding herself up, and now, finally, it was okay to relax.
Outside, evening was falling, lamp posts glowing, young leaves trembling outside the window. The pie baked softly, its apple scent floating across the kitchen.
They talked for hours. She shared stories about her childhood, her teaching dreams, why she ended up in finance. He spoke about a heritage project he was doing. Helen thought, thats a good jobrepairing broken things.
When she left, Alex walked her to the stairs and said, Im glad we met.
On her way home, Helen found herself not just thinking about himbut about the pie, and about how it was suddenly possible to spend an evening with someone without dread. Just dinner. Just conversation. Peace.
***
The summer cameand it was quiet, and good.
She and Alex met often, no rushing, no pressure. Theyd go to the market on weekends; shed get herbs and cream, hed buy fish, and theyd cook together. Doing things as a pair was pleasant, nothing like cooking for someone waiting to find fault.
One evening in July, Helen simply stayed over, the first time. It was late and there was no rush home. In the morning, Alex brought her coffee in bednot in a film-like gesture, just simply, sitting beside her.
Working today? he asked.
From twelve.
Fancy the market run before that? Cherries should be in.
Helen cradled the coffee. Outside, blue summer morning; a mad chorus of swifts up above. She felt a lump in her throatnot sadness, but something different. The sort of feeling you get when you realise, quite unexpectedly, that youre happy.
Id love to, she replied.
That autumn, Alex asked her to move inagain, not a big romantic gesture, just casually one evening as they washed up.
Hel, maybe you could move here? I reckon youd really like it. And Id well, Id love it if you did.
Ill have to think about it.
Coursetake your time.
She took two weeks, then said yes.
In November, Helen moved in. Let her flat, not ready to sell. She brought over her books, the geraniums, the orange lamp, the linen curtains. Alex moved a shelf in his study so her books would fit. They put them side by sidehis technical manuals, her novelsand it just worked.
In December, they quietly registered their marriage at the town registry, just Sarah and Alexs friend Tom as witnesses. They celebrated the four of them in a little restaurant, laughing, Sarah teary but insisting, Its all joy, dont worry!
And then, in January, Helen found out she was pregnant.
She stared at the testtwo linesand sat on the edge of the tub, stunned for ten whole minutes.
She was forty-three. Shed always assumed she wouldnt have children. Richard hadnt wanted them, or maybe she hadnt, or perhaps neither of them really did and they just let the idea drift. The doctors had never said no, but Helen had quietly decided: not meant to be.
Yet, here it was.
Alex was at his desk, drawing up plans. She stood in the doorway until he turned and saw her face.
Whats up? he asked softly.
She held out the test. He looked, stayed silent, then stood and wrapped his arms round her, letting the silence settle.
And finally, he said, This is brilliant, Helen. Truly brilliant.
She clung to his shoulder and at last let herself sob, big heavy tears. He didnt shush her, didnt panicjust held her, repeating over and over, Its all right. Everythings okay.
***
April found the town washed in light again, the little café open, the riverside walk busy. This time, Helen strolled slow and proud, bump and all, Alexs arm sometimes steadying hers.
She was six months gone. Everyone at work knew; Mr. Palmer smiled and said, Congratulations, Helen. Your job will be here for you, dont worry. Eve looked at her with a new kind of respect, the sort you only see in younger women admiring someone who really knows how to live.
The flatnow truly theirswas filling up with new bits: a cot in kit form, a nightlight in the shape of a moon, a drawer of impossibly tiny vests and socks. Helen would open it sometimes, just to touch and marvel at it all. It felt real now. Safe, somehow.
In the mornings, shed take her tea to the window, watching the grass breaking through in the square below, smelling the scent of fresh soil and apple blossom from a neighbours tree. She felt good and peaceful.
But evenings, after Alex nodded off and the flat went quiet and the baby wriggled inside her, Helen would sometimes think backnot with pain or regret, but like looking at an old photo. That previous life, those fifteen years. Maybe she mourned something, but she couldnt put her finger on what. Perhaps the years themselves, which never became what shed hoped. Or perhaps the younger version of herself, desperately trying to please with a perfectly cooked stew and a white tablecloth.
She didnt hear much about Richard. Sarah had seen him in Tesco, looking haggard. Helen just nodded, said nothing. She wished him no harmhe was just a different chapter now, no longer hers.
***
Richard still lived at his mums.
April outside, but the flat felt wintry: thick curtains keeping out spring, the same things on the shelves, the same old smellsmedicinal, strong stew, and something unchanging underneath.
Jean hovered over the hob.
Youre looking peaky again, Ricky. I keep telling you, you need to see a proper doctor. Not that surgery by the factory, I dont trust them. Ive heard theres a top heart doctor at the new clinic. Ill book you in.
Mum, Im all right.
You never know your own health, men never do. Your dad used to say he was fine, and look how that turned out.
Richards eyes dropped to the table.
A checked tableclothblue and white, practicalno risk of stains, his mum right as always.
She slid a bowl in front of him.
Eat up whilst its hot. Buckwheat soup with beef. Youve always liked that.
I do, Richard said quietly.
He tried a spoonful. It was good. His mum knew how to cook soup.
Ricky, she said, sitting down with her tea, did you think over what I mentioned? About Christine?
Richard looked up.
Not really.
You should. Decent woman, widowed, her own place. Shes asked about you.
Mum
What? Youre forty-five. Its not right going on alone.
I have someone, Richard said, surprising himself.
Oh really? Whos that?
No one, just No, forget it. I mean, dont set me up, Mum. Ill manage.
How, sitting here staring at the wall? I see it, love. Still thinking about Helen. Why bother? She threw you out. Women like thatwell, they say
Mum he cut her off, and something in his voice made her stop.
They sat in awkward silence, the clock ticking on the wall, the distant chirp of a birdspring, nosing at the glass beyond the thick curtains.
Eat before it goes cold, she said eventually. No one else looks after you like your mother, remember that.
Richard stared into his soup.
It was good. It really was. His mother was right, you couldnt fault it.
He took another mouthful. While he ate, he found himself thinking about that night in October, coming home dog-tired and snapping about candlelight and tablecloths and stewalways going on about his mum knowing how things are done.
He hadnt seen it then, that it was never really about the tablecloth. He was only starting to understand nowfar too late, as people do when they never bothered to question things at the right moment.
He realised he was trapped, the word forming suddenlycage. He nearly laid his spoon down in shock. A cage. All this time, hed thought Helen built the cageher cooking, her apparently awkward nature. In reality, Helen had never built anythingshed just given way, year on year. The cage was his own, carried from childhood to marriage and back again.
Is it good? Jean prompted.
Its good, Mum.
There you are, see. I told youwithout me, youd be lost.
He said nothing in reply.
The bird outside was still singing, spring sunlight sneaking in through a chink in the curtains, that uninvited April brightness.
Richard hunched over, finished his soup.
***
That same April evening, Helen stood on the balcony in Alexsno, theirflat, watching the sunset. Her bump was huge, standing was awkward, but shed felt the need for some air. The scent from below was of earth and something tender, nameless but only ever present in spring.
Behind her, Alex chatted to a colleague, calm and methodical on the phone. Two mugs waited on the kitchen table under the warm orange lamp shed brought from her old place.
Helens hand rested on her bump; the baby gave a soft, lazy kick, as if to say: Im here.
Well, hello there, she murmured.
She felt scared. She felt good. It was an honest sort of happinessmessy, real, with no guarantees or pretty speeches. Just this: an April sunset, the fresh smell of the earth, the gentle light in the kitchen, and a new life fluttering inside, getting ready to arrive.
She stayed a moment longer.
Then she slipped back into the flat.
