Heat It Up Yourself
Rose Simmons placed a pot of stew on the table and glanced at her husband. Geoffrey Simmons was already seated, engrossed in his mobile, not even turning at the clatter.
No spoon, he commented, eyes glued to the screen.
Theyre in the holder, as always.
I can see that. Hand me one.
Rose sighed, took a spoon, and set it beside his bowl. He didnt say thank you. He never said thank you. After thirty-one years, shed stopped expecting itbut today, something inside her tightened differently. Not the dull ache of routine disappointment, but a sharp, fleeting prick. As though an ice crystal had pierced her heart and begun to melt.
This stews cold, Geoffrey said, finally setting his phone aside.
Its just off the hob.
Im telling you, its cold. Or do you think Im making it up?
Rose said nothing. She drifted to the window. Outside, thick December snow fell slowly and steadily over London. The city always felt different on the thirty-firstsolemn, peaceful; the air itself seemed to know something needed to end and something else to begin.
Warm it up, came his voice, flat as ever.
She turned. Geoffrey was already absorbed in his phone again.
You can use the microwave yourself.
A long silence. In it, Rose could hear the hallway clock, a neighbours dishes clattering, the front door down below slamming shut.
What did you say?
I said you can heat it yourself. Press starttwo minutes. You can manage.
Geoffrey looked up, astonishedas if shed announced something utterly bizarre, impossible.
Rose.
Yes?
Are you alright?
Im absolutely fine.
He watched her, the usual gaze of a man surveying his kingdom, checking everything still worked as it should.
Come on. Warm up the stew.
Rose lingered a second longer by the window. Then she went to the stove and turned on the hob under the pot. Thirty-one years of habit trumped that sudden morning pang. She understood it. But the melting ice remained, seeping its way through her heart.
They met when Rose was twenty-two. She worked in accounts at a small factory; Geoffrey was the floor supervisortall, confident, with a grin that seemed to say, I know best. Back then, Rose hadnt realised that grin was less self-assurance and more a sense of entitlementa confidence in his right to decide for others. She learned it slowly, too late.
The first three years were quite ordinary. Then their son Jamie was born, and before she knew it, Geoffrey had shifted everything onto her: child, home, cooking, cleaning, parents, holidays, illness, school meetings. He worked. That was his trump card in any argument. I slave away all day, and you expect me to do the dishes too? Rose worked as well. But that, somehow, never counted.
Shed long since stopped calling it a relationship. It was simply life. Days blurring together: cooking, cleaning, ironing, running errands, visiting his mother, picking up her grandson from the nursery whenever Jamies wife needed help. And yet, she still managed to carve out little things for herself: books, her friend Lucy, evening phone calls once Geoffrey had retreated to the TV.
Lucy was her closest friend. Theyd been mates since Year 9. Lucy had married latethirty-eightto a widower with two children, and he turned out to be a good man. Rose always envied her, gently, without bitternesslike envying someone whod managed what you hadnt.
Rosie, how much more of this? Lucy would say over the phone. Its the fifth time this month youre telling me about stew. Or variations of stew. Its always the same story.
But its always something different.
No, Rosie. Same story. Just with a different stew. Dont you hear the difference?
Rose heard. But what to do about it? At fifty-three, with thirty years practice at a toxic family (as Lucy dubbed it), it wasnt easy to change everything. Where would she go? Jamie was married with his own flat, his own life. The mortgage belonged to her and Geoffrey. Work was the only thing she truly owned. Rose worked as an accountant for a small construction firmher boss, Paul Andrews, appreciated her and sometimes said, Rose, youre the backbone of our accounts department. That felt good. That was real.
But today, something shifted. She sensed it physically, like a change in the weather. That icy splinter in her heart fully melted by lunchtime. Instead, she felt a drop of warmthstrange and unfamiliar.
After lunch, Jamie rang.
Mum, are you both coming for New Years?
Not sure yet, sweetheart.
Cmon, Mum, its the thirty-first! Kates making her potato salad, the pies are ready. Do come.
Ill talk to your dad.
Mum, Jamie hesitated. Are you alright? Really?
Rose watched the snow continue to fall outside.
Yes, darling. Im fine. She ended the call.
Geoffrey was sprawled on the sofa, the news on about weather chaos in the Midlands. Rose stood in the living room.
Jamies invited us for New Years.
Its too far.
Its forty minutes on the Tube.
Too late coming back.
We could stay the night.
Where? The floor? Arthurs on the camp bed already.
Kate says theyve bought a sofa bed.
Im not going. My backs bad.
Rose nodded. Geoffrey’s back only ached whenever it came to visiting children or helping out. He never had back pain on fishing trips. Hed go angling every summer and come home brisk and cheerful.
Alright. Ill go then.
What?
I said, Ill go on my own. You stay if your backs playing up.
Another pause. Another long look.
On your own? For New Years?
Yes. I want to spend it with Jamie and Arthur. You can join if you change your mind.
She left for the hallway to fetch her bag from the wardrobe shelf. Her hands trembled, not from weakness, but with something like resolvenew and unfamiliar.
Rose, are you out of your mind?
He filled the doorway, broad and bristling, with that folded-arms stance he reserved for when he wanted to end all discussion.
No, she replied without turning. Im perfectly rational.
Youre walking out for New Years? Alone?
Im seeing my son. Thats rather different.
Rose!
She faced him. For thirty-one years, shed looked at this face and saw things it never really held: care mistaken for habit, love for possession. Now, she just saw an older man with a sulky look, so used to everything suiting him.
Ill be back tomorrow, Rose said. Or the day after. I havent decided.
She put on her coat, wrapped her scarf, picked up her bag. Geoffrey was muttering behind herselfish, your age, shameful, always the same. She knew these words by heart, like a poem so worn by repetition it had shed all meaning.
She opened the door and stepped out onto the landing.
Snow greeted her straightawaylight, festive, mingling cold with the scent of oranges someone was carrying next door. Rose paused on the front steps and tilted her face to the sky. Snowflakes touched her cheeks and lashes, melting instantly.
She couldnt remember when shed last just stood like that, doing nothing at allfor herself.
Lucy picked up on the third ring.
Rosie? Whats up?
Nothings wrong. Im going to Jamies for New Years. By myself.
A pause.
By yourself?
Geoffrey stayed. His backs bad.
Rose caught something in Lucys voicea careful, cautious happiness. Rosie, is that real?
Its real.
Youre brave, you know.
You say that like Ive done something special.
You have. Maybe you dont see it yet, but you have.
Rose spent nearly an hour on the Tube, changing lines. Crowdscheerful, arms full of bags and boxes, with the charged bustle of a city before a holiday. She took it all in. Shed never cared for New Years muchnot for the holiday, but for what it meant: a table to set, salads to chop, guests to host, a husband bound to say something to deflate the mood.
Last year, hed turned to her friend Vera and said, So, Vera, still no luck finding a husband? Vera had masked a smile, but Rose noticed her stiffen. Later, Rose asked Geoffrey not to make remarks like that. Its just a jokeyou really dont get humour, hed said.
His humour never made people laugh; it made them shrink.
Kate opened the door herselfyounger woman, bright blue eyes, a dusting of flour on her hand.
Mrs. Simmons! Lovely to see you! Wheres Mr. Simmons?
He couldnt make it. Ive come alone.
Kate paused, observed her briefly, then embraced her warmly.
Come in, do. Its chaos, but festive chaos!
Arthur, her five-year-old grandson, charged in hollering, clinging to Roses legs.
Gran! Grans here! Gran, I wrote a letter to Father Christmas!
Did you? And what did you ask for?
A building set! With a motor, you know?
Thats a good choice.
And I wrote I wanted you to visit. And you came! So it really works!
Rose laughedgenuinely, for the first time in a long while; laughter not because it was expected, but because she felt it.
Jamie emerged from the kitchen, a tea towel over his shoulder.
Mum! He hugged her, properly, like when he was a child. How was the trip?
Fine. Havent been on the Tube on a holiday in years. People are so dressed up.
Come on, Ill make you a coffee. Or tea? Kate, whats for Mumtea or coffee?
Coffee, pleasestrong, Rose replied.
They sat in the kitchen while Kate bustled about with the big pan, Arthur zoomed around with a toy car, and Jamie kept glancing at his mothernot absently, but intently.
Mum, tell me honestly. Are you alright?
Arthur, dont run near the corner or youll fall, she called, evading the question as Arthur darted by.
Mum.
Jamie, dont give me that look.
What look?
The one that says you need to explain life to your mum.
Jamie fiddled with his mug.
I just want you to be happy.
I know.
Are you?
Rose watched the endless snowfall outside.
Im thinking about it, she said at last. Thats something, isnt it?
It was an evening alive with real feeling. Kate proved a wonderful hostessher pies so delicious Rose asked for the recipe. Arthur fell asleep at quarter to twelve, hugging his new building set, which Jamie fetched from the cupboard at eleven. At midnight, as the news rang in the New Year, they raised glasses of Sparking Appletiser, and Rose made a silent wish. She didnt say it out loudbut for the first time in years, her wish was just for herself.
She returned home on the second of January. Jamie urged her to stay; Kate agreed; Arthur staged a teary little scene about Gran moving in forever. But Rose went home. There was no point running; you cant escape your lifeyou can only change it.
Geoffrey greeted her in the hallway, bearing that peculiar look of someone pretending to be cross but too proud to admit loneliness.
So, youve arrived.
So I have. How are you?
How? I saw in the New Year alone, thats how.
I suggested we go together.
My back hurt.
I remember.
She headed to her room, began unpacking. He loitered in the doorway.
Arent you going to apologise?
She didnt turn immediatelyshe put away her coat, took off her boots, then faced him.
For what, exactly?
For leaving your husband alone at New Years.
Geoffrey, you could have come. You chose to stay. That was your choice, not mine.
He struggled to respond.
Whats happening to you?
To me? Rose smiledsurprised at herself. I suppose its New Years. Arriving late.
In the coming days, Rose did a lot of thinking. She was a quiet processor, rarely speaking her mind unless necessary. Shed sit and turn over a thought like a stone in her handone shed carried for ages and finally chose to examine.
The thought was: shed spent thirty-one years alongside someone who didnt respect her. Not because he was evilbut because he never imagined respect was required. To him, providing food and shelter sufficed. The rest was poetry. Rose wondered: was that her fault, too? Did she ever demand respect? Did she ask for it? Did she explain what she needed? No. Shed stayed silent. She stored it all up, quietly, thinking to quarrel was unseemly, to leave was unthinkable, to endure was to be a good wife.
Who told her that? Nobody said as muchbut shed picked it up her whole life. Her mum would say, Family is everything. Her mother-in-law would say, Look after your husband. The neighbour: Dont wash your dirty linen in public. And Rose built walls to block out everything that festered.
Now, the walls were quietly cracking. Not all at once. Like ice in spring, melting by degrees.
On January the eighth, Lucy rang.
Rosie, got a story for you. Dont interrupt.
Alright.
Remember Natalie Keene? Lived in that old block on Parkside?
Tall girl, auburn hair?
Thats her. Well, three years ago, she left her husbandfifty-six at the time. Rented a bedsit, got a job in a flower shop, now runs her own little corner, does wedding arrangements. The other day she told me, Lucy, I dont know why I didnt do it sooner. I thought everything would collapse. Turns out only what needed to fall, fell.
Rose said nothing.
You listening? Lucy prodded.
Im listening.
Im not telling you what to do. Just telling you about Natalie.
I get it.
Rosieyou deserve better. You know that?
I do. Knowing and feeling arent the same.
Then start feeling.
Easy to say. Harder to live, when each morning starts with coffee, toast, Geoffrey glued to his mobile, TV on with the breakfast news, and Whats for lunch today? uttered without so much as a good morning.
But something was changing. Rose noticed little things. When Geoffrey made one of his barbed comments, instead of fleeing to the kitchen to lick her wounds, now she stayed. She looked at him. Didnt say anything unnecessary, didnt leave either. And sometimeshed go quiet himself, half through a remark.
At dinner one night, he remarked, Youre different lately.
How so?
I dont know. You look at me differently.
How?
I dont know. Its unpleasant.
Unpleasant to be looked at?
Not like that. Its just unpleasant.
Geoffrey, Rose said gently, maybe you just arent used to being seen.
He didnt replyjust cleared away his plate. She heard him puttering in the kitchen. Silence. Then just the TV.
Mid-January, something surprising happened at work. Paul Andrews summoned her to his office.
Rose, our firm’s expanding. Were opening a new branch in Southgate, and I need a senior accountant therebetter pay, flexible hours. Id like you to take it. Best accountant Ive worked withno exaggeration.
She sat there, feeling as if shed been slouching for years, and now at last could stand tall, inside herself.
When do you need an answer?
A week. But Im hoping for a yes.
She didnt mention the offer at home straight away. The new branch was forty minutes on the train, and the payabout a third higher. It was another world, another opportunity.
Three days later, she rang Lucy.
Lucy, Ive been offered a promotion.
Rosie! Lucys delight filled the line. Thats fantastic!
Im thinking about it.
Whats to think? Take it!
Geoffrey wont like it. Different area, new schedule.
Do you need his blessing?
A long pause.
No, Rose said carefully. No, I dont.
Exactly. Its your job. Youre valued. Youre offered more. Are you really going to turn it down just to suit your husband?
Not to suitits just, hell make some remark
And? He always does. Youre used to that by now. This is bigger. This is your future.
The next day, Rose sent Paul a simple message: I accept. Thank you for your trust. Then she put her mobile away and went to stew some fruit for Arthurs visit.
She told Geoffrey over dinner.
Ive some news. Ive been promotedsenior accountant, new branch.
Far?
Forty minutes.
What for?
More responsibility, better pay, more interesting work.
You do alright as it is.
Now Ill do better.
Geoffrey eyed her.
So whos going to sort out lunch every day?
Rose paused, not because she didnt know the answer, but because she wanted to phrase it right.
Geoffrey, youre fifty-eight. Youre a grown man. You can prepare lunch for yourself.
I cant cook.
It isnt a talentits a skill. You can learn.
Rose!
Im taking the promotion, she said calmly. Its my decision. Its already made.
He stalked off; the TV blared louder. Rose did the dishes, stewed the fruit for Arthur, and hung the washing out. Later, she stood on the balcony in the crisp night, her breath swirling white into the darkness.
She thought of Natalie Keene, auburn hair, now arranging wedding flowers. Of Lucys husband, who had once turned up at her birthday with a giant bouquet and said, Lucys told me so much about youits wonderful to finally meet. Somehow, shed cried all the way home that night in the car. Geoffrey hadnt asked why. Nothing, just tired, shed replied. He shrugged, never following up.
In February, something happened Rose hadnt expectednot something she couldve imagined.
It started with nothing: she was searching the bottom drawer in her desk for a file and found an old, yellowing envelope. No stamp. Insidea letter. Geoffreys handwriting. The date: April, years ago when Jamie was seven.
She didnt want to read it. Put it back. Then, took it out again. Something in her already sensed it mattered.
It wasnt addressed to her. It was to someone called Ellen. The words were few, but every one precise, very personal. Geoffrey wrote about how he felt about Ellen, that he was happy with her, uncertain how things would go on, that its difficult at home.
Rose sat on the floor clutching the letter. She didnt cry. She thought. First thought: So, it was then. Second: How many years have I lost? Third: No. I havent lost anything. I raised my son. I lived. Built what was mine.
She put the letter away, splashed cold water on her face, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her grey eyes looked backcalm, familiar. More familiar now than for many years.
Lucy called that evening.
How are you?
Found a letter. In the desk. Not to me.
A pause.
Rosie
No need to say anything. Im alright. I just have one thing to say. I realised you dont need a specific reason. You dont need something special to justify it. Everyone is entitled to their own life. No permission needed.
So youve decided?
Im thinking. In a different direction.
Lucy was quiet, then said softly, Im here, whatever you choose.
In March, Rose started at the new office. Small, friendly staff. She particularly liked Evelyn Turner, a mature lady in HR, gentle, always with a kind smile and the habit of greeting first. On her first day, she brought Rose a cup of tea.
You probably dont know where anything is yet. Let me show you. So simple. So good.
Work was harder now, but welcome. Documents, statements, new software, phone calls, problems to solveit kept her mind busy. She came home tired, but not emptytired in a different way.
Geoffrey didnt adjust to the new job. He spoke of your work as if it were some hobby, unnecessary. But Rose barely noticed. Shed learned to separate: here was home, everything in it; and there was herself, distinct.
In April, Jamies birthdaya family gathering at his flat. Kate and Arthur, a few mates. Geoffrey came but was standoffish, left early, feigning exhaustion.
One of Jamies friends, Simon, struck up a conversation with Rosehe restored historic homes and spoke of houses as though they were people. You see, sometimes the fronts crumbling and you think its finished. But inside, the beams are strong. Thats rare, but it happensthe house is tired on the outside but solid within. Those are my favourite ones.
Rose realised it was about people too.
When Jamie walked her to the door, he asked, Mum, did you enjoy yourself tonight?
I did. Really.
Im glad. He hugged her. And Mumremember, if you ever need anythinganythingyou just say.
She looked at himthirty-three now, kind face, grey eyes like hers. She wanted to say something huge and important, but just nodded.
I will, she promised.
In May, Evelyn phonednot about work but through Roses personal number.
Rose, hope you dont mind me asking, but have you ever thought about living alone?
Rose nearly dropped the phone.
Why do you ask?
I went through it myself years ago. Not to intrude, but sometimes you can tell by a person. Forgive me if Ive overstepped.
No, said Rose, not at all.
They chatted for an hour. Evelyn spoke of leaving her husband at fifty-one, renting a tiny flat near work, money tight for the first half-year, the stillness strange. Then it got better, then, as she put it, right.
Im not telling you what to do, Evelyn finished. But I want you to knowonly the first stretch is scary. Then, you get used to it. Even freedom.
Rose sat in her armchair for ages afterwards. Outside, a nearly summer sky over London. Geoffrey was out with a mate, due back in the evening.
She opened her laptop and started browsing flats to letjust browsing, just curious.
She quickly saw she could afford it.
She closed the laptop. Opened it again. Closed it.
Then she took a notepad, made two lists: what kept her, and what released her. The left column had three points. The rightjust fear.
For three weeks, she lived with fearwaking, sleeping. What was she afraid of? She probed: fear of what others thought? Neighbours? Her mother-in-law, now gone? Distant friends? Fear of loneliness? But she was already lonelythirty-one years with someone who didnt see her was a loneliness all its own. Fear of being wrong? But who says stayings right and leavings mistake?
Fear, finally, was simply habit. The habit of believing there was no other way. That she didnt deserve it. That everyone lives like this.
But not everyone. Natalie Keene didnt. Nor Evelyn. Nor Lucy. They lived differently.
On June sixteenth, Rose rang about a flatone-bedroom, third floor, bright, near her new office. The landlady, Mrs. Matilda Hopkins, was a pleasant, matter-of-fact woman in her sixties. They met the next day, viewed the place, chatted.
Do you work? Matilda asked.
Im a senior accountant.
Good. Any pets?
No.
Quiet?
I think so. I live as quietly as clouds, Rose said, surprising herself with the phrase.
Youll take it?
I will.
On the bus home, with the summer trees and Londons buzz passing by, Rose held the key. A plain, ordinary key. Yet it felt momentous. Something she should have grasped years ago.
She told Geoffrey that eveningno preamble.
Geoffrey, I need to talk.
He turned from the TV.
Ive rented a flat. Im moving out.
A pausereal, heavy. The TV blared, but as though from elsewhere.
What?
Ive rented a flat. I want to live separately. Im tiredof our routine. Not of you, personally, but of how we livewithout kindness, without respect, without conversation. I want something else.
Have you found someone else?the classic, inevitable question.
No. I found myself. Thats different.
This is madness.
Perhaps. But its my own madness.
Youre fifty-three, Rose.
I know my age, Geoffrey.
Its Its ridiculous.
It isnt. Its very serious.
What will people say?
Ive thought about it. I realised I wont let it stop me.
He stared. Then, quietly, Its because of the letter.
She looked straight at him.
You know about the letter?
I saw youd moved the envelope.
No, she said. Not because of the letter. The letter just confirmed what I already knew. Its not about you. Its about me.
She went to the bedroom. Lay in the dark, listened to him fussing in the kitchen, the clatter, water running, TV, then silence.
Rose moved out gradually. Jamie helped; Kate and Arthur came. Arthur inspected the flat matter-of-factly.
Gran, theres a balcony!
There is.
Nice. Can we put flowers there?
Absolutely.
Ill buy you a plant. In a pot.
That would be perfect.
Evelyn brought a cakea proper homemade strawberry sponge. She rang the bell on her first evening, and as Rose sat amidst boxes, said, Welcome to your new life.
No grand words, just kind ones, spoken gently. They made Roses throat tight with emotion.
Thank you. Come in.
They sat till nearly eleven, drinking tea, chatting about work, London, Evelyns daughter, Arthurs model kits. A perfectly ordinary eveningnot a celebration, just two women sharing tea and cake in a new flat.
Afterwards, Rose lay on her new sofa, cocooned in a blanket, and listenedreal silence, not the tense, unsaid kind from before. A gentle, personal quiet.
She fell asleep quickly, dreamless.
August was hot and busy. Rose had settled in at her new job, knew where everything was, how the reports went, who the courier was. Some evenings, shed walk to the nearby park, sit on a bench, watch the peopledogs, kids on bikes. Sometimes, shed just sit. Not thinking about anything in particular. That, too, was a new experience.
Geoffrey rang at the end of August.
Jamie says youre settled in?
I am.
Wages alright?
Theyre fine.
Maybe we should talk?
About what?
You know about us.
Rose looked out at the leaves swirling in the courtyard.
Geoffrey, theres no us anymore. Not in the old sense. You do see that?
I see. But maybe
No, she saidgently, not harshly, just clear. Maybe not. Im not coming back.
Why not?
I wasnt happy there.
And here?
Here, Im learning. Thats what matters.
He hesitated, then:
Youve changed.
Yes.
Quite a lot.
I hope so.
There were more calls, then fewer. Rose answered only if she wanted tonot in anger, just because she could choose. She exercised that right at last.
In autumn, Natalie Keenethe auburn-haired onerang. Lucy had given her the number.
Mrs. Simmons? Natalie here. Weve barely met, but Lucy said you might
Would I like to talk? Rose said. Yes. I would.
They met in a café. Natalie wore a cobalt blue coat and looked steadynot radiant, just right, like someone whod found her place.
They chatted for hours. Natalie told stories of the flower shop, the strange first months, how, one day, she realised she was humming tunes on the bussomething she hadnt done in twenty years. Thats what leaving feels likeyou dont even notice youre singing again.
Dont you regret it? Not at all? Rose asked.
I just regret waiting so long.
Were you scared?
Of course! But you know, fear only lasts till you do it. After, theres nothing left to fear. The things done. And nothing collapses.
Rose pondered this long after, at home. Nothing did collapse. Jamie was close by. Arthur rang her himself nowGran, I miss you!work was good; Evelyn was a true friend; Lucy always just a phone call away.
And something elsehard to name. The feeling that she truly belonged in her own lifenot a guest, servant, or add-on to a husband, but herself. Rose Simmons. Fifty-three. Senior accountant, mother, grandmotherperson.
She celebrated New Years twice: once at Jamies, with potato salad and pies, with Arthur showing her how the model motor worked; then in her own flat, with Lucy and her husband, Evelyn, Natalie in another dazzling coat. There was food, quiet music, soft laughter. No criticism, no awkward questions, no remember when in the negative sense. Just peopletogether by choice.
At midnight, Rose raised her glass. She made a wishdidnt speak it aloud. But this year, the wish was differentnot a request or a hope, just a simple, resolute I go on.
Mid-January, her ex-mother-in-lawno, Mrs. Gloria Simmons, Geoffreys mumrang from a nearby town, where she lived with a relative. Theyd never been close, but always kept on civil terms.
Rose, said Mrs. Simmons, her voice frail, a little wobbly. Geoffreys told me.
Alright.
I just want to tell you something.
Im listening.
You did the right thing.
Rose was silent.
I should have told you years ago, Mrs. Simmons continued. I saw it. How he was with you. I never said anything. Mothers shouldnt keep silent about sonsthats not right. I regret that.
Mrs. Simmons
Dont interruptlet me finish. Youre a good woman. Always have been. You deserve to be happy. Age makes no difference. Im nearly ninety. Each morning, Im glad if theres anything left worth smiling at. Dont bury yourself alive. Understand?
I do, said Rose, choked with emotion.
Good. Ring me sometimes, just for a chat.
I will.
You promise?
I promise.
She put down the phone and sat for a long time, smiling gently, amazed. Who would have thought? Mrs. Simmons. Now, of all times.
Life really does bring surprises in unexpected wrapping.
Late February, Jamie dropped inalone, just for tea. They talked about his job, Kate, Arthurs nerves about starting school in autumn.
Mum, Jamie said as he left, You look good. I mean it. Youre different.
Better or worse?
Better. Much better. Like something inside you woke up.
It had been asleep a long time.
I know. He paused at the door. Mum, Im sorry.
For what, love?
For not noticing before. For not asking. I just assumed you were fine. If you werent, I should have asked.
Jamie, she said gently, Everyone notices only what they can handle. You couldnt have seen what I made sure to hide. Youre a good son. You always have been. I know that.
He nodded, hugged her, and left.
Rose stood by the door a minute, then made herself another cup of tea. Snow was falling again outsideLondons endless, patient winter.
She thought back to that other window, last year, the other flatthe same snow. And how then, something had begun to shift, so quietly. That melting ice, unnoticed.
Now it was waterwater to wash in, water to drink, water moving forward, not staying still.
A week later, Geoffrey rang. She answered.
Rose.
Yes.
I saw the doctorthey say its just blood pressure. Got to watch what I eat.
Thats goodyou went.
You used to remind me.
Geoffrey.
What?
You can remind yourself now. Thats right.
A pause.
So, you really wont come back?
No.
Youre okay with that?
Rose gazed at the falling snowsoft, patient, wintry.
Yes, she said. Im okay. Dont worry.
Im not worrying. Just asking.
I know.
Another pause. Then, very quietly:
I know its my fault.
She didnt answer immediately. She wanted to speak the truthnot to wound, not to comfort, just to be honest.
Geoffrey, I bear no grudge. Weve shared a long life. It cant all be dismissed. But it wasnt the life I wanted. I dont know if it was what you wanted either. Thats for you to decide.
Ill think about it, he said.
Thats wise.
She put the phone down. Set the kettle on. Took out her favourite cup. Looked at the ordinary little key on the side table. A simple key to a new home.
