**Diary Entry**
It dawned on Tom rather belatedly that standing on a stool with a rope in his hands might give entirely the wrong impression.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet dangling, when he thought he heard his mother calling again.
“Tom, love… Tom…”
Nearly every night, he’d wake to her voice. He knew it wasn’t real—she’d passed three weeks ago—but still, he’d sit up, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. Tom had switched to remote work just to be near her. He’d tried hiring a carer once, but the woman bolted after three days, swiping his savings and his mother’s gold jewellery. He never risked it again.
Working at his desk, he’d listen for any sound, rushing to her side the moment she called. Some nights, exhaustion knocked him out right there at the keyboard. That last night, her voice had woken him, sent him stumbling into her room. But she was already gone. He’d wept, begging her forgiveness—for the grief, yes, but also the relief. No more suffering. He was free.
Yet now, three weeks alone, he felt no joy. Just a leaden emptiness.
She’d been full of life—humming while ironing or tidying the flat. He’d never imagined her wasting away.
Too restless to sleep, he checked the clock—half six. Outside, a dull autumn haze hung over London, seeping into the room, leaching colour from everything. Quiet. Hollow. Grey.
He felt grey too. Lifeless. Pulling on joggers and a wrinkled t-shirt, he moved to her door. He’d only gone in once since, to pick out her burial dress. Now, he shoved it open. The stale stink of medicine, illness, and worse hit him. Avoiding the crumpled bedsheets, he yanked back the curtains and flung the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, along with the distant hum of the waking city. The room brightened, edges sharpening. Energy surged through him. He stripped the bed, tossing sheets and her waiting dressing gown into a heap, then shoved it all into the washing machine.
Back in her room, he emptied pill bottles and the glass he’d used to give her water into a bin bag. He wiped surfaces, mopped the floor, then—carried by momentum—cleaned the entire flat.
Pleased with himself, he waited by the kitchen window as the kettle boiled. The sun, as if feeding off his energy, broke through the clouds. A jagged strip of blue appeared. His mood lifted.
The fridge was nearly empty. He couldn’t recall when he’d last eaten properly. Near the end, his mother could only stomach puréed meals. Too tired to cook for himself, he’d eaten the same. After the funeral, he’d nibbled leftovers from the wake. Now, only a half-finished jar of pickles floated in mould-specked brine beside a bottle of sour milk. He dumped it all.
Black coffee churned in his stomach. Pulling on a hoodie, he took the rubbish out, then stopped by Tesco for bread, milk, pasta, a packet of ham, apples… He could’ve bought the whole shop but reined himself in.
Back home, he wolfed down two ham sandwiches while the pasta boiled. The washing machine beeped.
No space for all the laundry in the tiny bathroom. No balcony, no airer. Only one option—string a line across the living room. Who’d even see?
He rummaged through the hall cupboard—his mother’s “just in case” stash of odds and ends—and found a coil of rope.
The thought of Sarah flickered. His girlfriend of two years. His mum had encouraged marriage, but Tom had dragged his feet. Loved her, but something about her meticulous plans—the way she mapped out their future—irritated him.
“Marry now or never,” his mother had said. He’d nearly caved when she fell ill. Then Sarah herself postponed things. Who’d want a sick mother-in-law?
At first, she’d visited, helped cook. Then just calls, excuses. Soon, silence. He hadn’t chased her.
He rang her when his mum died. She offered hollow condolences, never showed. Frankly, he didn’t care.
Tying one end of the rope to the radiator, he hammered a nail into the doorframe for the other. Thank God they’d never swapped the old painted-wood doors for cheap MDF.
Standing on the stool, rope in hand, a thought struck: *Would this hold my weight?* He shuddered.
A knock. The new neighbour—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The elderly couple who’d lived there before had retired to Devon, renting the place out.
Her heels usually clicked past, the front door slamming at odd hours. She kept to herself. He didn’t care enough to introduce himself.
Now, those heels stopped at his door. It creaked open. A slender woman peered in, eyes widening at the sight of him—unkempt, hollow-cheeked, rope in hand.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt… but could you help?”
Tom jumped down. She stepped back. He knew how he looked—unshaven, hair a mess, dark circles. His joggers sagged at the knees, his t-shirt had a hole. The picture of a man at the end of his tether.
“What?” he grunted.
“I think I’ve lost my keys.” She rummaged through her handbag, voice small.
Tom frowned. How’d she even open the building door without them? Unless he’d left it unlocked.
“Nothing,” she sighed, meeting his gaze. “How do I get in?”
“Call the locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track.
“Fine.” He grabbed tools from the cupboard and jimmied the lock. An hour later—sweating, exhausted—he told her the door was open.
She thanked him curtly but lingered.
“Can I smoke in here?”
He nodded, cracking the window wider. As she fumbled in her bag, he heard the jingle of keys. *Ah.* She’d faked losing them. Thought he was about to off himself and sacrificed her lock to stop him. He said nothing.
The laundry needed hanging. He finished tying the rope, fetched the basket, and started pinning clothes. She watched, making no move to leave.
“I heard about your mum,” she said.
“Three weeks ago. And no, I wasn’t about to hang myself.”
“You looked it.”
“Yeah, well.” He rubbed his neck. “Call a locksmith tomorrow. I wrecked your lock.”
“I made too much roast this morning. Fancy some?”
“Why’d you cook so much?”
“Dunno. Will you?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprising himself.
“I’m Alice.” She held out a hand. “My place or yours?”
“Yours. I’ll shower first.”
After she left, Tom shaved, showered under the makeshift clothesline, and dressed in clean jeans and a shirt. The mirror showed a man almost recognisable.
Alice’s flat smelled incredible. A salad, wine, and two glasses waited on the table. They ate, chatting easily, skipping over painful topics.
“Tom, when did you last just… walk?” she asked.
“Can’t remember.”
She washed up, arranging dishes precisely, adjusting the towel on the rack.
“Why rent alone? Not a student, not new in town.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t want to move back with my parents—Mum adores him.”
“Let me guess… too neat?”
She blinked. “How’d you know?”
“You lined up the plates. Rehung the towel twice.”
She laughed. “He had a place for everything. ‘Discipline is life.’ Even sex was… programmed.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“Ugh. Mum calls him ‘reliable.’ I roasted meat out of habit—Sunday tradition.” She stood. “Fancy a walk?”
They wandered for hours, returning at midnight, lingering in the hallway. The scent of her perfume unsettled him.
“Your place or mine?” she murmured. “Will you call me strange first?”
He grinned. “You are strange. Wonderful.”
Then he lifted her, heart pounding like he’d woken from a long sleep. Alive.
Alice moved in soon after. Newlyweds took her old flat.
**Lesson:** Grief is a shadow, but it shifts. Sometimes help comes in heels and bad lies. Or laundry lines and roast dinners. Let it in.
