**Sharp Turn**
Helen had never lived alone. First, she lived with her parents, then she got married, and two years later, she and her husband welcomed their daughter, Sophie.
Even when her husband left, she and Sophie stuck together for a while. But now, she was utterly alone. Wandering her empty flat, she wondered what to do—why bother living at all? Life had collapsed, and ahead loomed lonely old age and obscurity.
What had gone wrong? She and her husband had never fought seriously—just petty squabbles. She never nagged him, let him go out with friends, kept the flat clean and cosy. The fridge always had soup, the stove a ready-made dinner.
Helen had stayed slim even after childbirth—she’d never had curves to begin with. Pregnancy gave her a temporary boost in the bustline (much to her husband’s delight), but breastfeeding over, she shrank right back. No one divorces over *that*. Everyone said she and Jeremy were a perfect match.
Of course, Helen wasn’t blind. She’d noticed Jeremy changing lately. Not late nights, no—but suddenly he cared about his appearance. Matching ties to shirts, getting trendy haircuts.
*”Why don’t you wear dresses?”* he asked one day.
*”I do! On special occasions,”* she replied, baffled. He’d never cared before.
*”You look pale today. Feeling ill?”*
*”I always look like this. What’s your problem?”* she snapped.
Once, she caved and put on makeup, even rouged her cheeks before work.
*”Wash it off. It doesn’t suit you,”* Jeremy said that evening.
*”People at work loved it!”* she retorted, but obediently scrubbed her face clean.
*”I thought you’d be glamorous every day now,”* a coworker teased the next morning.
*”Jeremy didn’t like it,”* Helen sighed.
*”Probably terrified you’d get too much attention,”* the coworker winked. Helen let it slide.
Then her old school pal, Claire—vivacious, effortlessly stylish—invited her for coffee after work.
*”How do you stay so slim without dieting? If I so much as glance at cake, I balloon,”* Claire sighed.
*”Oh, stop. Men still trip over themselves watching you walk by,”* Helen laughed.
*”They’d look at you too if you gave them a chance. You’ve got great legs—why hide them under trousers? A pencil skirt would kill. And for heaven’s sake, get a haircut. Maybe go ginger. Do *something*—you look like you’re ready for retirement.”*
Helen knew Claire wasn’t being cruel for no reason.
*”What’s this about, Claire? You never used to—”*
*”Forget what I used to say,”* Claire cut in, avoiding her eyes. *”Sorry. I saw Jeremy. With some doe-eyed girl, barely twenty. The way he looked at her…”*
Helen squeezed her eyes shut. *”Shut up.”*
*”I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you’ve been the same forever. Men *notice* these things. You’re so… beige.”*
*”That’s not true!”* Helen bolted for the door.
At home, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the tiles.
*”Mum, Dad’s here,”* Sophie called through the door.
Helen splashed her face and walked out. Sophie vanished into her room; Jeremy sat at the kitchen table, hands folded like a schoolboy awaiting punishment.
*”Sorry, no dinner yet. I was out with Claire,”* she mumbled.
*”I’m not hungry. You know, then,”* he said.
*”Know what?”* But she did. Claire hadn’t lied.
*”I’m in love with someone else. I tried to fight it, but… She’s half my age, but I can’t live without her. I’m sorry. I’ll pack my things.”*
Helen didn’t stop him. Then Sophie betrayed her too. She visited Jeremy often—Helen didn’t mind until the gifts started. His new girlfriend, Diana, showered Sophie with crop tops, glittery mini-dresses, makeup, half-used perfumes.
*”Look what Diana gave me! Isn’t she cool? Does it suit me?”* Sophie preened.
*”Stop taking her gifts,”* Helen said sharply.
*”Why?”*
*”She stole your father!”* Sophie rolled her eyes.
*”So? She’s fun. You’re just… boring. No wonder Dad left.”*
It got worse. Sophie picked up new slang, dyed streaks of hair neon green and pink, caked on eyeliner. Teachers sent notes home—skipping classes, backchatting.
Arguing was like shouting into a hurricane. Every rebuke was met with *”Diana says…”* or *”Diana thinks…”*
Helen’s hands shook at the name. She tried banning visits—Sophie threatened to move out.
*”Fine. Go. But when Diana has a baby, you’ll be out on your ear.”*
*”Seriously? I can live with Dad?”* Sophie’s voice was icy.
*”Yes. Have him call me.”*
Jeremy rang the next day.
*”Sophie says you’re kicking her out.”*
*”She’s *forcing* me. I can’t handle her. She’s rude, skips school, dresses like a… and it’s *Diana’s* influence!”*
*”They get on well. You’re just bitter. Sophie can live with us,”* he said, hanging up.
And just like that, her daughter was gone. Helen cycled between fury, self-pity, and hunger strikes, wasting away. Sophie only called to twist the knife—*”Diana took me to a gig…”*—each word stoking Helen’s hate.
Sophie flunked her A-levels. No uni for her—not that she cared.
Then Jeremy called again. Sophie had moved in with some bloke in a rented flat.
Helen’s breath vanished.
*”You *let* her?!”*
*”She’s an adult—your doing. Diana’s pregnant, I’ve got enough—”*
*”Now your own child’s disposable? *You* did this! Diana brainwashed her, then tossed her aside—”*
Salvation came when Claire rang.
*”What’re you up to?”*
*”Contemplating the noose. Jeremy’s gone. Sophie ditched me for *Diana*. Everyone’s abandoned me. I don’t want to live—”*
Claire arrived thirty minutes later with a bottle of whiskey. Helen was tipsy after one glass, blubbering into her fists while Claire muttered *”Prat,”* *”Cow,”* *”Nightmare…”* Dawn crept in before Claire stood.
*”Enough wallowing. First, we fix you. Hair, nails, makeup, wardrobe. Then we hit the town—where *real* men are.”*
*”Where’s that?”* Helen hiccuped.
*”You’ll see.”*
Post-makeover, Helen barely recognised herself—a decade younger. Weekends were now gallery-hopping (art baffled her, but it was fun). She kept calling Sophie, but her phone was always off.
Then—*miraculously*—Sophie rang.
*”Mum… can we stay with you? Just two weeks, till we find a new place?”*
Helen didn’t ask questions. *”Of course!”*
She scrubbed the flat, made up Sophie’s bed, cooked a feast. She’d tolerate *anyone* Sophie brought, if it meant her coming home.
The doorbell rang. Helen beamed—until she saw Sophie: hollow-eyed, exhausted, clutching a bundle. Behind her loomed a lanky bloke with shoulder-length hair.
Her smile died. Sophie wordlessly shoved the baby into her arms, kicked off her trainers, and vanished into her room. Helen gaped at the man.
*”’Ello,”* he mumbled.
*”Who—?”*
*”Boy. Archie.”* His name was Kenneth—Kenny. He wolfed down everything on the table like a starved stray, talking through mouthfuls: evicted because of the baby, no money, lost his job…
Baby Archie’s wails saved Helen from screaming. She rushed to him. Sophie didn’t even stir.
Now, Helen missed her solitude. She was a hamster on a wheel—work, shops, cooking. Sophie was always poised to dump Archie on her the second she walked in.
One night, she came home to a rowdy, drunk crowd. Music shook the floors, drowning out Archie’s screams. She kicked them out, cleaned till dawn.
*”Sophie, this stops *now*. You’ve a baby! What were you thinking? And Kenny—has he *looked* for work? You’He showed up a year later, contrite and alone—Diana had lied about the baby and run off with a wealthier man—but Helen just smiled, handed him a cup of tea, and said, “Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?” before closing the door softly in his face.
