At 65, I realised that the scariest thing wasnt being aloneit was begging my children for a phone call, knowing I was just a burden.
Mum, hi, I need your help urgently.
My sons voice down the line had the tone of a man addressing a tedious colleague, not his mother.
Edith Thompson froze mid-reach for the remote, the evening news forgotten.
Oliver, hello. Is everything alright?
Yeah, fine, he exhaled impatiently. JustSophie and I snagged a last-minute holiday deal. Flights tomorrow morning. But weve got no one to look after Duke. Can you take him?
Duke. A slobbering Great Dane whod take up more space in her cramped two-bed flat than her antique sideboard.
How long? she asked cautiously, already knowing the answer.
A week, maybe two. Depends how it goes. Come on, Mum, who else can I ask? Kennels are barbaric. You know how sensitive he is.
Edith glanced at her sofa, freshly reupholstered in cream linen after six months of scrimping. Duke would demolish it in days.
Oliver, Im not sureIve just had the place done up.
Done up? His voice dripped with irritation. You changed the curtains?
Hes well-trained, just walk him regularly. Look, Sophies callingsuitcases to pack. Well drop him off in an hour.
The line went dead.
He hadnt asked how she was. Hadnt mentioned her birthday last week. Sixty-five. Shed waited all day, made her famous coronation chicken, even wore her new dress. The kids promised to visitnever showed. Oliver sent a text: *Happy bday! Works mad.* Emma didnt even do that.
And today? *Urgent help needed.*
Edith sank onto the sofa. It wasnt about the dog or the ruined upholstery.
It was the humiliation of being reduced to a function. Free pet-sitting, emergency hotline, last resort. A human utility.
She remembered dreaming, years ago, of the day her children would grow independent.
Now she knew true fear wasnt an empty houseit was waiting, heart in throat, for a call that only came when they wanted something.
Begging for their attention, bartering for it with her comfort and dignity.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. Oliver stood there, gripping the lead of a panting beast. Duke barrelled in, muddy paws stamping her clean floors.
Mum, heres his food, his toys. Three walks a dayyou remember. Right, were off, or well miss our flight! He thrust the lead into her hands, pecked her cheek, and vanished.
Edith stood in the hall. Duke was already sniffing the chair legs.
From the living room came the sound of tearing fabric.
She eyed her phone. Maybe call Emma? Shed understand? But her finger hovered.
Emma hadnt rung in a month. Busy, probably. Her own life, her own family.
For the first time, Edith didnt feel the usual sting. Insteadsomething cold, clear. Enough.
Morning dawned with Duke showing affection by leaping onto her bed, leaving two dinner-plate-sized paw prints on the duvet.
Her lounge sofa now had three new gashes. The fiddle-leaf fig shed nurtured for five years lay uprooted, leaves chewed.
Edith glugged straight from the Rescue Remedy bottle and dialled Oliver. He answered after five rings.
Waves and Sophies laughter in the background.
Mum, what? Were greatseas brilliant!
Oliver, about Duke. Hes wrecking the flat. Shredded the sofa. I cant handle him.
What? He never chews anything. Are you locking him up? He needs space. Mum, dont start, alright? We just got here. Walk him longerhell calm down.
I walked him two hours this morning! He nearly yanked my arm off.
A pause. Then, ice:
Youre serious? Were in Majorca. How dyou expect me to fetch him? You agreed to this. Or should we ditch our holiday because youre being difficult? This is selfish, Mum.
*Selfish.* The word slapped her. Herwhod spent her life putting them first.
Im not
Sophies got cocktails. Bond with Duke. Youll manage. Love you.
Click.
Her hands shook. She called Emma.
Mum? Urgent? Im in a meeting.
Oliver left his dog. Its uncontrollable. Destroying everything.
A sigh. Mum, if he asked, he was desperate. Family helps family. Its a sofabuy a new one. Oliverll pay. Probably.
Its not the sofa! Its being treated like
How else should he ask? On his knees? Youre retiredplenty of time. Whats the fuss? Boss is glaringgotta go.
Click.
*Family.* Such a funny word.
Hers meant people who remembered her only when they needed something, then called her selfish if she couldnt deliver.
That evening, her downstairs neighbour hammered on the door.
Edith! That dogs howled for three hours! My baby cant sleep! Control it or Im calling the RSPCA!
Duke, behind her, barked cheerfully in agreement.
Edith shut the door. Looked at the tail-wagging wrecking ball. The ruined sofa. Her silent phone.
Something hardened inside.
Shed always tried to be reasonable. Understanding.
But her feelings, her logicno one cared. They bounced off their wall of smug indifference.
She grabbed the lead.
Walkies, Duke.
In the park, every tug on the lead echoed their words: *Selfish. Plenty of time. Cant you help?*
ThenMargaret, her old colleague, floated past in a cashmere scarf and fresh highlights.
Edith! Hardly recognised youso worn out! Babysitting? She nodded at Duke.
Olivers dog.
Ah! Our eternal fixer! Margaret laughed. Off to Seville next weekflamenco lessons! Can you believe it? Girls trip. Hubby grumbled, then said, Go on, youve earned it. When did you last holiday?
Edith couldnt remember. Her breaks were weeding their allotment or babysitting.
You look exhausted, Margaret said softly. Cant carry them forever. Theyre grown. Lifes passing you by.
She breezed off, leaving Chanel No. 5 and a ringing emptiness.
*Lifes passing you by.*
The words detonated. Edith stopped dead. Duke cocked his head.
She looked at the hulking dog. Her raw hands. The grey London sky.
Enough. Not one more day.
She pulled out her phone. Googled *best London dog hotels*.
Top result: glossy photos of spa suites, hydrotherapy pools, gourmet meals. Prices that made her gasp.
She dialled.
Hello. Id like to book your premium suite. For a Great Dane. Two weeks. Full spa package.
A taxi took them straight there. Duke, oddly calm, seemed to sense change.
The lobby smelled of lavender and money. A receptionist slid her a contract.
Without blinking, Edith wrote *Oliver Thompson* under *Owner*.
*Payer*? Also Oliver. She paid the deposit with her winter coat fundthe best investment shed ever made.
Well send daily photo updates to the owner, the girl beamed, taking Dukes lead. Dont worryhell love it here.
Back home, surveying the wreckage, Edith felt not lonelinesspeace.
She sipped tea from the sofas intact corner and texted Oliver and Emma:
*Dukes safe. At The Barkley Hotel. All enquiries to his owner.*
Then she silenced her phone.
It buzzed three minutes later. *Oliver calling* She took another sip.
Didnt answer.
Emmas text followed: *Mum, whats this? Call me NOW.*
Edith turned up the telly. She could picture the chaos at the other end.
Panic. Outrage. How dare their doormat mum do this?
The storm hit two days later. Their knocks were furious.
Edith opened the door to sunburned, livid Oliver and Emma.
Have you lost it?! Oliver yelled. That hotels charging us a fortune! Over a bloody dog?
Hello, darlings, she said mildly. Shoes off, pleasejust mopped.
Their confusion was priceless. They stepped inside. Oliver gaped at the ruined sofa, the mangled plant.
