At 65, I realised the scariest thing wasnt being aloneit was begging my own children for a phone call, knowing I was nothing but a burden.
“Mum, hi, I need your help. Urgently.”
My sons voice crackled down the line like he was talking to an irritating colleague, not his mother.
Margaret froze, the TV remote still in her hand, the evening news forgotten.
“James, hello. Is everything alright?”
“No, no, everythings fine,” he huffed impatiently. “JustEmily and I snagged a last-minute holiday. Flights tomorrow morning. Weve got no one to look after Duke. Can you take him?”
Duke. A slobbering, hulking Great Dane whod take up more space in her tiny flat than her antique china cabinet.
“How long?” she asked carefully, already knowing the answer.
“Just a week. Maybe two. Depends how things go. Mum, come onwho else? Kennels are basically doggy prison. You know how sensitive he is.”
Margaret glanced at her sofa, newly reupholstered in pale fabric after six months of scrimping. Duke would demolish it in days.
“James, Im not sureIve only just redone the place.”
“Mum, what redoing?” A note of irritation crept in. “You changed the cushions?”
“Dukes well-behaved. Just walk him regularly. Right, Emilys callingsuitcases to pack. Well drop him off in an hour.”
The line went dead.
He hadnt asked how she was. Hadnt celebrated her birthday last week. Sixty-five. Shed waited all day, made her famous coronation chicken, even wore her new dress. Theyd promised to visit. Never showed.
James had texted: *”Happy bday, Mum! Swamped at work.”* Sarah hadnt even bothered.
And now*”urgent help.”*
Margaret 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 favour-dispenser.
She remembered, years ago, dreaming theyd grow up independent. Now she knew: loneliness wasnt the worst fate. Worse was waiting for the phone to ring, knowing you only mattered when they needed something.
Begging for scraps of attention, bartering your dignity for it.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. James stood there, hauling Dukes lead. The dog barrelled past, leaving muddy paw prints on her clean floors.
“Mum, heres his food, his toys. Three walks a dayyou remember. Right, gotta dash or well miss the flight!” He thrust the lead into her hand, pecked her cheek, and vanished.
Margaret stood in the hall. Duke was already sniffing the chair legs. A loud *rip* echoed from the living room.
She picked up her phone. Maybe call Sarah? Shed understand? But her finger hovered.
Sarah hadnt called in a month. Busy, probably. Her own life, her own family.
And thensomething shifted. Not resentment. Something colder. Clearer. *Enough.*
Morning began with Duke launching onto her bed, leaving two dinner-plate-sized paw prints on her white duvet.
The sofa was shredded in three places. Her prized fern, nurtured for five years, lay uprooted on the floor, leaves chewed.
Margaret glugged straight from the Valerian bottle and dialled James. He answered on the fourth ring. Waves and Emilys laughter in the background.
“Mum? What? Everythings brilliant hereseas gorgeous!”
“James, about Duke. Hes wrecking the flat. Ripped the sofa. I cant manage him.”
“What? Hes never destroyed anything! Are you locking him up? He needs space. Mum, dont startwe just got here. Walk him more. Hell settle.”
“I walked him for two hours this morning! He nearly yanked my arm off. James, pleasefind another sitter.”
A pause. Then, icy: “Mum, seriously? Were in Spain. How? You agreed. Or dyou want us to fly back over your *tantrum*? Thats selfish.”
*Selfish.* The word struck like a slap. Herwhod lived for them*selfish.*
“Im not”
“Mum, Emilys got cocktails. Bond with Duke. Youll be fine. Love you.” *Click.*
Her hands shook. She sat at the kitchen table, away from the carnage. Defeat weighed physical. She called Sarah. Sarah was always sensible.
“Sarah, hi.”
“Mum. Something urgent? Im in a meeting.”
“James left Duke with me. Hes uncontrollable. Destroying everything. I think he might bite me next.”
A heavy sigh. “Mum, James asked. Mustve been desperate. Family helps family. So the sofas ruinedbuy a new one. Jamesll pay. Probably.”
“Sarah, its not the sofa! Its the *principle*! He bulldozed me!”
“How else? On his *knees*? Mum, stop. Youre retiredloads of free time. Whats the big deal? Boss is glaringgotta go.”
*Click.*
Margaret set the phone down.
*Family.* What a funny word.
For her, it meant people who remembered you only when they needed somethingand called you *selfish* if you hesitated.
That evening, Mrs. Thompson from downstairs hammered on her door, furious.
“Margaret! That dogs been howling for *three hours*! My baby cant sleep! Sort it or Im calling the RSPCA!”
Duke, behind her, barked cheerfully in agreement.
Margaret shut the door. She stared at the wagging tail, the shredded sofa, her silent phone. Something inside her hardened.
Shed always tried to be reasonable. Explain. Accommodate.
But her logic, her feelingsno one cared. They bounced off their wall of patronising indifference.
She grabbed Dukes lead.
“Walk time.”
In the park, tension knotted her shoulders. Duke strained ahead, each tug echoing their words: *selfish, free time, cant help?*
ThenPatricia, her old colleague, breezed past. Bright scarf, chic haircut, laughing.
“Maggie! Hardly recognised you! Grandkid duty?” She nodded at Duke.
“Jamess dog,” Margaret muttered.
“Ah! Our resident fixer!” Patricia laughed. “Im off to Portugal next week! Flamenco lessonscan you believe? At *our* age! Girls trip. Hubby grumbled, then said, Go, youve earned it. Whend *you* last have fun?”
The question hung. Margaret couldnt remember. Her breaks were weeding their childhood home while they barbecued.
“You look exhausted,” Patricia said gently. “Cant carry everyone forever. Kids are grownlet them cope. Or youll be stuck dogsitting while life passes you by. Anywayrehearsal! Ta-ta!”
She fluttered off, leaving perfume and ringing silence.
*Life passing you by.*
The phrase detonated. Margaret stopped dead. Duke cocked his head.
She stared at him, the lead, the grey pavements. And knew*no more.* Not one day. Not one hour.
*Enough.*
She googled: *”luxury dog hotels London.”*
Top hit: gleaming photos of spa suites, hydrotherapy pools, gourmet meals. Prices that made her gasp.
She dialled.
“Hello. Id like to book a suite. For a Great Dane. Two weeks. Full pampering package.”
A taxi to the park. Duke, oddly calm, as if sensing change.
The hotel smelled of lavender, not wet dog. A smiling receptionist slid a contract over.
Without blinking, Margaret wrote *Jamess* name under *”Owner.”*
*”Payer”*also James. She paid the deposit from her new-coat fund. Best investment ever.
“Well send daily photo updates to the owner,” the girl beamed, taking Dukes lead. “Dont worryhell love it here.”
Home again, her flatbattered but peacefulfelt different. Not lonely. *Quiet.*
She sipped tea on the sofas intact corner and texted James *and* Sarah:
*”Dukes safe. At The Barkley. All enquiries to his owner.”*
Thensilenced her phone.
It buzzed three minutes later. *”James calling”* She took another sip.
Didnt answer.
Another buzz. Then Sarah: *”Mum, whats this?? Call back NOW!”*
She turned up the telly. She could picture the chaos on the other end.
Panic. Outrage
