Harlan Covington

Staying Connected Every morning in Mrs. Hope Emerson’s home followed the same gentle ritual: kettle on the hob, two spoons of tea leaves in her treasured old teapot—saved from the days when her children were small and everything seemed ahead. As the water heated, the kitchen radio brought the familiar hum of news, more constant than most faces in her life. The yellow-handed clock on the wall kept steady time, but the landline beneath it rang less and less. Evenings once buzzed with calls from friends about soaps or blood pressure; now, those friends were ill, moved away, or gone for good. The phone, solid and reassuring in her palm, was a lingering touchstone—she’d stroke the receiver when passing, just to make sure that way of connecting still lived. Her children now called one another on mobiles. When visiting, their phones were never far from hand; her son could fall silent mid-sentence, stare at the screen, mutter “just a sec,” and tap away. Her granddaughter Daisy, a slender ponytailed girl, hardly let go of hers—there lived friends, schoolwork, music, her own vibrant world. Everything was there, for all of them. All she had was her old flip phone, a present after her first hospital stay for high blood pressure. “So we can always reach you,” her son had said. It lived in a grey case by the hallway mirror, sometimes forgotten uncharged, sometimes nestled in a bag with receipts and tissues. It rang rarely, and she often missed calls, scolding herself for her slowness. The day she turned seventy-five felt strange—the number didn’t fit. She was sure she felt at least ten years younger, maybe fifteen. But the passport didn’t lie. The morning followed its groove: tea, radio, gentle exercises prescribed by the GP. She fetched yesterday’s salad and set a pie on the table. The children were due by two. It amazed her that birthdays were now discussed in a “group chat.” Her son said, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” But never quite did. For her, “chat” belonged to another world, where people lived in little windows and spoke in letters. At two, they arrived: first, grandson Arthur with a rucksack and headphones, then Daisy—quiet and swift—and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms full of shopping. Suddenly, the house was crowded, noisy, and scented with bakery sweets, perfume, and some energetic, indefinable freshness. “Happy birthday, Mum.” Her son hugged her quick and firm, as if already late for something. Gifts were placed on the table, flowers in the vase. Daisy immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. Her son hunted out a slip of paper and dictated the jumble of letters and numbers that made her head spin. “Granny, why aren’t you on the group chat?” Arthur asked, slipping off his trainers and heading to the kitchen. “That’s where all the action is.” “What chat?” she waved her hand, serving him pie. “This old phone’s fine for me.” “That’s why we… Well, we’ve got you a present,” her daughter-in-law chimed in. Her son brought out a sleek white box. She felt a swell of anxiety—she knew what it held. “A smartphone,” he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. “Nothing fancy, but decent. Camera, internet, all you’ll need.” “But why would I need one?” she tried to keep her voice level. “Mum, so we can use video calls—keep in touch more easily. There’s our family chat, photos, news. Everything’s online now: doctors’ appointments, bills… Keeps you out of those surgery queues you hate.” “I’ll manage…” she began, but her son sighed gently. “Mum, it’s peace of mind. If you need anything, you just message. No more hunting for the green button.” He smiled, softening his words. Still, it stung—“hunting for the green button,” as if she was helpless. “All right,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the box. “If you all want it.” They opened it together, like presents for the children, but now the children were grown and she sat in the centre, feeling not the hostess but the learner at an exam. Out came a slim black rectangle, cold and slick, with not a single button on its face. “It’s all touchscreen,” Arthur explained, swiping the glass to bring it to life. She flinched. It felt clever, foreign—surely about to demand a password or other mystery. “Don’t worry,” Daisy soothed, uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything until we show you.” Those words stung most—“don’t press anything”—like she was a child who could break the vase. After dinner the family gathered in the lounge. Her son perched next to her, smartphone on her lap. “Right, see—this is power. Hold it. Screen wakes up, then the lock—swipe to unlock, like this.” He moved too fast; words blurred together—a foreign tongue. “Wait, please. Step by step. Or I’ll forget.” “You won’t,” he brushed off. “You’ll get used to it.” She nodded, but knew it would take time—time to make peace with a world now squeezed into these rectangles. By evening, their numbers were saved, the neighbour’s and GP’s too. Her son installed the messenger, created her account, added her to the family chat. Set a big font, so she wouldn’t squint. “Here’s the chat,” he demonstrated. Typed out a message, which appeared on-screen. A reply popped up from her daughter-in-law: “Yay, Mum’s joined!” Daisy added a flurry of emojis. “How do I write?” she asked. “Tap here,” her son showed her the typing field. “Keyboard shows up. Or use voice: press the mic and speak.” She tried. Her hands shook. “Thanx” came out as “thanc.” They all laughed, and she burned with embarrassment—as if she’d failed the easiest test. “You’ll get there. Everyone makes mistakes at first,” he assured her. That night, the house was quiet again: leftover pie, flowers, the white box on the table. The phone lay screen-down nearby. She turned it over and pressed the side as shown. The display flared—her family, last New Year, smiled from the lockscreen. She was there, in blue, eyebrow lifted, as if doubting her place in the crowd. She swiped as taught. Up flicked a flurry of icons—calls, messages, camera—so foreign still. “Don’t press anything wrong,” her son’s warning whispered. But how to know what was wrong? She set the smartphone gently back on the table—let it get used to her flat, she thought. The next morning, she woke early. The smartphone was still there, like an outsider. Yesterday’s fear had ebbed. It was only a thing, after all. She’d learned the microwave, hadn’t she? Even though she’d worried it would explode. She made tea, pulled the phone closer, and turned it on. Her hand sweated. The familiar New Year photo glowed. She swiped, found a green phone icon—at least a little familiar—and pressed. Contacts appeared: son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Arthur, Mrs. Valentine from next door, her GP. She chose her son and pressed. The device buzzed, then his surprised voice came through. “Mum? Everything okay?” “Fine,” she replied, quietly proud. “Just checking. It worked.” “Told you! Well done! But best to call over the messenger—it’s cheaper.” “How do I—?” “I’ll show you later. I’m at work.” She hung up, breathless but warm inside. She’d done it—on her own. A few hours later, her first family chat message arrived: “Daisy: Gran, how are you?” The reply field blinked, welcoming her in. She stared at it, slowly typing: “All good. Having tea.” A mistake in “good,” but she let it be. Sent it off. Daisy replied instantly—“Wow! You wrote that yourself?”—with a heart. She was smiling, alone at her table. Later, Mrs. Valentine brought over jam. “So, the youngsters gave you one of those clever phones?” she teased. “A smartphone,” Mrs. Emerson replied. The word still sounded posh for her age, but she liked the taste of it. “Is it behaving?” “Mostly chirping. No buttons anywhere.” “My grandson’s on at me about it too,” Mrs. Valentine said. “But I say it’s too late for me. Let them stay in their internet.” “That word—too late—pricked at her. She’d thought it too. But the new thing in her home seemed quietly insistent: perhaps it wasn’t too late. Worth a try, at least. Next day, her son called—he’d booked her a GP appointment online. She was astonished. “Online?” “Yep. On GovUK. I’ve written the login and password—it’s in the phone-table drawer.” She found the neatly folded note, like a doctor’s prescription. Everything seemed clear, but she didn’t know how to begin. The following day, she tried. Opened the browser, typed in the site, every letter a labour. Twice she erased everything. Finally, it loaded—blue and white bars, buttons. “Enter username,” she read aloud. Password next. The username went in, but the mixed letters and numbers of the password were a torment. The keyboard kept vanishing, reappearing; once, she wiped the whole box. She swore under her breath, surprising herself. She rang her son, flustered. “It’s impossible, these passwords!” “Mum, don’t worry. I’ll come round tonight with Arthur—he’s better at this.” She hung up, heavy-hearted. Once again, she needed someone to fix things. Arthur came by that evening. Sitting beside her, he explained again, calmly, showing every button, each switch—how to check appointments, cancel if needed. “Don’t worry, Gran. Nothing to break. If you sign out by mistake, we’ll log back in.” She nodded—no big deal for him, but for her, a trial. Days later, needing to check her appointment, she logged in—her name missing from the list. Had she cancelled it by mistake? Panic rose. The thought of calling her son, interrupting his work, made her hesitate. She didn’t want to be a bother. She took a breath. Tried again. Chose the GP, picked the nearest available slot. Confirmed. The screen told her, “You are now booked.” She checked three times—yes, her name, date, time. Relief washed in. To be sure, she messaged her GP through the chat—using the voice function this time. “Good morning, this is Mrs. Hope Emerson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve made an appointment online for Wednesday morning. Please check if you can.” A minute later, a reply: “I see your booking. If symptoms worsen, call anytime.” She felt herself relax. She’d done it. Herself. That evening, she messaged the family chat: “Booked GP myself. Online.” Another typo, but left uncorrected—meaning was what mattered. Daisy answered first: “Grandma, you’re cooler than me!” Others replied with praise and hearts. She reread their messages, something inside gently untwisting. She was no expert in memes or emojis, but a thread had knit between her and her far-flung family. After her peaceful GP appointment, she decided to learn something new. Daisy had once shown her how to swap pictures of food and cats with friends—silly, she’d thought, but a little envious of the shared snapshots of life. One sunny afternoon, Hope picked up her smartphone and opened the camera, snapping her sprouting tomato seedlings on the windowsill. The photo was blurry, but not bad; little shoots stretching for sunlight, like her, learning to reach out. She posted the picture to the family chat: “My tomatoes are growing.” The family fired back—Daisy sent a messy room full of books, her daughter-in-law a salad captioned “Learning from you!”, her son a tired office selfie: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got end-of-month. Who’s winning?” She laughed aloud. The kitchen no longer felt so empty. They were all, in their own cities, right there with her. Sometimes there were muddles: a misplaced voice note where she grumbled at the TV, to everyone’s amusement—“Mum, you’ve started your own show!” her son joked, and Hope eventually laughed too. She still fumbled buttons, shied at “update your system” messages as if someone meant to swap out all she’d grown used to. But with each day, the fear faded. She found the bus timetable, checked the weather online, even found a recipe like her mother’s, baking the pie and sharing the photo: “Remembered Grandma’s way.” Hearts and applause followed. She realised she checked the landline less and less. It still hung on the wall, but was no longer her lifeline. One evening, under the mellow dusk, she sat reading the family chat: work photos from her son, Daisy’s friend selfies, Arthur’s irreverent jokes. Scattered among theirs, her own—her tomatoes, her recipe, her questions about medicine. She saw she was no longer just an onlooker. She missed half the slang and rarely deployed a perfect emoji. But she was there, read, answered, liked—Daisy’s term. A new message pinged. Daisy: “Gran, algebra test tomorrow. Can I ring and moan after?” She smiled. Typed slow and steady: “Call me. I’m always here to listen.” Sent. She left her smartphone by her teacup. The house was still, but it no longer felt lonely. Somewhere beyond bricks and windows, voices and messages were waiting. She wasn’t part of “the in-crowd,” as Arthur put it, but she’d found her own nook in this world of screens. Hope finished her tea, switched off the kitchen light, and as she left, glanced at the phone—a small, quiet link to her loved ones. For now, that was enough.

Morning always arrived in the same peculiar way for Margaret Hopkins. The sun crept timidly past her

La vida

The Summer Ground Rules When the commuter train screeched to a halt at the tiny English country platform, Mrs Margaret Evans was already standing at the very edge, clutching her canvas tote bag to her chest. In the bag, apples rolled around, there was a jar of homemade strawberry jam, and a plastic container filled with sausage rolls. None of it was really necessary—the kids arrived well-fed from London, with their rucksacks and tote bags—but her hands automatically reached for things to prepare. The train jolted, its doors slid open, and out spilled three figures at once: lanky, long-legged Jamie, his younger sister Lucy, and a rucksack that seemed to have a life of its own. “Gran!” Lucy spotted her first, waving so hard her bracelets jingled. Margaret felt something warm rising in her chest. She carefully set the bag down so she wouldn’t drop it, and opened her arms. “Oh, you two have—” She wanted to say “grown,” but bit her tongue in time. They already knew. Jamie came over a little slower and gave her a one-armed hug while keeping a grip on his backpack. “Hi, Nan,” he said. He was already almost a head taller than she was. A hint of stubble on his chin, thin wrists, headphones peeking from under his t-shirt. Margaret caught herself looking for the little boy who used to run across their allotment in wellies, but her eyes always landed on those grown-up, unfamiliar details. “Grandad’s waiting in the car park,” she said. “Come on, let’s get going or the fishcakes will go cold.” “Just a quick snap,” Lucy already had her phone out, snapping photos of the platform, the carriage, and Margaret herself. “For my story.” The word “story” flitted past Margaret’s ear like a bird. She’d asked her daughter what it meant last winter, but the explanation had slipped away. The main thing was that her granddaughter was smiling. They clattered down the cement steps. At the bottom, next to the old, battered Land Rover, stood Mr Walter Evans. He stepped forward, gave Jamie a clap on the shoulder, hugged Lucy, and nodded to his wife. He was always more reserved, but Margaret knew he was just as happy as she was. “So, summer holidays?” he asked. “Summer,” Jamie drawled, tossing his bag in the boot. On the drive home, the kids quieted down. Out the window stretched little cottages, kitchen gardens, a few sheep, the odd goat meandering about. Lucy scrolled through her phone once or twice; Jamie laughed at his screen. Margaret realised she was watching their hands, fingers always tapping oversized black rectangles. Never mind, she told herself. As long as home feels like home. The rest—let them do as they do these days. They arrived to the welcoming smell of frying fishcakes and fresh dill. On the terrace, the old wooden table was covered with a lemon-patterned oilcloth. The frying pan sizzled on the hob, and in the oven a cabbage pie was browning. “Wow, feast!” said Jamie, peeking into the kitchen. “It’s not a feast, it’s lunch,” Margaret replied automatically, and then caught herself. “Well, come on, wash your hands. Over there, in the scullery.” Lucy was already back on her phone. While Margaret set out salad, bread, fishcakes, she noticed Lucy sneaking photos of the plates, the window, their cat Molly peeking cautiously from under a chair. “No phones at the table,” she said offhandedly, once everyone was seated. Jamie looked up. “You what?” “Exactly what I said,” Walter chimed in. “Eat first—then do whatever you like.” Lucy hesitated for a moment, then set her phone face-down by her plate. “I just want to take a pic—” “You’ve taken enough already,” Margaret said gently. “Let’s eat now, posting comes after.” The word “posting” felt awkward on her tongue. She wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be called, but decided it would do. Jamie, after a moment’s pause, also laid his phone at the edge of the table, as if being asked to take off his helmet in a spaceship. “Here, we do things by the schedule,” she continued, pouring squash. “Lunch at one, supper at seven. Up by nine in the morning. After that—off you go, whatever you please.” “By nine…” Jamie echoed. “What if I want to watch a film at night?” “Night’s for sleeping,” Walter said, not looking up from his plate. A taut, invisible thread stretched between them. Margaret hastily added, “We’re not running a barracks, you know. Just, if you sleep past lunch, the day’s gone and you’ll see nothing. There’s the river, the woods, bikes to ride.” “I want the river,” Lucy said quickly. “And to try the bike. Oh, and a mini photo shoot in the orchard.” The mention of a “photo shoot” sounded less alien now. “Exactly,” Margaret nodded. “But first, a little help. Weeding potatoes, watering strawberries. You’re not here as guests of honour.” “Gran, it’s our holiday…” Jamie started, but Walter met his eyes. “It’s a holiday, not a hotel.” Jamie sighed but didn’t argue. Under the table, Lucy nudged his trainer with her shoe and he gave a faint grin. After lunch, the kids headed off to unpack. Margaret checked in half an hour later. Lucy had already draped t-shirts over a chair, lined up her makeup and charger, perfume bottles crowding the sill. Jamie sat on his bed scrolling through his phone. “I’ve put fresh bedding on—you let me know if you need anything, all right?” “All fine, Nan,” Jamie replied, eyes fixed on the screen. She winced a little at his “fine.” But nodded. “Barbeque tonight,” she said. “Rest up for a bit, then come out to the garden. We’ll do an hour or two.” “Sure,” Jamie said. She left, closed the door, and paused in the hallway. Through Lucy’s room, she could hear muffled laughter and video chat. Margaret suddenly felt old. Not in an aching-back way, but as if her grandchildren’s lives ran on some hidden, unreachable track. Never mind, she told herself. We’ll work it out. The main thing—not to push too hard. That evening, as the sun tilted low, the three stood in the kitchen garden. The earth was warm, dry grass crackled underfoot. Walter showed Lucy which were weeds and which were carrots. “Pull out these, leave those,” he explained. “What if I mess up?” Lucy asked, crouching uncertainly. “No one’s going to the gallows for a rogue carrot,” Margaret interjected. “Not the end of the world.” Jamie hung back with a hoe, peering now and then at the house. From his window upstairs, the faint blue glow of his monitor flashed on and off. “Not worried about losing your phone out here?” Walter asked him. “Left it in my room,” Jamie muttered. Margaret was more pleased by this than she’d ever have admitted. The first few days struck a fragile balance. In the morning she’d knock on doors to wake them, to groans and shuffling. Still, by half-nine they’d appear in the kitchen. Breakfast, a bit of help with chores, then off: Lucy choreographing photo shoots with Molly and strawberries for her social media; Jamie reading, music in his headphones, or out on the bike. The rules existed in small things: phones set aside at meals, night-time quiet in the house. Only once, on the third night, did Margaret hear muffled laughter behind Jamie’s door, checked the clock—half twelve. Shall I let it go? Or intervene? The laughter came again, then a familiar ping. She sighed, pulled on her dressing gown, and knocked softly. “Jamie, not asleep?” Silence, then a whisper. “Coming—” He opened the door, blinking in the hallway light, hair tousled, eyes red-rimmed, phone in hand. “What are you doing up?” “Just…watching a film.” “Past midnight?” “The lads and I—well, we’re all watching it ‘together,’ texting…” She pictured half a dozen teenagers in bedrooms around England, chatting about the same film. “Look, how about this,” she said. “I don’t mind the film. But if you’re up all hours, I’ll never get you working in the garden. Until midnight, all right? After that—sleep.” He pulled a face. “But they—” “They’re in London; you’re here. Our house, our ways. It’s not like I’m saying bed at nine.” He scratched his head, thinking it over. “Fine,” he said in the end. “Midnight.” “And close the door, keep the noise down,” she added. “And screen brightness low.” Back to bed, Margaret wondered if she’d gone soft. In her day she’d have been stricter with her daughter. But times had changed. Small conflicts arose: one hot morning, Margaret asked Jamie to help Walter shift planks to the shed. “Just finishing this,” he said, not looking up. Ten minutes later, he was still outside, eyes on the screen, planks untouched. “Jamie—Grandad’s already started on his own,” her voice sharper. “I’ll be there. I’ve got to finish this!” “What is it you’re always doing? You’re not running MI6 over there.” His head shot up. “This is important! It’s a team tournament—if I leave now the lads will lose.” She nearly insisted that some things mattered more than games, but his hunched shoulders, tightened mouth stopped her. “How much longer?” “Twenty minutes.” “Fine. Twenty minutes, then out to help. Deal?” He nodded, eyes dropping to the screen. In twenty minutes, she found him lacing his trainers, ready to go. Small deals, she found, gave the illusion of control. But sometimes, everything still flared out of hand. Mid-July, just as they were planning a trip to the local market for seedlings and groceries, Walter asked for help—bags were heavy, car shouldn’t be left unattended long. “Jamie, you’re coming to the market with me tomorrow,” Margaret announced over supper. “Lucy and I will be home making jam.” “I can’t,” Jamie said quickly. “Why not?” “I’ve already arranged to go into town with mates. There’s a festival—bands, food trucks—” He glanced at Lucy, who merely shrugged. “I told you already.” Margaret didn’t remember. Maybe he had mentioned it, but with all the conversations, it was hard to keep straight. “Which town?” Walter’s brow furrowed. “Our one—the next stop on the train. Not far from the station.” “Do you even know the way?” Walter pressed. “There’ll be loads of us. Anyway, I’m sixteen now.” “Sixteen” came out as a trump card against all objections. “It was agreed with your dad, no wandering off alone,” Walter said. “I’m not alone—going with friends.” “That’s even worse.” Tension thickened the air; Lucy quietly pushed back her plate. “How about this,” Margaret tried, “You both go to the market tonight, Jamie can go into town tomorrow.” “Market’s only on in the morning,” Walter snapped. “Help means help. I can’t carry everything alone.” “I could help,” Lucy volunteered unexpectedly. “You’ll be with your grandmother,” Walter replied automatically. “I’ll be fine,” Margaret said briskly. “Jam can wait. Let Lucy help you.” Walter looked at her—surprised, grateful, and something else, stubborn. “And he gets off free?” He nodded at Jamie. “I just—” Jamie started. “You do realise this isn’t London,” Walter’s voice harsher, “We have to look out for you here.” “Someone’s always looking after me,” Jamie burst out. “Can’t I take responsibility for once?” Silence. Margaret felt squeezed inside. She wanted to say she understood, that she’d once craved that same “independence,” but instead heard herself say, dry and strange: “While you’re here, you live by our rules.” Jamie pushed his chair back. “Fine. I won’t go anywhere then.” He left the kitchen, door slamming. Upstairs, a muffled thud soon followed—a tossed rucksack or Jamie flopping onto his bed. Tension hung over the evening. Lucy tried to lighten things with tales of a YouTuber, but laughter sounded forced. Walter stayed quiet, gazing at his plate. Margaret washed dishes, her words about “our rules” echoing, sharp as a spoon on glass. She woke that night to unnatural silence. Usually, the house breathed: floorboards creaked, a mouse somewhere busied itself, the distant sound of a car would drift by. Now, nothing. No light glowed under Jamie’s door. Maybe at least he’s sleeping, she thought, turning over. Downstairs next morning, not quite nine. Lucy was yawning at the table. Walter sipped tea, rustling the newspaper. “Where’s Jamie?” Margaret asked. “Asleep,” Lucy guessed. Margaret climbed the stairs and knocked. “Jamie, time to get up.” No reply. She opened the door. The bed had been sloppily made—typical of his not-bothered effort—but he was absent. Hoodie on the chair, charger by the desk. No phone. Something sank in her chest. “He’s not there,” she told Walter downstairs. “Not there?” Walter stood up. The three searched the garden and outbuildings. The bike was still in place. “First train’s at 8:40,” Walter murmured, watching the lane. “Maybe he’s with the village kids—” “What village kids? He doesn’t know any here.” Lucy pulled out her phone. “I’ll text him.” Her thumbs flew over the screen. A minute later, she glanced up. “No reply. Just a single tick.” Single tick meant nothing to Margaret, but the expression on Lucy’s face said enough. “So what now?” Margaret asked Walter. He hesitated. “I’ll check the station—see if anyone’s seen him.” “Are you sure?” Margaret asked anxiously. “Maybe he just—” “He’s disappeared without a word,” Walter cut her off. “It’s not nothing.” He dressed rapidly, took the car keys. “You stay here,” he told Margaret. “In case he comes home. Lucy, if you hear from him, let us know straight away.” As the car pulled out, Margaret stood on the terrace, clutching a dishcloth. Images whirled in her mind: Jamie waiting for the train, boarding, being pushed onto the tracks, losing his phone, worse…She pulled herself up sharp. Calm down. He’s not a child. He’s not a fool. An hour crawled by. Another. Lucy checked her phone often, shaking her head. “Still nothing. He’s not even online.” At eleven, Walter returned looking exhausted. “No one’s seen him. I went to the station—even up to the high street…” He trailed off. Margaret understood: there was no sign of him. “Maybe he just went to the festival after all,” she suggested. “Town’s not far.” “Without cash, without anything?” Walter frowned. “He’s got his card,” Lucy chimed in. “And Apple Pay.” They all exchanged looks; for the adults, money meant wallet, for the kids it existed somewhere in the ether. “Shall we ring his dad?” Margaret suggested. “Ring,” nodded Walter. “He’ll find out anyway.” The call was tough. Her son was silent, then angry, then questioning why they hadn’t kept a closer eye. Margaret listened, feeling an ache of weariness. After hanging up, she sat at the kitchen stool, covering her face. “Gran,” Lucy said gently, “he’s not gone for good. Truly. He just got upset. He’ll be back.” “He left angry and without a word,” Margaret whispered. “Like we’re his enemies.” The day dragged endlessly. They tried to keep busy: jam jars to fill, Walter fussed in the shed, but everything felt forced. Lucy’s phone stayed silent. Evening fell, the sun low behind the houses, when there was a faint sound on the terrace. Margaret, sitting with a half-drunk mug of tea, startled. The old gate squeaked. Jamie appeared. Same t-shirt, jeans dusted, rucksack over his shoulder. Tired but in one piece. “Hullo,” he said quietly. Margaret got to her feet. For a moment she almost threw her arms around him, but held back. Instead, she simply asked: “Where have you been?” “The festival,” he mumbled, looking down. “In town.” “On your own?” “With some people from the next village—arranged it online.” Walter came out, drying his hands. “You realize how we—” his voice cracked. “I messaged,” Jamie insisted. “Lost signal, then my phone died. Forgot my charger.” Lucy was already next to him, phone in hand. “I texted too—always just one tick on my end.” “Didn’t mean for that,” Jamie said, meeting their eyes in turn. “I just thought…if I asked, you’d say no. But I’d already made plans. So I…” He trailed off. “So you thought, better not to ask,” Walter finished. Another silence, less angry, more tired than before. “Come in and eat,” Margaret said at last. He obeyed, wolfing down a bowl of soup and bread, drank a whole glass of squash. “It’s expensive there,” he muttered, “those posh food trucks.” When they’d finished, they moved back to the terrace. The sun had nearly set, air cool. “Right,” Walter began, settling on the bench, “you want some freedom. Fair enough. But we’re responsible for you while you’re here. We can’t just not care where you are.” Jamie stared at the floor. “If you want to go anywhere,” Walter said, “you tell us in advance. Not the night before—at least a day ahead. We’ll all sit down, talk it through. Check the trains, when you’re back, who you’re with. If it’s okay, you go. If not, you don’t. But disappearing on your own—not happening.” “And if you say no?” Jamie asked. “Then you can sulk, but you’re coming to the market,” Margaret put in. He watched her, face clouded with hurt, tiredness, and something like confusion. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said softly. “Just wanted to decide for myself.” “Making your own choices is part of growing up,” she said. “But taking responsibility means thinking about those who worry as well.” She was surprised at her own words—plainly said, not a lecture. He sighed. “Fine. I get it.” “And if your phone dies,” Walter added, “find somewhere to charge it—cafe, station, whatever. But message us first. Even if we’re cross.” “Okay,” Jamie nodded. They sat a while, the distant bark of a dog, Molly mewing in the vegetable patch. “How was the festival then?” Lucy asked at last. “It was all right. Music wasn’t great but the food was good.” “Got any pics?” “Phone died.” “Well, that’s that—no evidence, no content,” she shrugged. Jamie managed a faint smile. After that day, something shifted in the house. The rules stayed, but softened, more flexible. Margaret and Walter sat down together and wrote up what they thought mattered: up by ten at the latest, two hours’ help each day, always say where you’re going, no phones at mealtimes. The sheet went on the fridge. “Like being at camp,” Jamie joked. “Family camp,” she said. Lucy put up her own list of rules: “You don’t call me every five minutes when I’m at the river, and don’t come in my room without knocking.” “We never do,” Margaret replied, surprised. “Write it anyway,” Jamie insisted, “just for fairness.” So they added two more lines. Walter grumbled, but signed it. Suddenly shared activities stopped feeling like chores. One evening Lucy dragged an ancient board game onto the terrace. “Let’s play after dinner?” “I used to love this,” Jamie perked up. Walter grumbled about jobs in the garage, but sat at the table anyway. Turned out he remembered the rules better than anyone. They all laughed, bickered, cheated at the dice. Phones were left forgotten. Cooking became another shared thing. One Saturday, Margaret announced: “You two are cooking tonight. I’ll only say where things are.” “Us?” they chorused. “You. Anything—so long as it’s edible.” They took it on in earnest: Lucy found some trendy recipe online, Jamie chopped veg, arguing about technique. The house filled with onion and spices, dishes stacked up, but something light and festive was in the air. “Don’t blame me when we’re queuing for the loo,” Walter quipped, but cleared his plate. Chores got less traditional: Margaret assigned them “personal patches” in the garden. “Lucy, your row is strawberries. Jamie, yours is carrots. Do what you like, water or ignore it. No complaints if nowt grows.” “Fair test,” Jamie declared. “Control group and experiment,” Lucy agreed. By the end of August, Lucy’s basket brimmed with strawberries, Jamie had a couple of withered carrots. “Conclusions?” Margaret asked. “Carrots aren’t for me,” Jamie said earnestly. Everyone laughed. No tension left behind. As August waned, the house developed its own, comfortable rhythm. Breakfast together, day’s own pursuits, regrouping at supper. Jamie still sometimes stayed up with his phone, but at midnight he switched off the light himself; Margaret, passing his door, heard only the peace of sleep. Lucy could be off with friends to the river, but always texted to say where and when she’d be home. Arguments still flared: over music, how much salt for soup, whether to wash up straight away or leave it. Now, more jostling than generational war—just the tune of living under one roof. Their last night, Margaret baked an apple pie. The house smelled sweet, the terrace door let in a cool breeze. Rucksacks packed, jumpers folded by the door. “Let’s have a photo,” Lucy said after pie was sliced. “Not for all your—” Walter started, then let it go. “Just for us,” Lucy assured him. “Not even to post.” They gathered in the garden. The sun dipped behind the houses, brushing the apple trees with gold. Lucy perched her phone on an upturned bucket, set the timer, dashed back. “Gran in the middle, Grandad on the right, Jamie on the left—come on.” A bit awkward, shoulder to shoulder. Margaret felt Jamie’s elbow gently touch hers, Walter inch closer, Lucy’s arm almost around them all. “Everyone smile.” A click, then another. “Done,” Lucy checked the phone, grinned. “Perfect.” “Let’s see,” Margaret asked. There they all were, a mismatched bunch: Margaret still in her apron, Walter in his weathered old shirt, Jamie with wild hair, Lucy in her brightest t-shirt. But the way they leaned in—not just a family, but a team. “Can I get this printed?” Margaret asked. “Of course—I’ll send it to you,” Lucy said. “But how will I print it if it’s on the phone?” Margaret fretted. “I’ll show you,” Jamie offered. “Come to ours, we’ll do it together. Or I’ll bring a copy in autumn.” Margaret nodded. Inside, she felt at peace. Not that they all understood each other perfectly—plenty of room for more arguments. But somewhere, between old rules and new freedoms, a little pathway had been cleared. Late that evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Margaret sat outside on the step. The sky folded overhead, just a few stars behind the old rooftops. The house was quiet. Walter joined her with a soft creak of wood. “They’re off tomorrow,” he said. “They are,” Margaret echoed. They sat silently. “You know,” Walter added, “all things told—it worked out.” “It did,” Margaret agreed. “And I think maybe we all learnt something.” “Yes, but who learnt from whom is the question,” he chuckled. Margaret smiled. The window of Jamie’s room was dark. So was Lucy’s. On the nightstand, she imagined, Jamie’s phone was charging quietly, gathering strength for whatever tomorrow might bring. Margaret got up, closed the door, and, pausing by the fridge, glanced at the paper of their ground rules. Edges a bit curled, the pen beside it. She traced her signature—and the others—and wondered, next summer, maybe they’d rewrite the list. Add a rule or two, take something off. But the main things would still be there. Switching off the kitchen light, she felt the house settle, breathing in all the summer had brought, leaving space for whatever came next.

Summer Ground Rules 14th July As the train pulled up to the tiny rural station, I was already waiting

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My Mother-in-Law Suggested We Move into Her Flat—But Clearly She Had an Agenda —Thank you so much for offering, that’s very generous. But we’ll have to say no. My mother-in-law’s face fell. —Why is that? Are you just too proud? —No, not proud. We’ve just settled in. Switching schools in the middle of the year is stressful for the kids. Besides, we’re used to it here. We’ve just renovated, everything’s new. And at your place… — Kristina paused, choosing her words, then decided to be direct. — You’ve got lots of precious memories and things there. The kids are small, something will get broken or stained. Why put ourselves through that stress? When Kristina got home from work, her husband was standing in the hall, clearly waiting for her. She took off her shoes, walked silently into the bedroom to change, then headed for the kitchen. Her husband trailed behind, silent. Kristina couldn’t take it: —Are we going to start this again? I already said: no! Denis let out a long sigh. —Mum called again today. Says her blood pressure’s up. It’s hard for her over there, Granddad and Grandma have gotten very frail, acting like kids. She can’t cope on her own. —And? — Kristina took a sip of cold water, staving off rising irritation. — She chose to live at the cottage. She rents the flat out and gets money, gets fresh air. She liked it there. —She liked it until she had the energy. Now she’s moaning it’s boring and hard. Well… — Denis took a deep breath. — She’s suggested we move into her three-bed. Kristina stared at him, barked: —No. —Why say “no” right away? You didn’t even hear me out! — Denis threw up his hands. — Look: it’s a great area. Fifteen minutes from your office, twenty from mine. The language school’s just across the road, the nursery’s in the yard. No more commuting in traffic! And we could rent out this place, the mortgage would pay for itself. We’d even have some money left over. —Denis, do you hear yourself? — Kristina got right up close. — We’ve lived here two and a half years. I chose a spot for every plug socket in this place! The kids have friends next door. This is finally our home. Ours! —What does it matter where you live if you’re only home to sleep? We’re spending two hours a night just getting back from work! — he parried. — It’s an old building, high ceilings, thick walls, you can’t hear the neighbours. —And the décor was outdated even when I was at school, — Kristina shot back. — Have you forgotten the smell in there? And most of all, it isn’t our home. It’s Anna Leonidovna’s. —Mum says she won’t interfere. She’ll stay at the cottage, just wants to know her flat’s being looked after. Kristina gave a bitter smile. —Denis, do you have the memory of a goldfish? Remember how we bought this flat? Her husband looked away. Of course, he remembered. They’d spent seven years in rentals, saving every penny. When they finally had enough for a deposit, Denis had gone to his mum. The plan was perfect: sell mum’s big flat in the centre, buy her a nice two-bed and something decent for the two of them. Anna Leonidovna nodded and smiled, saying, “Of course, you need more space.” They’d already lined up options, already dreamed. But on the very day they were supposed to meet the agent, she called. —Remember what she said? — Kristina continued. — “I’ve been thinking… My area is so prestigious, the neighbours are so civilised. How can I go to your new build with all those people? No, I don’t want to.” So we went to the bank, took out a huge mortgage and got this place five miles outside the M25. Ourselves. Without her “prestigious” square meters. —Well, she was afraid of change, her age and all, — muttered Denis. — She’s different now. She’s lonely. Wants the grandkids close. —The grandkids? She sees them once a month when we visit with groceries. Then after half an hour she’s sighing because the noise gives her a migraine. Six-year-old Artyom ran into the kitchen, four-year-old Liza at his heels. —Mum, Dad, we’re hungry! — Artyom shouted. — And Liza broke my plane! I spent three hours building it, and she smashed it… —That’s not true! — squeaked Liza. — He dropped it himself! Kristina exhaled. —Right, go wash your hands. Dinner soon. Did Daddy cook pasta? —I did, — Denis muttered. — And sausages. While the kids banged chairs and Kristina dished out food, the subject was dropped. They didn’t pick it up again until bedtime. *** Saturday, they had to go to the cottage — Anna Leonidovna called in the morning, saying Grandpa’s medicine had run out and she “felt pressure in her chest”. The drive took an hour and a half. Anna Leonidovna met them at the door. At sixty-three she looked amazing: hair done, nails, a dainty silk scarf at her neck. —Oh, you made it, — she held out her cheek for a kiss. — Kristina, have you put on weight? Or is it just the blouse? —Hello, Anna Leonidovna. The blouse is just loose, — Kristina swallowed the jab as always. They went inside; the mother-in-law’s parents were dozing in front of the telly. Kristina greeted them, but they just nodded. —Tea? — asked Anna Leonidovna, heading to the kitchen. — I’ve got biscuits, a bit stale… I haven’t been shopping, my legs ache. —We brought cake, — Denis put the box on the table. — Mum, let’s talk. About the flat… Anna Leonidovna perked up. —Yes, yes, Denis. I’m nearly done here; the air is nice, nature, my parents need care. But in winter? It’s deathly boring. Meanwhile, the flat is standing empty, other people are in it, ruining everything. Breaks my heart! —Mum, your tenants are decent, a family, — Denis interjected. —Decent! — she snorted. — Last time I checked, the curtain was crooked. And it smelled… not right. So why are you stuck in the sticks? Move in with me. There’s plenty of room. Kristina glanced at her husband. —Anna Leonidovna, where do you plan to live? — she asked directly. Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows in surprise. —Where? Here, of course. With my parents. Well, maybe sometimes I’ll come to check on things, have blood tests at my clinic. I know all the doctors at our surgery. —How often is “sometimes”? — Kristina clarified. —Oh, maybe a couple of times a week. Or for a week, if the weather’s bad. I’ve got my room there, my bedroom. Don’t put the kids in it, they can have the big room. But my bedroom must stay as it is. Just in case. Kristina bristled. —So, you’re offering us the three-bed, but want us to keep one room just for you? So we’d live with the kids in two? —Why lock it? — Anna Leonidovna looked baffled. — Use it, just don’t move my things. Or the china cabinet. The crystal stays. And the books. Denis, remember? Don’t touch the library! Denis shifted awkwardly. —Mum, if we do move in, we’ll need to sort things out – make a kids’ room, set up beds… —Why beds? There’s a great sofa, still good! You dad bought it. No need to spend money! Kristina stood. —Denis, can we speak outside for a minute? She stepped onto the porch, not waiting for her husband. He followed, casting anxious glances at the door. —Did you hear that? — Kristina hissed. — “Don’t touch the sofa”, “my room”, “I’ll visit for a week”. Do you get what that means? —Kristin, she’s just afraid of change… —No, Denis! We’d just be unpaid caretakers! Can’t even move a cupboard! She’ll drop in any time, use her key, and tell me how to hang curtains, boil soup and make beds! —But it’s closer for work… — he tried weakly. —I don’t care! I’d rather sit in traffic for two hours and come home to a place that’s mine, where I make the rules. Denis was silent, looking at his shoes. He understood. Of course he understood. The easy way out had clouded his thinking. —And another thing, — Kristina crossed her arms. — Remember the ‘flat swap’? She let us down then because “being posh” was more important. Now she’s bored. She just wants company — us nearby, someone to nag. Just then, Anna Leonidovna appeared in the doorway. —What are you whispering about out here? Kristina turned to her. —We won’t put you out. We’re not moving. —Nonsense, — her mother-in-law huffed. — Denis, why are you letting your wife decide everything? Denis raised his head. —Mum, Kristina’s right, — he said, firmly. — We’re not moving. We have our own home. Anna Leonidovna pursed her lips. She knew she’d lost, but wouldn’t admit it. —Suit yourselves. I was only trying to help. Go on, keep wasting your lives in traffic jams. Just don’t complain later. —We won’t, — Denis promised. — Shall we head off, Mum? Do you need any more medicine or anything? —I need nothing from you, — she said, turning on her heel and slamming the door. They drove back in silence. By then, traffic at the city entrance had cleared, but there was still a red spot on the sat-nav near their area. —Are you mad? — Kristina asked as they stopped at the lights. Denis shook his head. —No. I pictured Artyom jumping on Dad’s old sofa and Mum having a heart attack. You’re right. It was a bad idea. —I don’t mind helping, Denis, — she said softly, patting his knee. — We’ll bring food, medicine. Get a carer if it gets hard. But we’re living separately. Distance is key to a good relationship. —Especially with my mum, — he said, wryly. *** Of course, Anna Leonidovna held a grudge against her daughter-in-law and son. Turns out she had already evicted the tenants, certain her son and his wife would move in. She badgered Denis for nearly a month. But Denis held firm—turns out, saying “no” isn’t that hard when it’s really needed.

Saturday, 25th September Today, once again, I found myself contemplating the tangled web that is my relationship

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Settling Old Scores with Shameless Relatives on a ‘Family Holiday’ in a Shabby Seaside Hotel: Two Exhausting Weeks, a Dramatic Farewell Dinner, and the Final Showdown That Changed Everything

On Holiday with Brazen Relatives: Time to Lay It All Bare Ive put up with this, Tomtwo whole weeks in

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A Bench for Two: How Chance Meetings in the Local Park Gave New Meaning to Everyday Life for Nadine and Stephen in Their Later Years

A Bench for Two The snow has melted away, but the ground in the park is still dark with dampness, and

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When I Boarded the Plane, I Discovered Our Seats Were Taken: How My Wife and I Handled an Entitled Parent Who Refused to Move and the Flight Attendant Quickly Resolved the Situation

As I boarded the plane, everything felt wrapped in a peculiar haze, like the sky itself had forgotten

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You’re Taking Advantage of Grandma—She Looks After Your Child but Won’t Even Watch Mine on Weekends There are times in life when we need a quick fix to a problem, just as Laura did. My son is now four years old. There’s no doubt he’s perfect for me. He’s not exactly well-behaved, but are any four-year-olds really angels? They all get up to mischief. Meanwhile, I’m expecting my second child—and that’s where everything began. When I went for my next antenatal appointment, I was sent straight to the hospital—there was cause for concern. No time for delays. The big question was: who would look after my son? My husband was away on a business trip, due back in ten days. My parents were both at work, and no other relatives were available. Then Grandma stepped in and offered to help—she said she’d watch my son until I was discharged. She’s seventy, and he’s energetic, so I didn’t know if she could manage, but what choice did I have? The plan was made. My parents work in the private sector, so they offered to look after their grandson in the evenings, and Grandma would take care of him during the day. It was decided. Still, I worried—after all, he’s my son, and I had no choice. I rang Grandma for updates, only to discover they’d found their own way together. The week flew by, and when my husband returned, he took over. Soon, I was due to come home. Then my sister rang in a rage, saying I’d taken advantage. Her daughter is two, and no matter how she begged, Grandma wouldn’t agree to mind her, even for a weekend, claiming the little one was just too young. ‘You’re spoiling Grandma!’ my sister accused. I explained: I was in a tricky situation—I couldn’t bring my son to hospital with me. I’d asked for my sister’s help, but she refused. Now she wanted to send her daughter to Grandma just so she could relax and take a break. There’s a big difference between leaving a two-year-old and a four-year-old with an elderly lady. Why not take her to her own grandparents? ‘They won’t look after her,’ she said. ‘I have to be on duty all the time.’ I think my sister’s got it wrong—two-year-olds and four-year-olds are worlds apart. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t leave my son with relatives, but my sister insists I’ve taken advantage of Grandma.

Youre taking advantage of Gran. She looks after your child but wont even keep mine at the weekends!

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My Mother-in-Law Is Planning to Celebrate Her Birthday in Our Flat—Even Though Our Relationship Is Tense and I Have a Four-Month-Old Baby

It was many years ago, but I recall the day before my mother-in-laws birthday as if it were yesterday.

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The Children Came to Visit and Called Me a Poor Housekeeper The day before my birthday, I began preparing dishes for the celebration. I asked my husband to peel the vegetables and chop the salads, while I browned the meat and prepared the other dishes myself. I thought I had created a wonderful, hearty feast to treat my large family. On the morning of my birthday, my husband and I went to the local bakery to buy a large, fresh cake that my grandchildren would surely enjoy. The first to arrive were my son, his wife, and their son, followed by my eldest daughter with her two children, and finally my middle daughter with her husband and their children. Everyone gathered around the table, clinking their spoons and forks in anticipation. It seemed that everyone enjoyed the food—there was more than enough for all. The grandchildren were so full they ended up dirtying the wallpaper with their sticky hands, and the adults managed to spill on the tablecloth. As we sat down for tea, my eldest daughter remarked: “You hardly put anything on the table… We’ve eaten, but what now?” Her words really struck me. While she meant it as a joke and the others laughed, I felt insulted. True, I always try to pack up a little something for the children, but it’s tough to feed such a big family. I only have small pans and a single oven, and I can’t spend my entire pension on one party. “Don’t worry, love,” my husband whispered to me in the kitchen as we fetched the cake, “it was all delicious—that’s why there wasn’t enough. You can just share your recipes with them next time, let them cook as well. And to be honest, perhaps next time they could bring something along. There’s so many of them and only two of us.” The Children Came to Visit and Called Me a Poor Housekeeper: A Birthday Feast, Unappreciated Effort, and a Lesson in Family Expectations

The children came to visit and called me a poor housekeeper. The day before my birthday, I started getting

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The Key in His Hand Rain drummed monotonously against the window of Michael’s flat, like a metronome ticking toward the end. He sat hunched on the edge of a sagging single bed, as if trying to shrink, to become invisible to his own fate. His large hands, once strong and skilled from years at the factory, now lay helplessly in his lap. Every so often, his fingers clenched, a futile attempt to grasp something intangible. He stared not just at the wall, but at the faded wallpaper as if reading a map of his hopeless routes: from NHS clinic to private diagnostic centre. His gaze was washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on the same frame. Another doctor, another patronising “Well, what do you expect at your age?” He didn’t get angry. Anger requires energy and he had none left. Only weariness remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom — it had become his entire landscape, a backdrop for every movement and thought, a white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He did everything prescribed: took the pills, rubbed in creams, lay on cold physiotherapy tables, feeling like a broken machine left in a junkyard. All the while he simply waited. Passively, almost religiously, he waited for someone — the state, an ingenious doctor, or a clever professor — to finally throw him a lifeline as he slowly sank into the quicksand. He peered at the horizon of his life but saw only the grey drizzle outside. Michael’s willpower, once enough to solve any problem at the factory or home, was now reduced to a single function: endure, and hope for a miracle. Family… He’d had one, but it evaporated, suddenly and completely. Time slipped by unnoticed. First his daughter left — clever Katie, off to London for a better life. He didn’t begrudge her. “Dad, I’ll help you as soon as I’ve settled,” she promised over the phone. It didn’t matter. Then his wife was gone too. Not just to the shops — forever. Rachel was consumed quickly by a merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left with his aching back and a silent reproach at still being alive. She, his rock, his spark, his Rach, faded in three months. He cared for her as best he could. Until her cough grew ragged and her eyes lost that escaping twinkle. The last thing she said, clutching his hand in the hospital, was “Hang in there, Mike…” He didn’t. He broke completely. Katie called, urged him to come live in her rented flat, coaxing him. But what for? He’d only be a burden. Besides, she had no plans to move back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited him. Once a week, like clockwork, bringing soup in a container, pasta with a homemade fish cake, and another packet of painkillers. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, taking off her coat. He nodded: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as Val tidied his bedsit — as if making order in his things could tidy up his life. Then she’d leave behind a trace of unfamiliar perfume and the faint, physical sense of a duty discharged. He was grateful. And endlessly lonely. Not just physically alone — it was a cell built from his own helplessness, grief, and quiet resentment toward an unfair world. One particularly bleak evening, his wandering gaze landed on a key lying on the well-trodden carpet. He must have dropped it coming home from the surgery. Just a key. Nothing special. A lump of metal. He stared at it, as if it were remarkable, not simply a key. It lay there. Silent. Waiting. He remembered his grandfather, vividly, as if someone had snapped on the light in a dark room. Grandad Peter, with an empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and, with one hand and a broken fork, tie his shoe laces. Slowly, deliberately, with a quiet victorious snort when it worked out. “Watch, Mikey,” he’d say, eyes twinkling with triumph over adversity. “There’s always a tool nearby. It might look like junk, but it’s an ally if you see it right.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just old man’s cheerful nonsense, a bedtime story for comfort. Grandad was a hero, and heroes could do anything. Michael was just ordinary, and his battle with pain and loneliness left no room for cutlery tricks. Now, looking at the key, that long-lost memory was no longer a comforting parable, but a reproach. Grandad hadn’t waited for help. He took what he had — a broken fork — and won. Not over pain, not over loss, but over helplessness. What had Michael taken? Nothing but bitter, passive waiting at the threshold of someone else’s charity. The thought jolted him. Right now, that simple key — that bit of metal ringing with his grandad’s words — seemed an unspoken command. He stood up — with the usual groan, ashamed even in an empty room. He shuffled two steps, reached down, joints cracking like shattered glass. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten — and the familiar white-hot knife of pain stabbed his back. He froze, gritting his teeth, until it eased. But this time, instead of collapsing back on the bed, he moved, cautious but determined, to the wall. He didn’t analyse. He just followed the urge. Turned his back to the wall. Pressed the flat end of the key against the wallpaper at the sorest spot. And gently, carefully, pushed his weight onto it. He wasn’t trying to “massage” or “treat” anything. This was no medical technique. It was just pressure. Blunt, deep, almost rude: pain pressed into pain, reality pressed into reality. He found a spot where the pressure didn’t bring a new spasm, but a strange, muffled relief — like something inside unclenched by a millimetre. He adjusted the key up, then down. Leaned again. Repeated. Every movement was slow, exploratory, listening to his body’s reply. It wasn’t therapy. It was a negotiation — and the key, not some fancy device, was the instrument. It was silly. He knew a key wasn’t a cure. But the next night, when pain surged again, he repeated the process. And again. He found points where pressure brought relief, as if he parted the crushing vice from within. Later, he used the doorframe for gentle stretching. The glass of water on the nightstand reminded him — drink, just drink. Water was free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a doorframe, the floor for easy stretches, and his own stubbornness. He started a notebook — not of pain, but of “key victories”: “Today managed to stand at the stove five minutes longer.” On the windowsill, he set three empty baked bean tins, planning to toss them. Instead, he filled them with soil from the patch outside his block. Stuck a few onion sets in each. Not a garden, but three little pots of life to tend. A month later, at his check-up, the doctor, scrutinising the new scans, raised an eyebrow. — There are changes. Have you been doing exercises? — Yes, Michael answered simply. — Using things to hand. He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael knew. Salvation didn’t sail in on a rescue ship. It lay on the carpet all along, as he stared at the wall, waiting for someone to turn the light on in his life. One Wednesday, when Val came with soup, she froze on the doorstep. There, in the windowsill tins, young green shoots flourished. The room smelled not of stale air and medicine, but something else, something hopeful. “You… what is this?” she managed, looking at him, steady on his feet by the window. Michael, carefully watering his seedlings, turned and said, “A garden.” Then, after a pause, “Would you like some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” That evening, she stayed longer than usual. They had tea, and instead of health complaints, he described the stairs in the building — how he now managed one flight a day. Salvation hadn’t come in the form of Doctor Dolittle with a magic elixir. It came as a key, a doorframe, a tin, and an ordinary set of stairs. It hadn’t banished pain, or loss, or age. It just placed tools in his hands — not to win the war, but to fight his small, daily battles. And it turns out, when you stop waiting for a golden staircase from heaven and notice the plain old concrete one beneath you, climbing it—slowly, surely, step by step—is life itself. And on the windowsill, in three tin cans, the juiciest green onions grew. The finest garden in the world.

Key in Hand The rain thunked against the window of his tiny London flat with all the cheeriness of a