Harlan Covington

On the Edge of This Summer Working at the library, Dana considered her life dull—there were few visitors these days, as everyone was online. She often rearranged books on the shelves, dusting them off, but the highlight of her job was reading countless books of every genre: romance, philosophy… And by thirty, she realized that romance had somehow passed her by. At her age, she should probably start a family, but she wasn’t striking in appearance, her job paid little. It had never really crossed her mind to change her job, since she was content. The library mainly saw students, and occasionally schoolchildren or pensioners. Recently, a professional competition was held at the county level and, to her own astonishment, Dana won the grand prize—a fully paid two-week holiday by the seaside. “That’s fantastic. I’ll definitely go,” she cheerfully told her friend and mother. “On my salary I’d never get this far—this is happiness handed to me!” Summer was drawing to a close. Dana walked along the deserted beach; most holidaymakers were at cafes, since today the sea was especially rough. It was her third day at the seaside, and she wanted to stroll the shoreline alone, think, and dream. Suddenly, she saw a young man swept off the pier by a wave. Without a thought for herself, she rushed to help—it was close to shore, and though not a strong swimmer, she could manage in the water. The waves helped her pull the boy, holding him by the collar, until she finally managed to stand waist-deep on solid ground. One idea filled her mind: stay on her feet. She finally managed it. Standing there in her lovely dress, now clinging to her body, she looked at the boy in surprise. “He’s only fourteen, maybe a bit older, just tall and a little taller than me,” she thought and asked, “What were you thinking, swimming in this weather?” The boy got up, thanked her, and, swaying a little, walked off. Dana just shrugged and watched him go. The next morning, she woke with a smile—the weather was stunning, the sun shining bright, the sea sparkling blue and calm, apologising for yesterday’s roughness. After breakfast, she wandered down to the beach, basked in the sun, and later headed for a walk in the park. There, spotting a shooting range, she remembered her sharp aim from school and university. The first shot missed, but the second hit the target. “See, son, that’s how you shoot!” came a man’s voice behind her. She turned, surprised to see the boy from yesterday. The boy’s eyes flashed with fear—he recognised Dana—and she realised his father had no idea his son had nearly drowned. She smiled slightly. “Perhaps you can give us a lesson?” suggested the tall, friendly-looking man. “Zhenya here can’t shoot, and sadly, neither can I,” he added with a warm smile. Afterwards, they wandered together, enjoyed ice cream at a café, and rode the Ferris wheel. Dana half expected Zhenya’s mother to join them soon, but both father and son seemed content and were expecting no one. The boy’s father, introducing himself as Anton, was a fascinating conversationalist, intelligent, and with every passing minute Dana found herself ever more drawn to him. “Dana, have you been here long?” “No, just started my first week—I’ve got another left.” “And where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” As it turned out, father and son were from the same town as Dana. All three laughed. “Funny, isn’t it? We never met at home, but here—even by chance,” Anton smiled warmly, clearly taken by the charming, composed woman beside him. Zhenya, now at ease, chatted freely—realising Dana wouldn’t tell his dad about the previous day’s mishap. They parted late, Anton and Zhenya seeing Dana to her hotel, promising to meet the next morning. Dana arrived at the beach first; her new friends were nearly an hour late. “Morning!” came Anton’s familiar voice. “Forgive us, Dana, we totally forgot to set the alarm and overslept!” he laughed apologetically, settling beside her. “Dad, I’m going swimming,” said Zhenya, heading toward the water. But Dana shouted, “Wait! You can’t swim!” Anton looked surprised. “Of course he can, he does competitions at school,” he replied. Dana fell silent. Surely, he couldn’t swim? Perhaps she’d been mistaken. They all stayed in a neighbouring hotel. The next days were magical. They met every morning at the beach, parted late, went on sightseeing trips. Dana longed to talk with Zhenya alone—she felt he had something weighing on his mind. In fact, she learned father and son lodged in the neighbouring hotel. The chance soon came. One morning, only Zhenya appeared. “Hi. Dad’s got a fever,” he said, “but I asked if I could come—I told him you’d keep an eye on me,” he smiled. “Sorry I decided that, but I just didn’t want to sit cooped up.” “Zhenya, can I get your dad’s number to call and check on him?” He dictated it. “Hello?” answered Anton, “Maybe not a ‘good’ morning, feeling rough with a fever. Please look after my boy—he’s promised to do everything you ask…” “Don’t worry, just get well. He’s nearly grown and very sensible. I’ll look in later to check on you,” Dana assured him. After a swim, Zhenya sprawled on a sunbed beside Dana and said, “You know, you’re a real friend.” She looked at him, he smiled. “What makes you say that?” “Thanks for not telling Dad about what happened,” Zhenya said, blushing. “I was swept off the pier by a wave, and I panicked for a moment.” “You’re welcome,” Dana smiled, and after a pause, asked, “Zhenya, where’s your mum? Why are you here with just your dad?” Zhenya hesitated, thinking, but then seemed to decide he was grown up enough. Anton’s job sometimes took him away on business trips—Zhenya would stay with his mum, Marina. To everyone else, they looked like a happy family. But as it turned out, it was just an act—because of Marina. One day Anton told his wife, “I’m being sent to London for three weeks for training—afterwards, my boss hinted at a promotion and a pay raise…” His wife seemed pleased. While he was gone, Marina told Zhenya, “We’re having guests—my colleague Arthur and his daughter Kira. Arthur and I need to work on some plans, so you need to entertain Kira. She’s a couple years older than you.” Kira was lively, decisive. Soon, she suggested, “Let’s hang out in the park or something…” Marina agreed and handed her son twenty pounds. “Treat her to an ice cream!” The days passed. With Kira, Zhenya found new experiences—she was older, wise beyond her years. Before his father returned, Kira said, “Well, little man, lucky your dad’s finally coming back. Frankly, I’m tired of keeping you busy—it’s only to keep you out of the way while our parents have fun.” Zhenya was disgusted; still, he could no longer ignore the truth. Back home, he saw his mother’s coldness to his father. The family was on the verge of breaking. He considered whether to tell his dad. Soon enough, he overheard his parents argue. “Yes, I’ve been cheating. So what?” he heard his mother shout as he entered from training. “Nothing. I’ll just file for divorce. You don’t care for our son, so he’ll stay with me…,” said his father. “Fine,” his mother replied, “I’ll have another family.” Hearing the door slam as she left, Zhenya was certain—he wanted to stay with his dad. When Anton tried explaining everything, Zhenya said, “No need. I already know. I love you, and I think we’ll be better off alone.” “You’re a grown-up now,” his father ruffled his hair. “Stay in touch with your mum if you wish—she’s left me, not you.” But Zhenya wasn’t ready to forgive. After the beach, Dana and Zhenya brought fruit to Anton, now feeling better. He promised they’d be at the beach the next day. Three days later, father and son had to go home, but Dana still had two days left. Summer was ending. On the edge of that summer, they said goodbye. Anton promised to meet Dana at the airport; Zhenya smiled. Dana made no plans, just happily reread Anton’s affectionate messages, as he confessed he missed her already and looked forward to her return. Soon, Dana moved into Anton and Zhenya’s flat—perhaps most delighted of all was Zhenya, happy for his father, for himself, and for Dana.

At the Edge of This Summer Working quietly away in a sleepy village library, Diana sometimes felt her

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You Just Can’t Get Through to Him: The Story of Anna, a Stepmother Who Tried Everything for Her Husband and His Teenage Son—But Was Left Unseen, Unheard, and Unloved in Someone Else’s Home

You cant tell me what to do! Youre not my mum! Edward flung the plate into the sink, sending water and

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“I Think the Love Has Gone: Anna’s Story of 15 Years of Devotion, Sacrifice, and the Courage to Start Over After Heartbreak”

I think the love has faded. Youre the prettiest girl in this whole department, he said that day, handing

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Give Me a Reason: Anastasia’s Quiet Breakup, Denial, and the Unexpected Second Chance at Family

Give Me a Reason Friday, 7th February Have a lovely day, Tom murmured, brushing a quick kiss against

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“I Think the Love Has Gone: Anna’s Story of 15 Years of Devotion, Sacrifice, and the Courage to Start Over After Heartbreak”

I think the love has faded. Youre the prettiest girl in this whole department, he said that day, handing

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He’s Already 35 and Still Has No Wife or Children: A Mother’s Reflections on Raising an Only Son Alone and the Challenges of Letting Go

Hes already 35 and still has neither wife nor children. Last week, I was at my mother-in-laws house with my son.

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A Parent’s Heart: A Story Thank you so much for your support, for your likes, your engagement and comments on my stories, for following me, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five furry cats for your donations! Please do share any stories you enjoy on social media—it means the world to the author! “Why so glum this morning? Not even a hint of a smile—come on, let’s have breakfast.” Her husband strolled sleepily into the kitchen on their much-needed Saturday morning off. The sizzle of bacon and eggs filled the air, his wife poured out the tea. She plopped most of the eggs onto his plate along with a slice of bread. “Eat up, use your fork.” “Did I do something wrong, Natalie?” Arkady asked gently. “We did, both of us,” Natalie sighed, sitting down and picking at her breakfast, “We didn’t raise our kids right.” “Our daughter and son grew up—we denied ourselves so much while bringing them up. Times were tough, but we supported them all the way. Now who supports us, even just with a few kind words? All they have are problems—bored with life or skint, always the same with both Sarah and Jamie.” “That’s not fair—how do you know?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and happily spread butter and jam on fresh bread. “It’s easy for you—they tell me, their mother. Yesterday Jamie wanted to take his family bowling, asked me to loan him some money. I refused and he got in a strop. Sarah had just phoned before that, totally fed up with her singing career. She wants to earn her living from singing but it just isn’t working out. Sure, singing’s nice, but you need a real job, too! And those two—used to be thick as thieves, now they barely even speak.” Natalie set aside her barely-touched breakfast and took a sip of tea. “Don’t worry, love, things will work out,” Arkady tried to reassure her, but she only grew more agitated. “Oh, you call that advice, Archie? It’s you who should remember. We lived within our means—grateful for everything! When Jamie was born, such happiness. The pram and cot, all passed down from my friend and my sister. Second-hand, but the kids grow so fast. And we were happy! When we bought our old Ford Fiesta we thought we were lords of the manor! Our two? Unless they’ve been abroad, they reckon their lives are a failure—did we teach them that?” “Times are different, Nat, so many temptations—give them time, they’ll understand.” “I just hope it’s not too late, they’ll waste their lives chasing wealth and miss what really matters. It’s strange, looking in the mirror—have I really become a grandma? And you’re a granddad…” A phone call interrupted their talk—it was Jamie’s neighbour from the hospital. “Here we go again,” Natalie answered, and her expression changed with every word. “Arkady, get dressed quickly, Jamie’s been admitted to hospital—he’s hurt his hand badly with a power tool, they’re trying to save it, let’s hope it isn’t as bad as it sounds. Let’s go!” They rushed out, not young, but not old, with worry in their eyes. As they hurried, Sarah rang. “Mum, can I pop round at lunchtime?” “Of course, love, we’ll hopefully be back by then,” Natalie shouted, breathless, as she ran after Arkady. At the hospital, they were reassured—Jamie’s hand could be saved, but they couldn’t see him yet. “I’ll wait right here until we can, I’m not leaving,” Natalie declared, taking a seat, Arkady by her side. Just then, Sarah dashed into the hospital and threw her arms around them. “Mum, why do you look so worried? He’s alright! He just had a mishap fixing someone’s car yesterday, sliced his hand, but they stitched him up—he’s awake and moving his fingers, honestly! Mum, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, it was bad but he’s OK!” “How did you know?” Natalie managed to ask. “Jamie and I always text, and I keep in touch with his wife, too. We do try to help each other, what’s wrong with that?” “We thought you barely spoke anymore—why didn’t you ever say so?” Arkady explained. “Dad, you two are so strong and sorted, you never ask for help—that’s why we try not to worry you. And you both look so young for your age! We keep a little distance so you can enjoy some time for yourselves.” “Well I never, I was sure you didn’t care about us anymore,” Natalie smiled in relief. “Oh mum, your generation is made of such tough stuff—honestly, we try so hard to be like you, but it’s not always easy. But we do try, we really do!” Their anxious expressions softened, replaced by warm smiles. “Mum, Dad, I wanted to tell you—I got a new job! And I’m still singing at all sorts of events. The other day I sang at a care home, and they clapped so much! One lady even wept—her daughter’s a famous singer but is always on tour, so she’s left her mother behind. Can you believe it?” Then, impulsively, Sarah wrapped her parents in a hug. “And Jamie and I love you both so much, don’t ever doubt it.” Just then, the nurse let them see Jamie for a moment. Natalie nearly wept, but Jamie was calm: “Mum, relax, the worst is over. Dad, remember when you were stung by all those wasps and nearly ended up in hospital? Life’s full of close shaves. When I’m out, come round for New Year—we never get together long enough these days! Sarah wants to introduce you to her boyfriend too, I haven’t told you that yet…” Natalie and Arkady walked home, taking their time. Not so young, but not so old—parents all the same. Ah, that parent’s heart—it’s always wrapped up in their children’s lives. It always seems like other people’s kids are just kids, and all you want is for yours to be the best they can, to live the right way, to follow their parents’ advice. But they have their own path, whatever it may be… And our children—well, they’re always ours, and always good, whatever happens.

A Parents Heart Thank you all ever so much for the supportyour likes, your not-so-indifferent comments

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My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded That We Hand Over Our Two-Bedroom Flat to Them Because We Don’t Have Children – Then Blamed Me When Things Went Shockingly Wrong

My brothers pregnant wife demanded we hand over our flat. Ive been married for ten years now.

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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

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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