28April
Dear Diary,
Mum called this morning, insisting I pay a quick visit to Grandma Nora. My mind instantly raced through the list of deadlines, the client call at three, the report Im supposed to finish by Friday. I opened my mouth to protest that I was swamped, but Mum cut me short:
Shes been mixing up her tablets. Im worried. Could you pop over?
So I drove down to the countryside on Sunday. The lift in the flat block smelled of detergent and someone elses perfume. Outside the elevator, the usual community garden wheeliebin and a box of shoes sat waiting. Grandmas door creaked open after a moment; the old brass chain rattled, then the wood swung inward.
Whos there? she asked.
Its me, Kate.
She pushed the chain aside, and as she saw me her shoulders seemed to straighten a bit, as if remembering she could still hold herself upright.
Come in, love. Ive just put the kettle on.
The kitchen was tiny and familiar: a table covered in a lemonpatterned cling film, a couple of stools, the ancient fridge with magnets from places Grandmas never visitedsent by us, her grandchildren. A lowwhistle of a soup simmered on the stove, and beside the pot stood a bluerimmed ceramic mug Id known since I was a child. Back then it seemed huge; now its just an ordinary mug.
You havent called in ages, she said, scooping tea leaves into the kettle. I thought youd disappeared somewhere in your London.
Im in London, Mum, I laughed. Just a different part of it.
She waved it away. Oh, you lot are always in another part. Im just here, stuck in this one.
She set the mug in front of me and poured herself a glass of milk into a plastic tumbler. I hesitated, then gently brought up the reason for my visit.
Mum says youre mixing up your pills, I began.
My mother notices everything, she muttered. One sip the wrong way and its a panic. Im not mixing them up, Im thinking.
Thinking what?
About what I need and what I dont.
A frown settled on my face. Id come with a clear mission: check the pill boxes, review the schedule, maybe phone the GP. Suddenly she was drifting into philosophical waters.
The doctor prescribed them, yes, I reminded her. But the doctor doesnt live inside me.
She nodded calmly. He sees me for ten minutes, but Ive been here for seventyeight years.
I felt that familiar irritation riseold people and their riddles. I tried to steer back.
But you know you cant stop taking them
She cut me off. Sit down. Ill ladle you some borscht.
I sighed, took a seat, and she lifted the pots lid. Steam hit my face, the scent of beetroot and bay leaf instantly threw me back to my school days, when Id race home to her kitchen after lessons.
You think Im foolish? she asked, placing a plate before me. Or perhaps Im losing my wits?
I dont think that at all, I said automatically, then realized I was indeed pondering it.
She smiled. Happiness at my age is choosing. Even the tiny choices. Ill drink this if I feel like it, Ill skip it if I dont. Ill eat borscht, or Ill have porridge.
I pressed my point again, stubbornly. If you stop, youll get worse.
She replied, Maybe, but that would be my decision, not anyone elses.
I ate in silence. The borscht was as comforting as ever. My recent weeks had been a blur of meetings, Slack pings, endless emailsmy life dictated by tasks, not by me. Her words about choosing for yourself struck a chord.
Do you think happiness is the freedom to choose? I asked.
What else could it be? she said, taking a sip. Look at how you live. Do you decide when to rest, who to see?
I managed a wry smile. Not really. Projects dictate everything.
She shook her head. I have no projects. I have a day. I get up, look out the window. My legs dont ache thats a blessing. I can walk to the shopthats another. I can make my own soup instead of waiting for someone else to bring itthats a third. It adds up.
She spoke plainly, listing her small joys like items on a grocery list.
I steered back to the tablets.
Theyre not about happiness, she said. Theyre about time. You can stretch it, you can shrink it. I dont want to live longer if Im just lying there waiting for someone to lift my leg.
I winced, then nodded.
I want to live long enough to pour my own tea into this mug, she said, tapping the bluerimmed cup. Thats my secret.
My hand reached for the handle, feeling the warm porcelain. Suddenly I understood that, for her, the mug symbolised independence.
Lets sort the pills by day, alright? I suggested gently. Youll decide whether to take them, but lets keep them organised.
She looked at me with a new light, as if seeing a grownup rather than a granddaughter.
Alright, she agreed.
Together we opened the blister pack, I read the instructions, we divided the pills into the little compartments. Small talk drifted to Mrs. Clarke from flat4, the rising price of bread, a new BBC series. When everything was in place, I closed the box and set it on the shelf.
Here you gomorning here, evening there. You still decide.
She echoed, My own, and gently patted my arm. And you, Kate, make sure you have something thats yours too, not just those reports.
On the tube ride home, I opened my phone, ready to check emails, but stopped. I opened my notes app instead and wrote: No laptop in bed tonight. One evening a week workfree. It sounded naive at first, then a little frightening.
I thought of Grandmas calm voice, her hand on the mug. Perhaps my own secret to happiness starts with tiny choiceslike not answering work emails after ten at night.
—
8May
Dear Diary,
I was perched on a hard plastic chair in the waiting room of the local NHS clinic, scrolling through the news feed on my phone. Headlines about mortgage rates, the latest smartphone launch, and a scandal that seemed to dominate the headlines. The corridor reeked of disinfectant and medicinal smells. Around me, people clutched appointment cards; some wore masks, others didnt.
An elderly lady in a beige coat and a knitted hat settled next to me, leaning on her cane.
Whats your number? she asked, turning toward me.
Twentythird.
Im twentysecond. Means Im ahead of you. She smiled, as if that little hierarchy mattered.
I nodded and went back to my screen.
Going to see the GP? she persisted.
Yes.
Its good youre seeing the doctor early. Young men like you tend to wait until theyre in trouble.
I let out a sigh. My back had been aching for weeks, and finally Id managed to book an appointment. At work everyone kept reminding me that a back pain at thirtytwo is nothing to worry about. But twelvehour days at the desk werent doing me any favors.
What about you? I asked politely.
To the cardiologist, she replied. Im a regular.
She chuckled softly.
Im Tammy Peters.
Tammy, I introduced myself. Nice to meet you.
What do you do? she asked.
Im an analyst in a finance firmnumbers, spreadsheets.
She sighed. My late husband was an accountant too. He counted everythingmoney, calories, steps.
She fell silent for a heartbeat, then said, But I never counted happiness.
I looked up, surprised by the weight of her words.
What do you mean, counting happiness? I asked.
He always put off everything. When I retire, well travel. When we pay off the mortgage, well go on holiday. All later, later. Then one dayboomheart attack. She spoke without melodrama, as if recounting someone elses story.
Sorry, I murmured.
No need to apologise, she said. I used to sit at home, stare at his ledgers. He recorded every penny. There was a small enamel pot on the shelfhis favourite for porridge. Hed say it was his personal pot.
She smiled, recalling.
My husbands happiness lived in those tiny thingshis morning tea, a bowl of porridge, a radio turned on. He always thought something big was coming, and never appreciated the little.
A nurse called out a name, and the queue shuffled forward.
You waiting for something? Tammy asked suddenly.
I shrugged. Just hoping for a raise, hoping the mortgage gets cleared, hoping Ill have more free time.
And you have none of that now?
Almost none.
She shook her head. Ive decided not to postpone anything any longer. My pensions modest, but every Saturday I go to the park, buy a cabbage pasty, and sit on a bench. People laugh, what a treata pasty. I sit and think, thats my today.
I pictured her on a bench, the pasty in hand. My world measured success in overseas holidays, a new car, a promotion. Yet I still had to survive long enough to enjoy any of those.
Are you afraid you wont have enough money? I asked.
Of course, she admitted. But Im even more afraid of living my whole life waiting for a big moment that never arrives. Im not talking about frivolous credit. Im talking about buying a pasty today instead of waiting for enough.
She emphasised enough.
My husband and I were always short on cash. We saved everything. Hes gone now; Im left with his tidy ledgersno joy in them.
A tight knot formed in my chest. I recalled how last week Id turned down a night out with friends because I had to work. Id been putting off a seaside holiday for three years, always finding a more sensible expense.
What if you regret it later? I asked.
Regret eating the pasty? she laughed. Maybe Ill be full. But seriously, I regret only the things I never did. I never told my husband, stop counting, lets go for a walk. Thats what I regret.
She fell quiet, staring off.
So I tell everyone now: dont wait for life to begin. Live a little each day.
A nurse shouted, Twentysecond, please!
Thats me, Tammy said, leaning on her cane. Ill see how many pasties Ive earned today.
She winked, then headed to the doctors room.
I sat there, phone in my lap, screen dark. It was Friday, and a new film Id wanted to see was showing tonight. The usual voice in my head urged, Finish the report first. But Tammys words about the pasty lingered. I booked the ticket for the evening, and texted a friend:
Fancy the cinema tonight? Ill put the report on hold till tomorrow.
It felt odd, but also lighteras if Id taken a tiny step away from the endless later.
—
22June
Dear Diary,
Im in my grandmothers cottage, stirring a pot of jam on the stove. The summer heat hangs heavy over the garden; flies lazily buzz around the open window. Fresh cucumbers sit on the sill, just plucked from the vegetable patch. The old clock on the wall ticks away.
Dont let it burn, Grandmother Mary called from the kitchen table, where she was peeling potatoes.
No, Ive got an eye on it, I replied.
Id come up for a week, a break from the city and from the fallout of my recent divorce. Mum had suggested a change of scenery, and Id reluctantly agreed.
You keep stirring, dont get distracted, she warned. Lifes like jamif you stop watching, it spills.
I muttered, Ive already spilled enough.
She asked, Whats wrong?
Just the split with James.
She paused, You both split?
Yes.
She shook her head. People used to endure, back then.
I felt the familiar sting of expectations. Id expected a lecture about staying the course, about patience, about children I never had.
People endured because they had no choice, I said softly. Now we have choices.
She fell quiet, then sighed. I left once too.
I stared, surprised.
Where to?
From your grandfather. I walked out for a week.
Really?
Yes. Hed started drinking heavily, shouting, smashing plates. One night I packed a bag, took your mothers hand, and went to my sisters in the next village.
I hadnt heard that story before.
What happened? I asked.
He came back, begging, Ill stop. I stayed. He never quit completely, but he drank less. We lived together for forty years. No regrets.
She paused, looking out at the garden.
Whats the point of telling me this? I asked.
That happiness in a marriage isnt about tolerating everything or fleeing at the first sign of trouble. Its about knowing your limits, deciding what youll accept and what you wont.
She resumed peeling potatoes.
Why did you leave? I asked again.
We fought a lot. He wanted kids; I wasnt sure. I was scared, work was hard, money tight. He said everything would sort itself out. It never did, and we grew apart.
Did you love him?
I hesitated. I think I did, once. Not now.
She nodded. I left while I still loved him, and returned because he changed. If theres no love, whats left to cling to?
A lump rose in my throat.
Everyone says I rushed it, I sighed. That I should have tried harder.
Did you try? she asked.
We went to therapy, talked a lot. I really tried, but every session ended with him angry, me feeling guilty.
She smiled gently. Dont listen to everyone. They wont live your life. My secret is simple: happiness is being able to pour yourself a bowl of soup in the evening without fearing someone will yell at you. Everything else falls into place.
I chuckled. Thats very downtoearth, Grandad.
She laughed. What did you expect? A lecture on lofty love? Thats nice, but youll live with a real person, not a movie hero.
The jam started to bubble, and I turned down the heat.
See, she said, if you look away too long, it boils over. But if you watch and adjust, it stays perfectboth the jam and life.
Her words settled over me like a warm blanket. She wasnt judging my decision to leave; she simply acknowledged my right to choose.
After lunch we walked the garden, she pointed out which rows needed watering, where the tomatoes were, where the dill thrived. I listened, thinking maybe my life could be cultivated like these plants: sow some, reap some, let some lie fallow.
That evening, on the old sofa, I opened a message thread with James. His last line read, If you change your mind, let me know. I stared, then deliberately closed the chat. Not out of hatred, but because I recognised my boundary had been crossed and I didnt need to return.
From the kitchen, Grandmother called, Amy, the teas gone cold!
Im coming! I answered, rising with a lightness I hadnt felt all week. Not joy, not euphoriajust a quiet certainty that Id done the right thing for me.
—
3July
Dear Diary,
Im looking out of the flats window onto the courtyard where kids are kicking a football and someones walking a dog. The kitchen cabinet door slammed shut behind me.
I still dont see why were making a fuss about this, I muttered.
My dear Paul, youre seventy now, replied Mrs. Zofia, my neighbourShe smiled, set out a modest slice of cake, and reminded him that even at seventy a simple cup of tea can feel like a celebration.
