Every Tuesday
I hurried through the London Underground this evening, my hand gripping an empty Tesco bag. Todays failed gift hunt for my goddaughter, Lily, weighed more than the bag itselftwo hours wasted trawling Oxford Streets department stores and still not the faintest idea what to buy a girl whod outgrown ponies for stars and planets. A decent telescope that didnt cost a fortune? Might as well have tried finding a real shooting star above Soho.
The city above was slipping from dusk into night, and everyone seemed to carry that same end-of-day weariness underground. I let the crowd pass before squeezing onto the escalator. As I descended, a fragmented voice caught my earsharp and vibrant, cutting through the commuting hum.
I honestly never imagined hed show up again, honestlynow every Tuesday, he picks her up from nursery. Himself. Rolls up in that old Mini and off they go to that same park with the carousel…
I paused on the escalator, peering over my shoulder. I caught a flash of a red coat, an animated, hopeful young face, eyes bright with something tender, and her companion nodding alongside.
Every Tuesday.
Once, that was my day too. Not a dismal Monday, nor that giddy relief of Friday. But Tuesdaya day to anchor life to, to build a rhythm around.
Every Tuesday at five, Id dash from the state school where I taught English literature to the other end of town. My destination: the Royal College of Musics stately old building off Regents Park, echoing with the clack of shoes and the hum of young talent. I picked up Matthew, my seven-year-old, solemn nephew, clutching his violin case, almost as tall as he was. Not my child, but my brother Simons boy, orphaned in a crash that snatched Simon three years ago.
In those first months after the funeral, Tuesdays were our ritual for holding on and carrying onhim, sealed over and silent; his mother, Jane, barely moving from her bed; and me, an imperfect anchor, patching what life I could for all of us.
I remember every scrap. Matthew shuffling out of lessons, gaze fixed to the floor. Id offer to carry the heavy case. Hed hand it over wordlessly. Wed walk to the Tube together, and Id try to draw him outsilly stories about my students writing Knightmare in a spelling test, or tales of Londons cheeky magpies filching a builders sandwich.
One grey, drizzly November evening, Matthew piped up: Aunt Annie, did Dad hate the rain too? The question sent an ache through mepart tenderness, part grief. Despised it, I replied. Always darted for the first bus shelter. And, quietly, he took my hand. Not to be led along, but as if to steady himself, to anchor something slipping away. He wasnt really holding my hand; he was clutching at his father as he remembered himsomeone who ran from rain, who didnt live only in silent sighs and faded photos, but right here, in this wet London Tuesday.
For three years, my life split into Before and After. Tuesday became the day that matteredthe day that reminded me I was needed and not alone. The rest blurred into background noise. Id prepare: pack his favourite apple juice, download silly cartoons for the journey, carve out conversation starters to fill the yawning silence.
And then Jane recovered, slowly. She found work, then a new love. She moved north, to Manchester, far from shared ghosts. I packed Matthews violin, hugged him fiercely on Platform 4 at Euston. Write, ringanytime, I said, fighting tears.
At first, he phoned every Tuesday, six oclock sharp. I would become Aunt Annie again, squeezing everything into a precious quarter hourschool, violin, new friends. His voice a thread spun across hundreds of miles.
Then every other week. He got busierafter-school clubs, homework, video games with mates. Sorry, Auntie, forgot last Tuesdaywe had a test, came the message. No worries, love. Howd it go? Id reply, even when the answer took days. My Tuesdays became marked by waiting for messages that sometimes never came. I learned not to mind and would write first.
Now, only on big holidaysbirthdays, Christmasdid I hear from him. His voice was deeper, more measured. All good, hed say, Still playing, Settling in. His stepdad, Steve, turned out solid: never competing to replace Simon, just quietly present. That was all that mattered.
Recently, his baby sister, Alice, was born. In the photo Jane posted, Matthew held the newborn with an awkward but unmistakable affection. Life, brutal and generous at once, moved on. Layers of daily chores and new plans thickened over old wounds. My role, the tether from back then, grew smaller but stayed precise, like a bookmark pressed into a favourite page.
So tonight, standing in the echoing tunnel, those wordsevery Tuesdaylanded in my chest as the gentlest of echoes. Not a rebuke, but a reminder from the version of me whod spent years living with a pain that was also a gift: the privilege of being someones lifeline, the fixed point in anothers week.
The girl in the red coat had her own storyher own bittersweet compromise. But I recognised the cadence, the unyielding beat: every Tuesday. Its a universal language, the offering of presence: Im here. You can count on me. You matteron this very day, at this very hour. Once, I was fluent in that tongue; now, I can only recall it in the fading echo.
The train rumbled to life. I caught my own reflection in the streaked, black glass of the tunnel and straightened my shoulders.
At my stop, I knew what to do. Tomorrow, Id order two identical telescopesbudget ones, but reliable. One for Lily, and one sent to Matthew in Manchester. When it arrived, Id message him: Matty, this is so we can gaze at the same sky, even from different cities. What do you say we both look for the Plough next Tuesday, six p.m.? Shall we set our watches? Love you, Aunt Annie.
I stepped onto the escalator, up to the crisp evening. The air was cold, fresh with promise. Next Tuesday was waiting, no longer an empty slot. It belonged to usa promise renewed, not out of duty, but love that knits lives together despite the miles.
Life goes on. Yet my diary still holds days worth markingdays for quiet miracles, for loving in step across the country, for memories that warm rather than wound, for a devotion grown softer and stronger across the distance.
