**Diary Entry – 12th April**
I paused at the entrance to the building, catching my breath. The shopping bags weighed heavy on my arms, and climbing five flights of stairs without a lift was getting harder each time. Seventy-three is no joke, though I’d never admit it out loud.
“Aunt Dorothy!” a voice called from behind. “Wait up, I’ll give you a hand!”
I turned to see my neighbour, Thomas, hurrying up the steps. A young man, in his thirties, worked as some sort of software developer—always with headphones on, but polite enough.
“No need, I can manage,” I snapped, hugging the bags tighter.
“It’s no trouble, really. I’m heading up anyway.”
He reached for one of the bags, but I yanked my arm back.
“I said no! I’m not helpless yet.”
Thomas hesitated, looking lost.
“Alright… if you say so.”
He passed me and disappeared around the landing. I watched him go with a sour expression. Who did he think he was? Probably telling everyone about the frail old lady on the fifth floor.
I took the stairs slowly, resting on each landing. The bags *were* heavy—I’d bought enough for the week to avoid extra trips. But admitting that? Never.
At last, I reached my door. The keys, naturally, were buried at the bottom of my handbag. While rummaging, one bag slipped, apples tumbling across the floor.
“Blast it,” I muttered under my breath.
Next door, Edith peeked out. “Dorothy? Everything alright?”
“Fine,” I grumbled, gathering the apples. “Bag split.”
“Oh, let me help!” She rushed out in slippers. “You shouldn’t carry all that alone—you could’ve rung me!”
“I don’t *need* your help,” I said sharply, clutching the apples. “I’ve managed this long.”
“Why must you be so stubborn?” Edith sighed. “We’re neighbours. We’re supposed to look out for each other.”
“I don’t *want* looking after!” I nearly shouted. “Mind your own business!”
I slammed the door behind me, leaving her standing there, hurt.
The flat was quiet and cool. I set the bags on the kitchen table and sank into a chair. My hands shook—from exhaustion, from frustration.
Why couldn’t they leave me be? I’d lived alone for years. Managed perfectly well. Now everyone acted like I was some fragile thing to be coddled.
Pulling out the groceries—bread, milk, tinned soup—I ignored the pang of guilt. I hadn’t had enough for meat, but so what? No one would accuse me of being unable to provide for myself.
The phone rang. My daughter, Margaret, calling from London.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice.
“I was thinking… maybe hire a cleaner? A lovely woman, comes weekly, does shopping too.”
“A *cleaner*?” I scowled. “What, am I an invalid now?”
“No, but it’d make things easier. Give you a break.”
“I don’t *need* a break! I’ve managed my own home for decades.”
“Mum, you’re seventy-three—”
“And what?” I snapped. “Should I book a care home? A funeral plot?”
“That’s not what I meant! I just want to help.”
“I don’t *want* your help! Everyone’s hovering like I’m useless!”
“You don’t sound like yourself. Are you ill?”
“I sound exactly like myself. Just tired of everyone’s fussing.”
I hung up, heart pounding.
The flat felt too quiet. Photos on the walls—wedding with my late husband, little Maggie as a child—once brought comfort. Now they just ached.
The phone rang again. I ignored it.
Five. Ten minutes. Relentless.
“For heaven’s sake!” I snatched it up.
“Mum! Why didn’t you answer? I was worried!”
“I didn’t *want* to talk.”
“Listen… why not move here? We’ve space since Charlie married. You’d see the grandchildren—”
A lump rose in my throat.
“This is my *home*. Forty years. I’m not leaving.”
“But what if something happens? You’re alone.”
“I’m not *helpless*!”
“Mum, please. I’m just trying to care for you.”
“Well, *don’t*!” I yanked the cord from the socket.
Silence.
Outside, children played. Life went on. And here I sat, furious at the world.
Why did they assume weakness? Yes, I moved slower. Tired easier. But that didn’t mean I wanted pity. Couldn’t they just *leave me be*?
I recalled Edith’s offer to share meals. (“Saves money, less lonely.”) I’d refused—didn’t want owing anyone. And Thomas, always offering to carry bags. Mocking me? Or genuinely kind?
No. People weren’t *that* selfless.
That evening, I found the milk had soured—left too long in the bag while I trudged upstairs. Had to go out again.
Dusk had fallen. I hated nighttime walks, but no choice.
The shop was crowded. A young mother struggled with a crying toddler. The queue grumbled.
“Control your child,” a woman hissed.
The mother flushed. “He’s tired, sorry—”
“Then shop earlier.”
Something twisted in my chest. That lost look—I *knew* it.
“Here.” I held out my arms. “Let me.”
The mother blinked. “You don’t mind?”
“I’ve had practice.”
The child quieted in my arms, wide-eyed.
“You’re brilliant!” she said. “Grandchildren?”
“Yes.” Briefly, I missed them fiercely.
On the walk back, I thought of how natural it felt—holding a child, *helping*. How long since I’d let myself?
At the stairs, I overheard Thomas and Edith.
“She’s so proud,” Edith murmured. “Won’t accept help, but she struggles.”
“My nan was like that,” Thomas said. “Then she fell. Six months in hospital. Wish she’d just *let* us help.”
I froze.
Not mocking. *Worried*.
In the mirror, I hardly recognised myself—when had I become so bitter?
Once, I’d been different. A teacher. Hosted dinner parties. Loved people. Then slow loneliness crept in.
Fear. Fear of being a burden. Of pity. And that fear curdled into anger.
But today… holding that child… I’d *remembered*. Warmth. Purpose.
I plugged the phone back in.
“Mum! Thank God! I nearly called the police!”
“Sorry, love,” I whispered. “I was… scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of being *old*. Useless.”
She paused. “You’re the strongest person I know. I just *worry*.”
A knot loosened. “Maybe… a cleaner. Just to try.”
“Really?”
“Really. And… I’ll visit this summer. See the children.”
After, I lingered by the window.
Next morning, I caught Edith in the hall.
“About yesterday… I was wrong.”
She softened. “We all have bad days.”
“It’s more than that. I’ve been… unkind. You were only being neighbourly.”
“Well… lunch still stands. I’m doing a roast today.”
A smile tugged at me. “I’ll bake a cake. Been too long.”
Later, Thomas passed my door.
“Thomas—wait.”
He turned.
“I owe you an apology. You’ve been kind. If it’s not too much… help me with shopping tomorrow? I’ll make it worth your while.”
He grinned. “Count on it.”
Closing the door, I exhaled.
Asking for help wasn’t weakness—*refusing* it was the lonely path.
Today, lunch with Edith. Tomorrow, Thomas’s help. Summer in London.
Life wasn’t over.
And neither was I.
