Vera Whitby paused at the entrance to her building and caught her breath. The shopping bags dragged at her arms, and climbing to the fifth floor without a lift grew harder each time. Seventy-three years was no joke, though she’d never admit it.
“Aunt Vera!” a voice called from below. “Wait, let me help!”
She turned and saw her third-floor neighbour, a young man—Max, she thought, some sort of computer programmer. Always in headphones, but polite.
“I don’t need help,” she snapped, clutching the bags tighter.
“Come on, it’s no trouble. I’m heading up anyway.”
Max reached for one of the bags, but Vera jerked her arm away.
“I said no! I’m not helpless.”
He hesitated on the step, baffled.
“Alright. Suit yourself.”
He passed her and vanished around the landing. Vera glared after him. So eager to assist, was he? Probably telling everyone how frail the old woman on the fifth floor was.
She climbed slowly, pausing at each flight. The bags *were* heavy—enough groceries for the week so she wouldn’t have to go out again. But admitting that was unthinkable.
At her door, she fumbled for keys at the bottom of her handbag. Of course. A bag slipped from her grip, and apples tumbled across the landing.
“Blast it,” she muttered.
The neighbour’s door creaked open.
“Vera? Everything alright?” Anna Carrington peered out in slippers.
“Fine,” Vera grunted, gathering apples. “Bag tore.”
“Oh, let me help! You carried all this alone? You should’ve rung—I’d have gone with you.”
“I don’t *need* help,” Vera straightened, apples cradled like treasure. “I manage.”
“Why so proud?” Anna clasped her hands. “We’re neighbours—we look out for each other.”
“I don’t want your pity!” Vera nearly shouted. “Mind your own business!”
She slammed the door, leaving Anna stunned on the landing.
The flat was cool and quiet. Vera set the bags on the kitchen table and sank into a chair. Her hands shook—from exhaustion or fury, she couldn’t tell.
What did they all *want* from her? Couldn’t they leave her be? She’d lived alone for years—managed perfectly. Now everyone seemed desperate to interfere.
She unpacked the shopping. Bread, milk, tinned soup. No money for meat, but it didn’t matter. No one would accuse her of being destitute.
The phone rang—her daughter, Olivia, calling from London.
“Mum? How are you?”
“Fine,” Vera forced brightness into her voice.
“I was thinking… maybe hire a cleaner? A lovely woman—comes weekly, does the shopping too.”
“A *cleaner*?” Vera bristled. “Am I an invalid?”
“No, Mum, but it’d make life easier. And I’d worry less.”
“I don’t *need* a cleaner. I’ve coped this long.”
“Mum, you’re seventy-three—”
“So what?” Vera exploded. “Should I book a nursing home? A coffin?”
“What’s got into you?” Olivia faltered. “I just want to help.”
“I don’t *want* help! Everyone’s acting like I’m useless!”
“You’re not yourself. You sound so angry.”
“I’m *fine*. Just tired of being smothered.”
She hung up, heart pounding.
The flat felt emptier than ever. Photos watched from the walls—her late husband, little Olivia, family gatherings. Once they’d brought joy. Now they ached.
The phone rang again. Vera ignored it.
But it kept ringing—ten minutes straight.
“*What now?*” She snatched the receiver.
“Mum! Why’d you hang up? I panicked!”
“I didn’t want to talk.”
“Listen—why not move here? We’ve a spare room since Peter married. You’d see the grandchildren.”
A lump rose in Vera’s throat.
“This is my *home*. Forty years.”
“But you’re *alone* there. What if something happens?”
“I’m not *dying* yet.”
“Mum, please. I care about you.”
“I don’t *need* caring for!” Vera hissed.
She yanked the cord from the socket.
Silence. Outside, children played. Life went on.
And she sat alone, furious at the world.
Why did they assume she was helpless? Yes, she moved slower. Yes, she tired. But that didn’t warrant pity. Couldn’t they just let her be?
She remembered Anna’s offer—cooking meals together. “Why fuss separately?” she’d said. “We’ll share. Save pennies, have company.”
Vera had refused. No debts. No gossip about charity cases.
And Max—last week, he’d tried carrying her bags. Had he mocked her? Or meant it kindly?
She shook her head. No one was *that* kind.
That evening, she found the milk had soured—left too long in the bag on her slow climb. Back to the shop.
Outside, the pavement glistened under dim streetlamps. The shop hummed with noise.
Ahead in the queue, a young mother juggled a wailing baby.
“Hush, love,” she murmured. “We’re nearly home.”
The queue grumbled.
“Go to another till,” a woman snapped. “You’re holding everyone up.”
The mother flushed. “Sorry, he’s tired. We’ll be quick.”
“Shouldn’t bring kids out this late,” the woman muttered.
Vera watched—then stepped forward.
“Here.” She held out her arms.
The mother blinked. “You don’t mind? He might cry harder.”
“I’ve handled worse.” Vera took the baby.
The child quieted, staring up with wide eyes. Vera rocked him gently, humming.
“Oh, thank you!” The mother rushed through payment.
“You’re a wonder. Grandchildren?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve the touch.”
Vera handed the baby back, disoriented. Why had she done that?
Walking home, she felt lighter.
On the stairs, she overheard Max and Anna talking.
“She’s too proud,” Anna sighed. “Lifting all that alone—must be agony.”
“Same as my gran,” Max said. “Fell, broke her hip. Said she wished she’d accepted help.”
Vera froze. They weren’t mocking—they *pitied* her.
In the mirror, a bitter old woman glared back. When had she turned so cruel?
Once, she’d been different—a schoolteacher, welcoming, generous. Then her husband died. Olivia left. Retirement hollowed her days. Fear took root—fear of burdening, of weakness—and curdled into rage.
But holding that baby—she’d remembered warmth.
She plugged the phone back in.
Olivia called instantly.
“Mum! I nearly called the police!”
“I’m sorry,” Vera whispered. “I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At… everything. At getting old. At being treated like I’m broken.”
Olivia hesitated. “I never thought you broken. You’re the strongest person I know. I just want you safe.”
“I know.”
“About the cleaner—just think. Not because you can’t manage—but to free your time.”
Vera eyed the dusty shelves, the piled dishes.
“…Alright. Let’s try it.”
“Really?”
“Really. And London—maybe summer. See the grandchildren.”
Later, she greeted Anna in the hall.
“Morning.”
Anna eyed her warily.
“I’m sorry,” Vera said. “I was wrong.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No.” Vera steadied herself. “I’ve become… hard. You were kind.”
Anna softened. “Neighbours should be.”
“Is your offer still open? Cooking together?”
Anna beamed. “Today! I’m making stew.”
“I’ll bake a pie.”
Upstairs, she heard Max returning.
“Max? A moment.”
He paused.
“I owe you an apology. You offered help, and I was rude.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’d be grateful—if you’d carry my shopping tomorrow. I’ll bake extra pie.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
Closing the door, Vera exhaled. Asking for help—so simple. So *unthinkable* before.
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Needing care wasn’t weakness—refusing it was just loneliness.
Tomorrow: lunch with Anna. The next day: Max’s help. Summer: London.
Life—*her* life—had people in it again.
She rolled up her sleeves and began baking.
