Margaret Taylor pauses at the entrance of her building, catching her breath. The shopping bags drag at her arms, and climbing five flights without a lift grows harder each day. Seventy-three years old is no joke, though she’d never admit it aloud.
“Aunt Margaret!” calls a voice from below. “Wait, let me help!”
She turns to see her third-floor neighbor, a young man named Oliver, hurrying up the stairs. He works in IT somewhere, always with headphones in, but polite enough.
“No need, I can manage,” she snaps, clutching the bags tighter.
“Come on, it’s no trouble. I’m heading home anyway.”
Oliver reaches for one, but Margaret jerks her arm away.
“I said no! I’m not helpless.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Alright. Suit yourself.”
He passes her, disappearing around the landing. Margaret glares after him. As if she needs his pity. Probably telling everyone about the frail old lady on the fifth floor.
She takes the stairs slowly, resting on each landing. The bags are heavy—enough groceries for the week, so she won’t have to go out again. But admitting that is out of the question.
Finally, she reaches her door. Her keys, always at the bottom of her handbag. While fumbling, one bag slips—apples tumble across the floor.
“Blast it,” she mutters.
The neighbor’s door cracks open. “Margaret? Everything alright?” Mrs. Wilkins, the pensioner from next door, peers out.
“Fine,” Margaret grumbles, gathering the apples. “Bag split.”
“Oh, let me help!” Mrs. Wilkins shuffles out in slippers. “You carried all this alone? You should’ve called—I’d have gone with you.”
“I don’t need help,” Margaret says sharply, straightening. “I can manage.”
“Why must you be so proud?” Mrs. Wilkins throws up her hands. “We’re neighbors. We’re meant to look out for each other.”
“I don’t want your fussing!” Margaret nearly shouts. “Mind your own business!”
She slams the door behind her, leaving Mrs. Wilkins gaping.
The flat is quiet and cool. Margaret sets the bags on the kitchen table and sinks into a chair. Her hands tremble—from exhaustion or irritation, she isn’t sure.
What do they all want? Why won’t they leave her be? She’s lived alone for years—managed perfectly well. Now everyone’s poking their nose in.
She unpacks the shopping—bread, milk, tinned goods. Couldn’t afford meat, but no matter. At least no one can say she can’t provide for herself.
The phone rings. Her daughter, Emily, calling from London.
“Mum? How are you?”
“Fine,” Margaret answers, forcing cheer into her voice.
“I’ve been thinking—what if we hire you a cleaner? A lovely woman, comes once a week. She’ll tidy up, do the shopping…”
“A cleaner? Do I look helpless?”
“No, Mum, just to make things easier. Peace of mind for me.”
“I don’t need a cleaner! I’ve done everything myself this long.”
“Mum, don’t be stubborn. You’re seventy-three…”
“And what? Ready for the nursing home? The grave?”
“What? I just want to help!”
“I don’t need your help! Everyone fussing like I’m useless!”
“Mum, are you feeling alright? You sound angry.”
“I’m fine. Just tired of being coddled.”
She hangs up mid-sentence. Her heart races, temples throbbing. She retreats to the sitting room, sinking into her armchair.
The room is filled with sturdy old furniture. Photographs line the walls—her late husband, baby Emily, family gatherings. Once they brought joy. Now they just ache.
The phone rings again. She ignores it. Let them call.
But it doesn’t stop. Ten minutes of relentless ringing.
“For heaven’s sake!” She snatches the receiver.
“Mum! Why did you hang up? I was worried!”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just didn’t want to talk.”
“Listen, maybe you should move here. We’ve got the spare room since Thomas married. You’d see the grandchildren…”
A lump rises in Margaret’s throat. “I’m not moving. I’ve lived here forty years. This is my home.”
“But you’re alone there. What if something happens?”
“Like what? Me crumbling to dust?”
“Mum, why are you like this? I’m trying to care for you.”
“I don’t need your care!” she repeats. “I’ve lived without it this long.”
This time, she yanks the cord from the wall. Let them try now.
Silence.
Through the window, children play, young mothers push prams. Life goes on.
And she sits alone in her empty flat, furious at the world.
Why must they treat her like she’s helpless? Yes, she moves slower, tires easier. But is that reason for pity? Can’t they just leave her be?
She thinks of Mrs. Wilkins suggesting shared meals. “Why cook separately? We’ll split the work—and the cost.”
Margaret refused, wary of obligation. What if Mrs. Wilkins boasted about feeding the poor old widow?
And Oliver, just last week, offering to carry her bags. She nearly snapped then too. Was he mocking her? Or genuinely kind?
Margaret shakes her head. No—people aren’t that good. Everyone has motives.
That evening, she finds the milk has soured—left too long in the warm bag. Another trip to the shop.
Outside, the pavement is uneven, the streetlamps dim. The shop is crowded, noisy.
A young mother ahead in the queue bounces a crying baby. The line grumbles.
“Take him elsewhere,” a woman behind snaps. “You’re holding everyone up.”
The mother flushes. “He’s just tired—we’ll be quick.”
“Quick, quick. Shouldn’t bring babies out this late.”
Margaret watches, then suddenly steps forward. “Here—let me hold him.”
The mother blinks. “You… don’t mind?”
“I’ll manage.” She takes the child.
The baby quiets, eyes wide. Margaret hums softly.
“Oh, thank you!” The mother pays hurriedly. “You’re wonderful—do you have grandchildren?”
“Yes,” Margaret says shortly.
“It shows. Thank you.”
Margaret stands there after they leave, holding her milk. Why did she do that?
The walk home feels shorter.
On the stairs, she overhears Oliver talking to Mrs. Wilkins.
“She’s so proud,” Mrs. Wilkins says. “Offers help, and she bites your head off.”
“Like my gran,” Oliver replies. “Too stubborn to ask. Then she fell—broke her hip. Said afterward she wished she’d accepted help.”
Margaret freezes. They’re talking about her—not mocking, but concerned.
At home, she plugs the phone back in. It rings almost immediately.
“Mum! Thank goodness! I was about to call the police!”
“Sorry, love,” Margaret murmurs. “I unplugged it. I was… cross.”
“With me?”
“With everything. With getting old, with everyone treating me like I’m useless.”
Emily pauses. “Mum, I’ve never thought you were useless. You’re the strongest person I know. I just worry.”
“I know, love. I’m sorry.”
“And the cleaner… Will you think about it? Not because you can’t cope—just to make life easier.”
Margaret looks at the clutter, the dust, the dishes. “…Alright. We’ll try it.”
“Really?”
“Really. And London… maybe I’ll visit this summer. See the children.”
Later, she meets Mrs. Wilkins in the hall. “Good morning.”
Mrs. Wilkins eyes her warily. “Morning.”
“Sorry about yesterday. I was rude.”
“Oh, don’t fret. We all have bad days.”
Margaret hesitates. “About those shared meals… Is the offer still open?”
Mrs. Wilkins brightens. “Of course! Fancy starting today? I’m making stew.”
“I’ll bake a pie. It’s been ages.”
She hears Oliver coming up the stairs later and calls him over.
“Oliver—could you help with my shopping tomorrow? I’ll make it worth your while with pie.”
He grins. “Deal.”
Back in her kitchen, rolling pastry, Margaret realizes—accepting help isn’t weakness. Pushing it away out of pride is the surest path to loneliness.
Tomorrow there’ll be stew with Mrs. Wilkins. Then Oliver’s help with the shopping. And London in summer.
Life goes on. And she’s no longer facing it alone.
