Muriel Whitaker paused at the entrance to her flat block, catching her breath. The shopping bags weighed heavily on her arms, and climbing to the fifth floor without a lift grew harder each day. Seventy-three years—no laughing matter, though she’d never admit it aloud.
“Auntie Muriel!” A voice called from below. “Wait, let me help!”
She turned to see her neighbour, that young lad from the third floor—Max, was it? Some tech job, always in headphones, but polite enough.
“I don’t need help,” she snapped, clutching the bags tighter.
“Come on, it’s no trouble. I’m heading up anyway.”
He reached for a bag, but she jerked her arm back.
“I said no! I’m not helpless.”
Max hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. Suit yourself.” He passed her, disappearing up the stairs. Muriel glared after him. Helping her, was he? Probably just so he could tell everyone about the doddering old woman on the fifth floor.
She climbed slowly, pausing on each landing. The bags *were* heavy—she’d stocked up to avoid extra trips. But admitting that? Never.
At her door, she fumbled for keys buried at the bottom of her handbag. A bag slipped—apples tumbled across the floor.
“Blast it,” she muttered.
The neighbour’s door creaked open. “Muriel? Everything alright?” It was Margaret from across the hall, slippers peeking out.
“Fine,” Muriel grumbled, scooping up apples. “Bag split.”
“Oh, I’ll help—goodness, you carried all this alone? You should’ve called!”
“I don’t *need* your help,” Muriel straightened sharply, apples cradled like armour.
“Why must you be so stubborn?” Margaret threw up her hands. “We’re neighbours!”
“I don’t want your pity!” Muriel nearly shouted. “Mind your own business!” She slammed the door, leaving Margaret gaping.
Inside, the flat was cool and quiet. Muriel set the bags down, her hands trembling—from exhaustion or fury, she wasn’t sure.
Why couldn’t they leave her be? She’d managed alone for years. Now everyone insisted on meddling.
She unpacked milk, bread, tinned soup—staples, though the pension hadn’t stretched to meat. No matter. At least no one could say she couldn’t provide for herself.
The phone rang. Her daughter, Caroline, calling from London.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Perfectly fine.” Muriel forced cheer into her voice.
“I was thinking—what if we hired a cleaner? Just once a week, to help with shopping and—”
“A *cleaner*? Am I an invalid?”
“No! But it’d be easier. I worry—”
“I don’t *want* help! I’ve managed this long!”
“Mum, you’re *seventy-three*—”
“And what? Ready for the nursing home? The grave?”
“That’s not—I just want to help!”
“I don’t *need* it!” Muriel’s voice cracked. “Everyone acts like I’m useless!”
“Are you feeling ill? You sound so angry.”
“I’m *tired* of being treated like a burden!” She hung up, heart pounding.
Photos lined the walls—her late husband, Caroline as a girl, Christmases long past. Once, they brought joy. Now, only ache.
The phone rang again. And again. Ten minutes straight.
“For heaven’s *sake*!” She snatched it up.
“Mum! I was terrified—why didn’t you answer?”
“I didn’t *want* to talk!”
“Listen—maybe come to London? We’ve a spare room since Tommy married. You’d see the grandchildren—”
Muriel’s throat tightened. “This is my *home*.”
“But you’re *alone*! What if something happens?”
“I’m not *broken* yet!”
“Why must you push me away? I *care*!”
“I don’t *want* your care!” She yanked the cord from the wall. Silence.
Outside, children played. Life moved on. She sat alone, seething.
Why did they think her helpless? Yes, she moved slower. Tired easier. But pity was worse than solitude.
She remembered Margaret offering shared meals—”It’s cheaper, lovelier with company!” Muriel had refused. Obligation terrified her. What if Margaret boasted about feeding the poor old widow?
And Max—just last week, he’d tried carrying her bags. She’d nearly snapped. Mocking her, was he?
No. Surely no one was *that* kind.
That evening, she found the milk had soured—left too long in the heat. She’d have to go out again.
Outside, dusk settled. She hated the dark, but had no choice. Coat on, she stepped out.
The walk took fifteen cautious minutes. Puddles mirrored dim streetlights.
Inside the shop, a queue stretched. A young mother jostled a wailing baby.
“Quiet, darling,” she pleaded. “We’ll go home soon.”
The baby screamed louder. The queue grumbled.
“Move to another till!” a woman hissed. “You’re holding everyone up!”
The mother flushed. “He’s just tired—”
“Then don’t bring kids at night!”
Muriel’s chest tightened. The mother stood helpless, surrounded by scowls.
“Here,” Muriel heard herself say, arms outstretched. “Let me.”
The mother blinked. “He might cry harder—”
“I’ll manage.” Muriel took him.
The baby stilled, staring with wide eyes. Muriel rocked him, humming softly.
“Oh, *thank you*!” The mother rushed to pay. “You’re magic—grandchildren?”
“Yes,” Muriel said quietly.
“It shows. Thank you *so* much.”
After they left, Muriel stood holding her milk, stunned. Why had she done that?
The walk home felt shorter. The baby’s warmth lingered—when had she last held a child? Caroline brought the grandkids only on holidays.
On the stairs, she overheard Max and Margaret.
“She’s so proud,” Margaret sighed. “Offers help, and she bites your head off.”
“Same as my gran,” Max said. “Suffered alone rather than ask. Then she fell—six months in hospital. Said she wished she’d accepted help sooner.”
Muriel froze. They spoke of her—not mocking, but *sad*.
Upstairs, she faced the mirror. A bitter old woman glared back. When had she become this?
Once, she’d been different—a schoolteacher who loved children, who hosted dinners, baked cakes. Then her husband died. Caroline left. Retirement came. And slowly, she’d shut everyone out.
Fear had done it. Fear of burdening others, of being pitied, of ageing. Fear turned to anger.
But today, holding that baby—she’d remembered warmth. Being *needed*.
She plugged the phone back in. It rang instantly.
“Mum, *thank God*! I nearly called the police!”
“Sorry, love,” Muriel whispered. “I was… cross.”
“With me?”
“With *everything*. With getting old, with people treating me like I’m fragile.”
A pause. “Mum, I *don’t* think you’re fragile. You’re the strongest person I know. I just… worry.”
“I know.” Muriel’s voice broke. “Forgive me.”
“About the cleaner… just think on it? Not because you *can’t* manage, but so you have more *time*.”
Muriel eyed the cluttered kitchen, the dust, the dishes.
“Alright,” she said softly. “We’ll try it.”
“*Really*?”
“Really. And London… perhaps I’ll visit this summer. See the children.”
After, she sat a long while. Then she peered into the hall.
Next morning, she met Margaret in the stairwell.
“Good morning,” Muriel said.
Margaret eyed her warily. “Morning.”
“About yesterday… I was wrong.”
“Oh, don’t fret. We all have moods.”
“Not just that.” Muriel swallowed. “I’ve been… unkind. You only tried to help.”
Margaret softened. “We’re neighbours, dear. We *should* help.”
“Yes.” Muriel hesitated. “About those shared meals… is the offer still open?”
“*Absolutely*! I’m making beef stew today—fancy joining?”
“I’d like that. I’ll bake a cake. It’s been too long.”
Upstairs, footsteps echoed—Max, returning from work. Muriel stepped out.
“Max? A moment?”
He paused, surprised. “Of course, Auntie Muriel.”
“I owe you an apology. You offered help, and I was rude.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I do. And… if it’s not too much, could you help carry my shopping tomorrow? I’ll bake youAs Muriel slid the golden cake into the oven, its buttery scent filling the flat, she realized—for the first time in years—she wasn’t just enduring life, but living it.
