**Diary Entry – 18th March**
Bloody hell, I nearly dropped my shopping at the steps again. Seventy-three years—not exactly a walk in the park, though I’d never admit it out loud. The bags were heavy, stuffed with enough tinned beans and loaves to last the week. No point making extra trips to Sainsbury’s when you can haul it all in one go.
“Mrs. Wilkins! Let me help—”
I turned to see that lad from Flat 3—Oliver, was it? Some tech bloke, always with those ridiculous headphones. Polite enough, but I didn’t need his pity.
“No, thank you. I’ve managed this long.”
He reached for a bag anyway. I jerked it back. “I said no.”
He hesitated, awkward as a teenager at a dance, then muttered, “Right. Sorry,” before hurrying up the stairs. Good riddance. Next thing, he’d be telling the whole building poor old Margaret Wilkins can’t carry her own shopping.
Floor by bloody floor, I made my way up. The keys, naturally, were buried at the bottom of my handbag. As I fumbled, a bag slipped—apples rolling everywhere like they’d made a break for it.
“Damn it—”
The door across the landing cracked open. “Margaret? Everything alright?” Mrs. Henderson, that nosy woman from Flat 5, poked her head out in her slippers.
“Fine. Bag split.”
“Oh, let me help—”
“No. I’ve got it.”
She huffed. “Stubborn as a mule, aren’t you? We’re neighbours. We’re meant to help each other.”
“I don’t need your help!” I snapped, clutching the apples like they were diamonds. “Mind your own business!”
I slammed the door behind me. The flat was quiet, chilly. My hands shook—half from exhaustion, half from sheer irritation. Why couldn’t they leave me be? I’d survived decades on my own. Now suddenly, everyone’s a bloody Samaritan.
Unpacking the shopping, I ignored the ache in my shoulders. Bread, milk, baked beans—no proper meat this week, but who cared? At least no one could say I couldn’t manage.
The phone rang. Emily, my daughter, calling from London.
“Mum, how are you holding up?”
“Perfectly fine.” I forced cheer into my voice.
“I was thinking—why not hire a cleaner? Just once a week. Someone to tidy, shop—”
“A cleaner? What, am I an invalid now?”
“Don’t be like that. It’s just easier. And I’d worry less.”
“I don’t need help!”
“You’re seventy-three, Mum—”
“And what? Ready for the nursing home? The coffin?”
“Christ, Mum—I’m trying to help.”
“Well don’t!” I hung up, pulse hammering.
The silence was a relief—until the phone started again. Ten minutes straight. I finally snatched it.
“Mum! I was about to call the police—”
“I unplugged it. I didn’t want to talk.”
Emily’s voice softened. “Mum… you’re not helpless. You’re the strongest woman I know. I just—I want life to be easier for you.”
A lump rose in my throat. “I know.”
“About the cleaner—just think on it. Not because you can’t cope, but so you’ve more time for… well, living.”
I glanced at the mess—dust on the shelves, dishes piled high. “…Alright. We’ll try it.”
“And London—maybe visit this summer? The kids miss you.”
“Maybe.”
After, I sat by the window, watching the street lamps flicker on. When had I become so bitter? Fear, I suppose. Fear of being a burden. Of weakness. But today, in Tesco, I’d held a stranger’s crying baby without thinking. The little thing went quiet in my arms, staring up with wide eyes. It’d been years since I’d held a child.
On the landing later, I overheard Oliver talking to Mrs. Henderson.
“She’s so proud,” he said. “My gran was the same. Refused help till she fell and broke her hip.”
I froze. Not mockery—concern.
That night, I called Emily back. Apologized. Agreed to the cleaner. Even to visiting London.
Next morning, I caught Mrs. Henderson in the hall.
“About yesterday—I was wrong.”
She blinked. “Oh, don’t fret. We all have our days.”
“Your offer about shared meals—still open?”
Her face lit up. “Absolutely! I’m doing a roast today—”
“Splendid. I’ll bake a cake.”
When Oliver passed later, I stopped him.
“Oliver—I’d appreciate your help with the shopping tomorrow. And… there’ll be cake.”
He grinned. “Course, Mrs. Wilkins.”
I shut the door, leaning against it. Pride’s a lonely thing. Letting people in isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.
I baked that cake. Tomorrow, I’ll share a meal. Next week, I’ll see my kids.
Turns out, growing old doesn’t mean growing alone.
