Ive got enough on my plate already! How much more am I supposed to do? Helens voice echoed her frustration.
Her husband, Thomas, never had a reply. As always, he opted for silenceburying his head in the sand and hoping things would somehow sort themselves out. But things rarely resolved themselves; it was Helen who sorted them. Working remotely from home as a graphic designer, she enjoyed flexible hours. In the beginning, the pay was modest, but as Helen honed her craft, her salary outpaced Thomass by a wide margin. Her earnings kept the car on the road, paid for holidays by the coast, and replaced worn-out appliances and clothing. Then came maternity leave. Helen, determined not to lose her income, powered through pregnancy and soon after, childbirth, barely slowing down.
When their little boy, Jamie, started at nursery, things lightened a touchHelen even felt buoyed enough to take on more work. Nursery, though, wasnt cheap; Helen had been meticulous in her choice, wanting only the best for her son. Thomas, as ever, left all such decisions to Helen, trusting her entirely.
They lived in a flat Helen had inherited from her grandmother in Oxford. Thomas had no property of his own; before their marriage, he’d lived in Southampton with his mother, Margaret, and his niece, Sophiethe daughter of his late elder sister, whod passed away some three years prior. Margaret never recovered from the loss; her health declined, and her blood pressure soared alarmingly.
By the time Thomas married Helen and moved out, Sophie was already a university student, leading an independent life: out with friends, away on trips, meeting young men, rarely home. Margaret, overwhelmed, turned to her sons household for supportthough in practice, that meant turning to Helen, since no help came from the others. Still, she ensured Sophie had everything she wished for; after all, her granddaughter was an orphan, the result of some shadowy family scandal that Margaret never spoke ofa subject left untouched and best forgotten.
Life ticked by, well enough, until Margaret was suddenly hospitalised following a severe surge in blood pressure. She was left bedridden; three weeks in the ward helped only a little, and doctors offered no guarantees.
Thomas withdrew, pushing the problem toward Helen. Women are better at these things, he shrugged.
What things exactly? Helen shot back.
Well looking after the sick and all that, rehabilitation Thomas muttered, scratching his head.
Im a designer, not a nurse. I dont know more than you, Helen sighed. Never mind. Ill go and find out what the doctor says.
Helen and Margaret had never been close. Years before, their clashes threatened open warfare, but, living apart, they managed a chilly diplomatic truce: outward politeness masking deep disagreement. Helen tolerated Margaret out of respect; Margaret made do with Helen because shed proven a capable wife for Thomasa rare sort, and, besides, she knew her son was hardly the breadwinner. All the real income came from Helen.
Margaret rarely saw her grandson. There was always an excuseher blood pressure, headaches too severe for child-minding, and always at the very moment she was needed for an hour or two. Helen never counted on Margaret to help.
But now, everyone expected Helen to step in. It was Helen who collected Margaret from hospital, took her home (convenient, since Helen worked from home and could disappear at a moments notice, while Thomas was indispensable at work) and agreed the family would move in with Margaret, to care for her temporarily.
So moved in they did. Within three weeks, Helen had wasted away, as thin as a rail. Yet, somehow, she kept up her work, while nursing Margaret: boiling broths, pureeing fruit and veg, feeding her by spoon, washing and turning her.
Sophie, the beloved granddaughter, would wrinkle her nose and scuttle quickly to her room, not emerging till nightfall, mouse-like, desperate not to be roped into helping. Lectures and outings waited; life marched on. Granny was just a granny, after all, nothing to do with her.
Thomas contributed little. Helen pleaded with him: Shes your mother! Cant you help? Its too much for me alone.
I cant, really these are womens jobs, Thomas mumbled. I got the groceries. What more do you want?
These womens jobs were heavy indeed. Margaret showed no signs of improvement, growing irritable and snappish with Helen, Thomas, everyone. She complained and said things Helen suspected shed never have voiced before illness. Helen learned that she, apparently, had enjoyed outrageous fortunelanding a sterling education, a cushy work-from-home job, making impressive money for doing little but clicking away at a computer and sipping tea. Meanwhile, poor darling Thomaslife had dealt him a losing hand: unlucky with teachers at school, unlucky failing to get into university at first go. Margaret had tightened her belt, taking out a loan to put Thomas through a paid degree, where he barely scraped by, often skipping class. Still, after much anguish, he collected his coveted diplomaall, in Margarets mind, because of bad schoolteachers. Then came the loss of her daughter, and Sophies future to plan. Fortunately, Sophie got into university on a scholarship, a fact Margaret polished like a trophythanks to her schools excellence, paid for by the late daughter.
Helen had heard this sermon a hundred times and could no longer bear it. Everyone, it seemed, was marvellousexcept Helen, who had simply been lucky.
Yes, lucky, Helen thought grimly. Especially with this husbandwhat did I ever see in him? More and more, she asked herself that question.
At last, she suggested Thomas hire a nurse to care for his mother and move back to their own flat.
A nurse? Thomas was baffled. Well its expensive, you know I cant manage that. Up to you. If you want one, you pay for it.
The old agreement was always the same: Thomas paid the utilities and basic groceries; Helen paid for everything else. So naturally, the nurse would be Helens expense, too. “Anyone could see that, Helen fumed. But how he said itam I expected to do everything? Enough is enough. I want a life too. Right now, Im barely a shadow of myself, and no one gives a fig…
One day, Helen realised: she couldnt go on, and didnt want to. She told Margaret she was popping to the shops, slipped Jamie out of nursery, and returned to her own flat.
How lovely she thought, lying across the wide double bed, gazing at the ceiling. Im home! I want nothing. Only to rest. Im exhausted
She called Jamie for tea. As they ate, Helen imagined the inevitable scene at Margaret’s house. She hadn’t truly abandoned the older womanshed fed and changed her and knew Thomas would be home in an hour or so, like usual. Shed left a note saying she could no longer go on and was leaving, wishing Margaret a swift recovery, asking her not to harbour resentment.
Helen switched off her phone.
Thomas arrived that evening. Helen wouldnt let him past the doorstep; they spoke through the open door. There was nothing to say. He never asked how Helen felt or why shed gone; no talk of love for her or their son. He only worried what would become of him without her.
I advise you to get a proper nurse, Helen said. A professional does a better job, believe me. And one more thingIm filing for divorce. I refuse to be your familys packhorse any longer. Goodbye.
Thomas left empty-handed. Later, Helen turned her phone back onfor work calls, she told herself.
Margaret rang, begging her to come back, apologising for her words, for her ingratitude toward Helen, but there was always a trace of hauteur in her voicea note that seemed to say, Wrap up your drama, return, and get on with your duties.
Helen calmly explained she owed nothing to anyone. Margaret had a son, and a clever granddaughter, Sophie; they could look after herthey owed her plenty. Margaret hung up.
The divorce went through.
So, quite suddenly, Helen found herself a single woman. And, as it turned out, nothing much had changed at all. She managed, as she always had, just without the extra burdenand she was grateful. The experience had thrown open her eyes to the real attitudes of those shed once called family.
Margaret eventually improved, thanks to a good nurse who cared for her expertly and helped her with proper rehabilitation. Thomas found a second job (who knew he could? Helen mused, hearing the news from Sophie, whom she bumped into by chance), which enabled him to pay for the nurse. Before she was hired, Sophie herself had looked after her grandmother, feeding and caring for hera job she managed perfectly well.
So it worked out well for everyone, Helen reflected as she finished another freelance project on her laptop. I got them all off my back, and that did me the world of good. Next time, Ill know betterHelen looked at Jamie, giggling over his toast, crumbs dotting his small chin. The sun streamed in through their window, casting golden squares across the kitchen table and the late blooming lavender on the sill. For the first time in years, Helen felt lightno weight pressing her shoulders, no resentment gnawing her heart.
Freedom, she thought, is quiet. It isnt ribbons or applause or anyones approvalits the small, wild happiness of breathing in your own space, on your own terms. Jamie, catching her gaze, grinned and wriggled onto her lap. Helen ruffled his hair and breathed in his warmth, letting hope settle in her chest like strong, patient roots.
As dusk fell, Helen opened her laptop and accepted a new clients offer. She sipped her tea and watched the city lights flicker to lifegentle and far away, neither hostile nor demanding. For the first time, her life belonged only to herself and her son. She had chosen herself, and in doing so, had found the two of them enough.
Tomorrow, perhaps, she and Jamie would walk along the riverthe kind of aimless wandering that needs no permission. The future no longer frightened her; it simply waited, wide and unwritten, utterly her own.
