I’ll Make a Proper Man of Him – “My grandson will not be left-handed!” Tamara Margaret huffed with indignation. Denis turned to his mother-in-law, his eyes darkening with irritation. “And what’s wrong with that? Elijah was born left-handed. That’s simply who he is.” “A ‘quirk’!” Tamara Margaret snorted. “It’s not a quirk, it’s a defect. It’s not how things are done. The right hand has always been the right hand for a reason – the left is from the devil.” Denis barely stifled a laugh. The twenty-first century, and still his mother-in-law reasoned like a medieval villager. “Mrs. Margaret, modern medicine has proven—” “I don’t care about your medicine,” she interrupted. “I retrained my own son and he’s perfectly normal. Retrain Elijah, before it’s too late. Trust me – you’ll thank me one day.” She swept out of the kitchen, leaving Denis alone with his cooling coffee and a sour aftertaste from their conversation. At first, Denis dismissed it. His mother-in-law and her outdated views—so what? Every generation clings to its baggage of prejudice. He watched Tamara Margaret gently correct her grandson at the table, shifting Elijah’s spoon from his left hand to the right, thinking, It’s no big deal. Children are resilient. Granny’s oddities can’t do lasting harm. Elijah had been left-handed since birth. Denis remembered, even as a toddler of eighteen months, his son always reached for toys with his left hand. As he grew, he started drawing—awkwardly, clumsily, but always with his left. It just felt right, part of who Elijah was. Like his blue eyes or a birthmark on his cheek. But Tamara Margaret saw it differently. In her worldview, left-handedness was a flaw—a mistake of nature to be quickly fixed. Every time Elijah picked up a pencil in his left hand, his grandmother pursed her lips as if he were committing something indecent. “Right hand, Elijah. Use your right. No lefties in our family and none will start now.” “I retrained Roger and I’ll retrain you too.” Denis overheard her telling Olga the story of her “accomplishment”—how little Roger was “wrong” too, until she took matters into her own hands: tying his left hand down, policing every movement, punishing disobedience. The result? A “normal” man. The pride, the unshakeable confidence in her method made Denis feel uneasy. He didn’t see changes in Elijah immediately—only small things, at first. Elijah began hesitating before picking up something, his hand hovering uncertainly as if he faced a tough puzzle. He started glancing sideways—quick checks to see if Granny was watching. “Dad, which hand am I meant to use?” Elijah asked at dinner, fearfully eyeing his fork. “Whichever’s comfortable, son.” “But Granny says—” “Don’t mind Granny. Do what’s comfortable for you.” But comfort was gone. Elijah grew fumbling, hesitant, freezing mid-action. The self-assuredness of childhood was replaced by a painful awkwardness, as if he no longer trusted his own body. Olga saw it all. Denis noticed her lip bitten every time her mother shifted Elijah’s spoon. The downward glance whenever Mrs. Margaret launched into her lectures about “proper upbringing”. His wife, who’d grown up under her mother’s steamroller will, had learned to survive by not arguing—by simply waiting the storm out. Denis tried to talk about it. “Olga, this isn’t right. Look at him.” “Mum only wants what’s best.” “Is this really best? Can’t you see what’s happening?” Olga just shrugged and deflected. The lifelong habit of yielding ran deeper than motherly instinct. Each day it got worse. Tamara Margaret, emboldened, didn’t just correct Elijah—she narrated his every motion. Praised him when, by accident, he used his right hand. Sighed extravagantly at any slip to the left. “See, Elijah? You can do it! You just have to try. I made your uncle a proper man, and I’ll do just the same for you.” That’s when Denis decided to confront his mother-in-law. He waited until Elijah was off playing, then spoke directly. “Mrs. Margaret, please leave the boy alone. He’s left-handed. It’s perfectly normal. Don’t try to ‘fix’ him.” Her reaction was even stronger than expected. She puffed up as if gravely insulted. “Are you lecturing me? I raised three children, and you dare instruct me?” “I’m not instructing. I’m asking you: leave my son be.” “Your son? He’s Olga’s son too, isn’t he? That makes him my grandson, and I won’t let him grow up… like that.” The disgust she put in those two words stung. Denis knew there’d be no peaceful resolution. The next days became a cold war. Tamara Margaret ignored Denis, addressing him only through Olga. Denis responded in kind. Silence hung over the house, splitting occasionally into pointed little quarrels. “Olga, tell your husband there’s soup on the stove.” “Olga, tell Mum I’ll sort it myself.” Olga dashed between them, pale and exhausted. Elijah retreated to a lonely spot on the sofa with his tablet, trying to disappear. Denis’s idea struck on a Saturday morning as Tamara Margaret prepared her legendary roast. She sliced potatoes with her usual experienced efficiency. He positioned himself behind her. “You’re cutting them wrong.” She didn’t even look up. “Excuse me?” “The slices should be thinner. And cut lengthwise, not across.” She snorted and kept going. “I’m serious,” Denis pressed. “Nobody does it the way you do. You’re doing it wrong.” “Denis, I’ve been making roast like this for thirty years.” “And doing it wrong for thirty years. Let me show you.” He reached for the knife. She pulled her hand away sharply. “Have you lost your mind?” “No, I just want to help you do it the right way. Look—too much water, too much heat, the carrots go in at the wrong time—” “I’ve always done it this way! It’s how I like it!” “That’s no argument. You need to retrain yourself. Let’s start from scratch.” She paused, knife held mid-air, now visibly confused and offended. “What are you on about?” “The same thing you tell Elijah every day,” Denis leaned closer. “Retrain yourself. This way is wrong. It’s not how things are done. Use your other hand.” “That’s not the same thing at all!” “Isn’t it? Looks identical to me.” She set down the knife, face reddening with fury. “You dare compare my cooking to—! I’ve always done it this way because it’s comfortable!” “And Elijah finds it comfortable to use his left hand. But you still insist on changing him.” “That’s different! He’s a child, he can still change!” “And you’re a grown woman with stubborn habits. If no one changes you now, surely you’ll be as you are forever. So what right do you have to change him?” Her lips thinned. Anger flashed in her eyes. “How dare you? I raised three children! I retrained Roger, and he turned out just fine!” “And is he happy? Confident? Sure of himself?” Silence. Denis knew he’d hit a nerve. Roger, Olga’s elder brother, lived in another city and phoned their mother only twice a year. “I just wanted the best,” Tamara Margaret’s voice trembled. “Always.” “I believe you. But ‘the best’, in your eyes, means ‘what I decide is best’. Elijah is his own person. Small, but his own. With his own ways. And I won’t let you crush those out of him.” “Don’t you lecture me!” “I will, if you don’t stop. I’ll comment on every move you make—every habit, every little thing. We’ll see how long you last.” They faced off in the kitchen, mother-in-law and son-in-law—both at the end of their patience. “That’s petty and childish,” she bit out. “It’s exactly what you’re doing.” There was a crack in her composure. Denis saw it—a core of certainty fractured. Suddenly, Tamara Margaret seemed older, smaller, human, vulnerable. “I just… wanted to help.” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “I know. But it’s time to stop helping like this, or you won’t see your grandson anymore.” The roast started to boil over. Nobody moved. That evening, with Tamara Margaret in her room, Olga joined Denis on the sofa, curling up quietly by his side. “No one ever fought for me like that as a child,” her voice wavered. “Mum always just knew best. I… just accepted it.” Denis put his arm around her. “Not anymore. Not in our family. Your mother doesn’t get to force her views on anyone here. Ever again.” Olga nodded, squeezing his hand gratefully. From the children’s room, the soft sound of pencil on paper drifted in. Elijah was drawing. With his left hand. No one told him that was wrong ever again.

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 2

Ill make a proper person out of him!

My grandson will not be left-handed! declared Margaret Simmons, bristling with indignation.

James turned towards his mother-in-law and regarded her with a look that had darkened noticeably.

And whats so terrible about that? Oliver was born left-handed. Its a part of who he is.

A part, is it! Margaret scoffed, waving one bejewelled hand. Call it what you like. But its not right, never has been. The right hand has always been the one to use. The lefts just well, not.

James nearly burst out laughing. This was the twenty-first century, for goodness sake, and his mother-in-law still sounded like a peasant from medieval Essex.

Mrs. Simmons, medical experts have long since

I dont need modern medicine telling me whats what, she interjected briskly. I trained my own son out of it and he turned out perfectly fine. If youve any sense, youll start with Oliver before its too late. Youll thank me, trust me.

And with that, Margaret sashayed out of the kitchen, leaving James with a cooling mug of tea and a sense of unease that, for once, wasnt just down to the quality of his in-laws.

Initially, James shrugged it off. Margaret had her share of old-fashioned opinionswhat of it? Every generation lugs around their own basket of superstitions. Besides, he watched as she discreetly swapped Olivers spoon from left to right at the table, thinking, No real harm done. Kids brains are adaptable. Grannys little quirks wont scar him for life.

Oliver had always been a lefty. James still remembered the chubby fist that reached for building blocks at barely eighteen months, his son clutching crayons in his left pudgy hand when hed started doodlingwobbly, as all kids are, but resolutely left-handed. It felt as natural as Olivers blue-grey eyes or the dimple on his chin.

Margaret, though, had a different perspective. In her world-view, left-handedness was an aberration, a mistake of nature in urgent need of correction. Every time Oliver picked up a pencil with the wrong hand, his granny pursed her lips as though hed just recited rude words at the vicarage fete.

Oliver, darlingright hand, please. No, the right! We dont do that in this family.

I set George straight, and Ill set you straight too.

James heard her once, recounting her parenting triumph to his wife, Emily. The story went: Little George was a lefty oncewrong, but shed caught it in time. Used to tie a ribbon around his left wrist, watched him like a hawk, scolded every slip. Result: a proper man, as if he were a Sainsburys special. To listen to Margaret boast, youd think shed single-handedly invented normality and then exported it to her children.

It was oddly chilling.

James didnt notice immediate changes in his son. At first, it was insignificant: Oliver hesitating before taking something from the table. His hand would hover, frozen for a moment, as if he was solving a complex maths problem. Soon it became habita nervous glance towards Grandma, checking to see if she was watching.

Dad, which hand am I supposed to use?

Oliver asked at supper, eyes wide as he twisted his fork.

Whichever you like, mate.

But Grandma says

Dont listen to Grandma, just do what feels right.

But what felt right no longer did. Oliver grew clumsy, confused, forever second-guessing himself. His confident little movements were replaced by awkward, cautious fumbles, as if he no longer trusted his own body to do the simplest things.

Emily noticed. James saw the way she bit her lip when her mum rearranged Olivers cutlery, how she looked away during Margarets lectures on proper upbringing. Emily had learned not to quarrel; a childhood under her mothers heel had taught her that. Best to keep quiet and wait for the storm to pass.

James tried again.

Em, this isnt normal. Look at him.

Mum only means well.

Thats hardly the point! Cant you see what its doing to him?

She only shrugged, retreating from confrontation, old learned obedience stronger than any motherly instinct.

Things deteriorated rapidly. Margaret seemed energised by the conflict. No longer content with shifting Olivers fork, she provided running commentary on every gesture. Shed cheer when he happened to use his right hand, sigh deeply at the left.

There you are, Oliver! See? Its just about practice. I made a good man of your Uncle GeorgeIll make one of you, too.

James decided on a direct approach. He waited until Oliver was shut away in his room, busy with his toys.

Mrs. Simmons, lets leave the boy be. Hes left-handed. Its perfectly normal. Please, stop trying to change him.

Her reaction was more dramatic than hed anticipated. Margaret drew herself up, affronted.

Are you telling me what to do? I brought up three children, you know! And you think I need instructing?

Im not instructingIm asking you to leave Oliver alone.

Hes your son, yes, but hes Emilys too. Hes my grandson. I will not have him growing up like that.

The word that was loaded, sour with disapproval.

James realised polite conversation had left the building.

The house divided. Margaret addressed James only through Emily. He did likewise. The kitchen filled with tension so thick even Oliver retreated to his quiet corner with his tablet, desperate for invisibility.

Emily, tell your husband the soups on the stove.

James, Mum says

I know. Tell her Ill sort myself.

Emily, pale and exhausted, hovered between them. Oliver disappeared behind curtains of silence.

Then one Saturday, inspiration struck James as Margaret wielded the carving knife with her usual flair, attacking a cabbage for the Sunday roast.

He stood behind her, arms folded.

Youre not chopping it right.

Margaret stiffened. Excuse me?

It needs to be sliced finer. With the grain, not against. No one does it that way. Its wrong.

She snorted, continuing. Ive made this roast for thirty years.

And done it wrong all that time. Here, shall I show you?

He reached for the knife. Margaret jerked away in horror.

Lost your mind, have you?

Not at all. Just want you to do it the correct way. See? He gestured at the pot. Too much water. And your potatoeswrong sequence entirely.

Ive always cooked this way!

Not a reason. Youll have to retrain. Start again. Wont take long.

Margaret froze, staring at him as if hed suggested she wear her slippers to church.

What are you on about?

Exactly what you say to Oliver every day, James said, not unkindly. Retrain. Its not the proper way. Use the other hand. Do it differently.

Thats totally different!

Is it? To me, its exactly the same.

Margaret put the knife down, cheeks flushed with outrage.

Youre comparing my cooking tothis? This is ridiculous! I like it this way.

And Oliver likes it his way. How is that so hard to accept?

Its different! Hes a child. He can still change!

And youwhat, set in your ways? Beyond hope? Then what right have you to force him?

Margarets lips trembled, and her eyes glittered with anger.

How dare you! I raised three children! I sorted George out, hes fine now!

And does he call you? Is he happy? Confident?

Silence.

James knew hed struck a nerve. George, the fabled success story, now lived in Leeds and telephoned each Christmas, though more out of duty than longing.

I just wanted the best… Margarets voice wobbled.

I know. But your best isnt his best. Olivers his own person, even if hes only eight. I wont sit by while you squeeze that out of him.

Youre lecturing me now!?

I am. And Ill do it every time you criticise him. Every habit, every stir and slice. Lets see who caves in first.

They stood, adversaries in aprons, neither willing to step back.

Its petty and cruel, she hissed.

And you dont seem to get it any other way.

Something in her sagged; James saw itan inner framework that buckled. She looked suddenly older, smaller, more human.

I just I do care, she mumbled.

I know you do. Maybe just not like that anymore. Or else you won’t see your grandson again.

The roast bubbled on, neglected.

Later that evening, with Margaret retired to her room, Emily curled up quietly on the sofa beside James, resting her head on his shoulder.

Nobody ever stood up for me as a child, she whispered. Mum just always knew best. Always. And I just hoped she was right.

He hugged her tight.

In our house, your mum doesnt get the last word. Not anymore.

She squeezed his hand, relief and gratitude showing in her half-smile.

From upstairs came the soft swish of pencil on paper. In his room, Oliver was drawingleft-handed, of course. And nobody told him otherwise.

German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep The Grand Theatre of London sparkled beneath the city’s evening lights. It was the opening night of the International Festival of Classical Music, where the world’s most prestigious musicians gathered. Among the elegantly dressed audience, murmurs in several languages filled the air with anticipation. On stage, organisers had planned a night devoted exclusively to European classical music—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. Klaus Friedrich Simmerman, a celebrated 60-year-old German pianist, had just concluded his masterful performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21. Thunderous applause echoed through the theatre. Klaus, dapper in his impeccable black suit and perfectly combed grey hair slicked back, bowed with the confidence of a man who’d conquered the world’s greatest concert halls—Vienna, Berlin, Carnegie Hall. But in the last row, almost hidden in the shadows, sat Lucy Bennett, a young 25-year-old woman from Devon. She wore a traditional English white dress with colourful embroidery, and in her hands she held something that seemed quite out of place in this temple of classical music. A tiny English mandolin—the heart of British folk tradition. No one could have imagined that tonight, perceptions about real music would be forever changed. Lucy had come to the theatre at the invitation of the local organisers, who wanted to include a brief tribute to England’s folk music at the end of the event. It was more a political gesture than an artistic one—a token 5 minutes after three hours of ‘serious’ music to show that Britain had culture too. Lucy had grown up in a small village on Dartmoor, where folk music wasn’t just entertainment—it was the way people lived, loved, celebrated, and grieved. Her grandfather, Mr Arthur Bennett, was one of the region’s most respected folk musicians. He had taught her to play since she was a toddler sitting on his lap, guiding her fingers over the strings. “You don’t play the mandolin with your fingers, my dear,” he’d always say, “you play it with your heart.” Each strum tells a story—a story of our people, our land, our ancestors who came from Africa, Europe, and the British Isles. Arthur had passed away six months ago, and on his deathbed had handed Lucy his mandolin—the very one she now gripped with trembling hands. “Take it out into the world, sweetheart. Show them our music isn’t lesser. It’s different, but just as worthy.” Lucy watched Klaus Friedrich Simmerman greet the crowd again and again… German Concert Pianist Called British Folk Music “Noisy and Unskilled”… Until a Young English Woman Made Him Weep

A Late Gift The bus jerked, and Mrs. Anne Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the coarse plastic flex slightly beneath her fingers. Her grocery bag thumped against her knees, apples rolling dully inside. She stood by the door, counting down the stops to her own. Earbuds fizzed quietly—her granddaughter had asked her not to turn off her phone: “Just in case, Gran, I might call.” The phone sat in her coat’s outer pocket, heavy as a brick. Anne Peterson checked, all the same, to be sure the zip was fastened. She pictured entering her flat, setting the bag on the kitchen stool, changing her shoes, hanging up her coat and carefully folding her scarf. Then she’d unpack the groceries, put soup on the hob. Her son would stop by in the evening to pick up containers; he worked shifts and had no time to cook. The bus braked and doors parted. She eased herself down the steps, holding the rail, and stepped into her estate. Children darted around with a football—a girl on a scooter nearly clipped her before swerving at the last second. The entrance hall smelled of cat food and cigarette smoke. In the hallway, Anne set down her grocery bag, slipped off her shoes and pushed them toe-first to the wall. Coat on the hook, scarf folded neatly. In the kitchen, she sorted groceries: carrots with the veg, chicken in the fridge, bread in the bin. She filled a pan with water just until her palm could still touch the bottom. Her phone buzzed on the table. She dried her hands, pulled it closer. “Yes, Sasha?” she said, leaning in, hoping to hear her son better. “Hello Mum, how are you?” His voice was hurried, someone else speaking in the background. “I’m fine. Making soup. Will you drop in?” “Yes, in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum—there’s another collection at school, the nursery wants money for repairs. Could you… like last time?” Anne was already reaching for the drawer where she kept her little grey notebook of spending. “How much?” she asked. “If you can, three hundred. Of course, everyone’s chipping in, but you know…” He sighed. “It’s tough out there.” “I understand,” she said. “All right, I’ll give it.” “Thanks, Mum. You’re a star. I’ll stop by later for your famous soup.” As she rang off, the water in the pan was boiling already. Anne dropped in the chicken, sprinkled in some salt, added a bay leaf. She sat at the table and opened her notebook. “Pension” at the top, inked in ballpoint. Beneath: bills, medicine, “grandchildren”, “unexpected”. She wrote “nursery” and the amount, pausing a moment. The numbers shifted—less left than she wished, but not disastrous. “It’ll be fine,” she thought, closing the book. On the fridge, a magnet held a small calendar. Below the dates, an advert: “Community Arts Centre: Season Tickets—Classical Music, Jazz, Theatre. Senior discounts.” The magnet had been a birthday gift from her neighbour, Margaret, along with an apple pie. Anne often found herself rereading those words as she waited for the kettle. Again today, her eyes snagged on “season tickets”. She remembered years ago, before she was married, standing in queues for the symphony with her friend. Tickets were dirt cheap, if you braved the wind and joked to keep warm. Back then she’d had long hair in a bun, wore her best dress and only heels. Now, she pictured the auditorium—a place she hadn’t visited in years. Her grandkids dragged her to pantos and nativity plays, but that was different, all noise and confetti and shouting. Here… she didn’t even know what concerts they played nowadays—nor who went. She took the magnet down and flipped it over. On the back—a website address and phone number. The website meant nothing to her, but the phone… She put the magnet back. The thought didn’t go away. “Nonsense,” she told herself. “Better save up for a new jacket for Chloe. Kids grow, everything’s so dear nowadays.” She turned down the stove, sat again but left the notebook closed. Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a battered old envelope, her “rainy day” fund. Not much inside, a handful of notes stashed over recent months—for the washing machine, for blood tests if she needed them. She fingered the money, counting, with that advert echoing in her mind. Her son arrived that evening, hung his jacket on the chair, unpacked the Tupperware. “Ooh, borscht!” he said, pleased. “You’ve done it again, Mum! Have you eaten?” “Yes, yes—help yourself. The money’s ready.” She counted out three notes from the envelope. “Mum, you need to keep track of what’s left,” he said, taking the cash. “What if you’re short?” “I keep records,” she said. “Everything’s in order.” “You’re the family’s accountant,” he grinned. “By the way, could you come by on Saturday? Tanya and I need to nip to the shops—no one to watch the kids.” “I can,” she nodded. “What else have I got to do?” He told her about his boss, about work, new policies. At the door, he turned: “Mum, do you ever buy anything for yourself? Or is it all for us and the kids?” “I have everything I need,” she said. “What more could I want?” He waved it off: “All right, all right. I’ll pop by next week.” When he closed the door, the flat was quiet once more. Anne did the dishes, wiped down the table. Then glanced again at the magnet. In her mind, his question echoed: “Do you ever buy for yourself?” Next morning, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Grandkids at school and nursery, son at work—no one expected till evening. The day looked free, but was full of little chores: water the plants, mop the floor, sort old newspapers. She got up, did the stretching her GP had suggested: slow arms up, gentle reach, turn the neck. Then kettle on, tea in the cup. As the water boiled she took down the magnet once more. “Community Arts Centre. Season Tickets…” She picked up the phone, dialled the number. Her heart thudded. Three rings, then a calm woman’s voice. “Community Centre Box Office, how can I help?” “Hello,” Anne said, her mouth dry. “I was calling about… season tickets.” “Yes, of course. Which series are you interested in?” “I’m… not sure. What do you have?” The woman listed: symphony, chamber music, “An Evening of British Song”, children’s theatre. “Seniors get a discount,” she added, “but a season ticket is still a fair bit. Four concerts.” “Can you buy them singly?” asked Anne. “Yes, but it works out dearer that way.” Anne pictured her notebook, her envelope. She asked the price. The number sounded heavy in her mind—doable, but leaving her “rainy day” fund thin. “Think about it,” the woman said. “They do sell fast.” “Thank you,” Anne replied, hanging up. The kettle shrieked. She poured her tea, sat down, opened the notebook. On a clean page, she wrote: “Season Ticket”. Next to it—the price. Underneath: “Four concerts.” “How much would that be monthly?” she calculated. Not too bad. She could buy less chocolate. Skip the hairdresser this month, cut her own fringe. Faces of her grandkids swam up: the youngest wanted a building set, the eldest dance trainers. Her son and daughter-in-law sighed about the mortgage. And then—her own wish, suddenly shameful, as if concerts were a secret vice. She closed the book, undecided, and set to scrubbing the floor, sorting the washing, draping laundry on the radiator. But the thought of the hall wouldn’t go. After lunch, the doorbell rang. It was Margaret from next door, clutching a jar of pickles. “Take these,” she said, bustling in. “Nowhere to keep them. How are you?” “I’m all right,” Anne smiled. “Just thinking…” She trailed off. It felt silly to say aloud. “Thinking what?” Margaret settled with her knitting. “A concert,” Anne admitted. “They’re selling season tickets at the Arts Centre. I used to love concerts. But it’s too expensive.” Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Why ask me? It’s your business. If you want it, get it.” “But the money…” Anne began. “Money, money,” Margaret scoffed. “You’ve helped everyone all your life. Gave your son money again, right? And presents to the grandkids? But yourself—look at you, same old shawl, same winter coat. What’s wrong with a treat for yourself?” “It’s not a one-off,” Anne protested. “I used to go.” “Used to? When ice creams were ten pence,” Margaret snorted. “Times have changed. This is your own money—not theirs.” “They’ll say it’s silly,” Anne said quietly. “That the kids need it more.” “Then don’t tell them,” Margaret shrugged. “Or say you were at the clinic. Though—why hide? You’re not a child.” The words “not a child” stung. Anne felt something inside—a mix of embarrassment and pride. “I go to the clinic anyway,” she said. “But still, it’s scary. What if I can’t manage it, what if there are stairs, what if my heart…” “There’s a lift,” said Margaret. “And you’ll be sitting, not running around. I went to the theatre last month—survived! Legs ached but it cheered me up for a year.” They chatted about the news, medicines. When Margaret left, Anne again picked up the phone. Before she could lose her nerve, she rang the box office: “I’d like a season ticket for ‘An Evening of British Song’, please.” She took down the address, ticket office hours, pinned the note to her fridge with the magnet. Her heart pounded. That evening her daughter-in-law called. “Anne, you’ll watch the kids Saturday, yes? We want to check the sales at the shopping centre.” “I can,” Anne replied. “Thank you! We’ll bring you something—tea? New towels?” “No need,” she said. “I don’t need anything.” She checked the fridge note. The ticket office closed at six. She’d need to leave early. That night she dreamed of the concert hall: plush seats, bright lights, people in dark clothes. She sat among them, clutching a programme, afraid to shift in case she disturbed her neighbours. Next morning she woke with anxiety. “Why did I get myself into this mess—so much trouble…” But the fridge note stayed put. After breakfast, she got out her best coat, dusted it off, checked the buttons. Chose a warm scarf, comfy shoes, packed her passport, purse, glasses, blood pressure tablets, and a bottle of water. Before she left, she sat on the hallway stool, listening to her body. No dizziness, no trembling. “I’ll get there,” she told herself, locking the door behind her. The bus ride was short, just a few stops. A young man gave her his seat, and she thanked him, sitting by the window with her handbag in her lap. The Arts Centre was only two stops from the High Street—a tall building with columns, bright posters across the front. Two women smoked outside, waving their arms as they chatted. Inside, the air smelled of wood polish and something sweet from the café. The ticket office was just in, a woman behind the glass with a kind voice. Anne handed over her passport and named her chosen series. “We have a seniors’ discount. There are still good seats in the middle,” the cashier smiled, pointing to a seating chart. Anne nodded, not sure what it all meant. When the price was given, her hand trembled. For a moment she almost said she’d come back next time. But the queue behind her rustled, someone cleared their throat, and she placed her notes on the counter. “There’s your season ticket,” the woman said, giving her the stiff cardboard pass. “First concert’s in two weeks. Arrive early to find your seat.” The ticket was beautiful: a picture of the stage on the cover, neat programme listings inside. Anne slipped it into her bag, wedged between her passport and the recipe notebook she always carried. She felt faint as she left, sat on a bench outside and took a sip of water. Nearby, two teens chatted about bands she’d never heard of. She listened, the words as remote as a foreign language. “Well then,” she thought. “I’ve bought it. No turning back now.” The next two weeks passed in chores. The grandkids caught colds; she stewed compotes, took temperatures. Her son delivered groceries, collected leftovers. She nearly confided in him about the concert, but switched topics each time. On the day of the first concert, she woke early, stomach fluttery as before an exam. She prepped dinner ahead, so she wouldn’t be stuck on the stove. She called her son: “I’ll be out this evening. If you need me, let me know beforehand.” “Out where?” he asked, surprised. She hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, but the truth felt awkward. “The Arts Centre. A concert.” A pause. “What concert? Mum, you need that? It’ll be full of young people, noise, all hustle.” “It’s not a disco,” she replied, keeping calm. “They’re performing English songs.” “Who asked you to go?” “No one,” she said. “I bought the season myself.” The silence stretched. “Mum… seriously? You know it’s not easy for us right now—those savings…” “I know,” she cut in. “But this is my money.” Her voice was firmer than expected, even to her own ears. She clenched the phone, bracing for an outburst. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your call. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if you need it later. And be careful—don’t catch cold. Remember your age…” “At my age, I can sit and listen to some music. I’m not climbing mountains.” He sighed again, softly. “All right. Ring me when you get in, so I don’t worry.” “I will,” she promised. She sat for a while, looking at the ticket. Her hands shook. She felt reckless, almost improper. But she wasn’t backing down. By evening, she dressed in her best: navy dress, neat collar, ladder-free tights, sensible pumps. She brushed her hair longer than usual, smoothing the wisps. It was nearly dark when she went out. Shop windows glowed, people queued for the bus. She clutched her bag—ticket, passport, tissues, pills inside. The bus was crowded. Someone stepped on her foot and apologised. She gripped the pole, counting stops. At her destination, she squeezed out, careful not to bump anyone. Outside the Arts Centre, all sorts queued—older couples, younger women, a few lads in jeans. Anne relaxed a little; she wasn’t the oldest there. In the cloakroom, she handed over her coat, received a numbered tag. For a moment she hesitated, unsure of the way, then followed an arrow for “Auditorium”, clinging to the rail. Inside, it was dim, just pin lights above the rows. An usher checked tickets. “Row six, seat nine,” she said. “Just along here.” Anne made her way, mumbling “sorry” as people let her past. She found her seat, sat, placed her bag on her lap. Her heart pounded, now with anticipation. Around her, people chatted, rustled programmes. She opened hers, tracing unfamiliar titles. At the bottom she spotted the name of a composer she remembered from radio years ago. The lights went down. The compère spoke, but Anne barely heard—it mattered more that she was here, among these people, not at home beside the cooker. When the first music began, she shivered. The singer’s voice was rich and a little rough—songs of love, farewells, roads that led far away. Suddenly, they felt hers too; she remembered other towns, other times, sitting in just such a hall beside someone long gone. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry. She just sat, clutching her bag, and listened. After a while, her body relaxed, her breath slowed. Music filled the space—her life, for once, not just drudgery and counting pennies. At the interval, her back ached, legs stiff. She stretched in the foyer, people discussing the performance. Some bought cakes, some had tea. She allowed herself a small chocolate, though she usually skipped such things. “Lovely,” she said aloud, tasting a bite. A woman nearby, about her age, smiled. “Good concert, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Anne. “I haven’t been in years.” “Me neither,” said the woman. “Always something—grandchildren, garden. But I thought: if not now, when?” They shared a few words about the singer. Then the bell rang, and everyone returned to their seats. The second half swept by. Anne forgot about the cost or her savings; she just listened. When the music ended, she applauded till her palms stung. Outside, the air was chilly, fresh. She walked to the stop, legs tired, but with a small warmth inside—not euphoria, but the sense she’d done something truly for herself. At home, she called her son. “I’m home,” she said. “All fine.” “How was it? Not too cold?” “It was… lovely,” she said. He paused, then: “That’s all right then. Just don’t overdo it. We need to keep saving, you know.” “I remember. But I’ve already paid for three more concerts.” “Three?” he said, surprised. “Well, since you have, you’d better go. Just be careful.” She hung up, set her coat and bag in their places. Made tea and sat down. The season ticket lay before her, corners a bit bent. She ran her fingers over it, then transferred the concert dates into her wall calendar, circling them in pen. Next week, when her son needed money for another appeal, Anne opened her notebook, stared at the figures, and said: “I can only give half. I need the rest.” “What for?” he asked, automatically. She looked at his tired face, the dark rings under his eyes. “For me,” she said quietly. “I need it myself.” He looked like he might argue, then waved it off. “All right, Mum. Whatever you say.” That evening, left alone, Anne took out an old photo album. In one was a much younger her, in a white dress, outside a different concert hall, holding a programme and smiling shyly. She studied the face, linking it to her reflection in the mirror. She returned the album to its place. On the fridge, beside the magnet, she pinned a new note: “Next concert—15th.” Underneath: “Leave early.” Life didn’t change overnight. Each morning, Anne made soup, washed up, visited the surgery, babysat the grandchildren. Her son still asked for help, and she helped if she could. But now, deep down, she had her own pocket of time, her own little plans that needed no explanation. Passing the fridge, she sometimes touched the note with her fingers. Each time, a private, stubborn feeling grew: she was still alive, she still had the right to want. One evening, reading the paper, she saw an advert for a free beginners’ English class for seniors at the local library. You just had to sign up. She tore it out and slipped it next to her ticket. Then poured another tea, wondering, was this one wish too many? “I’ll hear my songs out first,” she decided. “Then I’ll see.” She tucked the ad into her notebook, but the idea of learning something new no longer felt impossible. That night, before bed, she drew back the curtain. In the courtyard, the street lamps glowed; a teenager walked by with headphones, a boy thumped a football. Anne leaned on the window, feeling calm settle inside her. Life went on, full of chores and sacrifice, but somewhere within, there was room for four evenings in the hall, and perhaps a few new words in an unfamiliar tongue. She turned out the kitchen light, went to her room, and pulled the covers up neat. Tomorrow would be as always—shopping, calls, cooking. But a little ring was on her calendar, and that changed something precious, even if nobody else ever noticed.