“You Only Have Yourself to Blame, Mum”
Helen was frying burgers when the doorbell rang. She stepped out of the kitchen to answer it.
“Mum, it’s for me,” her daughter’s voice stopped her halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Go back to your frying,” her daughter snapped, glancing over her shoulder from the doorway.
“Why *my* frying? I bought the mince from the butcher’s—”
“Mum, close the door.” Her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve just said so.” Helen returned to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. She turned off the hob, hesitated, then untied her apron and walked out.
In the hall, her daughter was slipping on her jacket. Beside her stood James, her boyfriend, gazing at her with adoration.
“Hello, James. Where are you two off to? Why not stay for dinner?”
“Hello,” James smiled, glancing uncertainly at her daughter.
“We’re in a hurry,” the girl answered without looking at her mother.
“Are you sure? It’s all ready,” Helen pressed. James hesitated.
“No!” her daughter cut in sharply. “Let’s go.” She took James’s arm and flung the door open. “Mum, can you shut it?”
Helen moved to close it but left it slightly ajar, catching their conversation on the landing.
“Why d’you talk to her like that? Smells amazing—I wouldn’t say no to a burger.”
“Come on. We’ll grab something at the café. I’m sick of her cooking,” her daughter muttered.
“*Sick* of it? I love your mum’s burgers—could eat ’em every day,” James said.
Helen missed her daughter’s reply as their voices faded down the stairs. She shut the door properly and walked into the living room. Her husband, Richard, was glued to the telly.
“Richard, dinner’s ready while it’s hot.”
“Eh? Right.” He heaved himself off the sofa and brushed past her to the kitchen, settling at the table.
“What’s on tonight?” he demanded.
“Rice, burgers, salad,” Helen said, lifting the pan lid.
“How many times d’I have to say? I don’t eat fried food.”
“I added water—they’re practically steamed.” She froze by the hob, lid in hand.
“Fine. But last time.”
“At our age, losing weight’s not healthy,” Helen remarked, setting his plate down.
“*Our* age? I’m fifty-seven. Prime of a man’s life.” He speared a burger, biting off half.
“What’s got into everyone today? Emily bolts off, you’re acting up. Maybe I should stop cooking—see how you like *takeaways* every night. Think café food’s better?”
“Don’t bother, then. You could stand to lose a few yourself. Soon you won’t fit through the door.” He demolished the first burger and stabbed the second.
“Oh? So I’m *fat* now? And here I was wondering why you’ve suddenly got so vain—new jeans, that leather jacket, the *baseball cap*. Shaving your head to hide the bald patch. Who’s it for? Certainly not me. Got someone to compare me to?” Her voice cracked.
“Let me eat in peace.” Richard forked rice but dropped it back. “Pass the ketchup.”
Helen slammed the bottle on the table and stormed out. Her own dinner sat untouched.
She locked herself in Emily’s room, sinking onto the bed. Tears welled. *Cook, clean, sacrifice—for what? No gratitude. Richard’s midlife crisis, Emily treats me like hired help. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I’m their servant.* She scrubbed her face dry.
She’d always thought theirs was a good family. Not perfect, but decent. Emily at uni, Richard a steady earner, no vices. A tidy home, home-cooked meals. What more did he want?
Helen studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. *A bit rounder, but not* fat. *Plump cheeks hide wrinkles. Always loved food—cook well, too. But they don’t care. Used to style my hair when I worked—now it’s just pinned back. Easier. Can’t hoover in heels. Still… could lose a stone. And roots need doing.*
Next morning, she didn’t rise at dawn. Pretended to sleep. *I’m retired—I’ve a right to lie in. Let them sort their own breakfast.*
The alarm blared. Helen feigned drowsiness, facing the wall.
“You ill?” Richard’s tone held no concern.
“Mhm,” she mumbled into the duvet.
“Mum? You okay?” Emily hovered in the doorway.
“Yes. Help yourselves.” Her muffled reply.
Emily huffed and left. Soon, the kettle hissed, fridge slammed, muted voices drifted. Helen stayed buried.
Richard entered, reeking of expensive cologne—*the one I bought him*. Then both left. Silence. Helen threw off the covers but drowsed off.
She woke an hour later, stretched luxuriously, and padded to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs, crumbs everywhere. *I’m not their maid.* She showered, then rang her old schoolmate.
“Helly!” Margaret’s voice was unchanged. “How’s retirement treating you?”
Helen said she missed her, was sick of home, hadn’t visited her parents’ grave. Would it be an imposition?
“Course not! Come whenever.”
“Today, actually.”
“Brilliant! I’ll bake a pie.”
She packed a small bag, swept crumbs aside, left a note: *Gone to Margaret’s. Back ????*
En route to the station, doubt crept in. *Let them manage without me. But is this too harsh?* “If there’s no ticket, I’ll go home.” But there was—and a queue. Helen sighed and joined it.
Margaret hugged her tight. Over tea and warm pie, the years melted.
“Now, out with it. What’s happened?”
“You always knew me.” Helen confessed everything.
“Good. Let them stew. Turn off your phone.”
“Too much?”
“Perfect. Tomorrow, salon. New you. Oh—Valerie works there now. Remember her? Dumb as posts, but now she’s booked weeks ahead. Then shopping. We’ll make you *divine*. Watch Richard grovel.”
That night, Helen tossed. *Are they missing me? Angry? Relieved?*
Valerie greeted them warmly, sat Helen down. As dye set, she tidied her brows, then snipped expertly. Helen almost dozed. Valerie insisted on makeup. Reluctant, Helen yielded under Margaret’s nudging.
The mirror stunned her. A vibrant, younger woman stared back. Valerie pressed for a manicure.
“No—I’m done.”
“Eight a.m. sharp, then.”
“Who’d have thought?” Margaret marvelled as they left. “Now, shopping.”
“Another day?”
“Not in those rags! Beauty’s pain.” She dragged Helen to the mall.
Helen emerged in tailored trousers, a silky blouse, a caramel cardigan—exhausted but pleased. Clutching bags (new dress, jacket, shoes), she felt lighter, confident. *Should’ve done this ages ago.*
Outside Margaret’s, a broad-shouldered man with snow-white hair and a dark moustache approached.
“Hello, girls.” His admiring gaze fixed on Helen. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I…” Helen blinked at Margaret.
“Paul Jenkins! Remember?”
“*Paul?*” The lanky, spotty boy was now this distinguished man.
“Come in—we’ve wine to celebrate.” Margaret winked.
Over glasses, they reminisced. Helen flushed—from wine or Paul’s attention?
“He’s still sweet on you,” Margaret whispered when he stepped out.
“Don’t be daft.”
“But you *are* dazzling.”
“He lives here?”
“No. Army man—colonel, retired. Wounded abroad. Wife left him during rehab. Walks with a limp now. Don’t dismiss him yet.”
“I’m *married*.”
That night, Helen resolved to go home. Margaret protested.
“Stay a week. Paul’s got theatre tickets—when did you last go?”
“Pantomime with Emily.”
“*Panto!*” Margaret scoffed. “That dress needs an outing.”
Three days later, Helen turned her phone on.
“Mum! Dad’s in hospital! Come *now*,” Emily cried.
Her stomach lurched. As Paul drove her to the station, he squeezed her hand.
“Helen—if you need anything, call.”
On the bus, Emily confessed: Richard had been cheating. She’d seen him leaving a neighbour’s flat. When Helen vanished, he’d stayed out. Then the woman’s husband—an oil-rig worker—returned. A brawl, two brokenHelen stepped back into her home that evening, knowing life would never be the same, but ready to face whatever came next with her head held high.
