Just what I needed…
Gwendoline lived alone. She and her husband had never had children. At first, they hoped, tried, then considered adoption. She made the decision—her husband barely cared. He was content as things were. Perhaps Gwendoline took too long preparing for such a serious step, overthinking, delaying, while time slipped away. After forty, she quietly abandoned the idea. Truthfully, she was afraid.
Her husband was passionate about hiking—backpacking, tents, campfire songs. He played the guitar well, sociable, always drawn to gatherings. In their youth, Gwendoline had loved it too. But with age, she grew weary. She was tired of spending every weekend trudging with a heavy rucksack, returning Sunday evening, washing up, and dragging herself to work on Monday—mosquito bites, wind-burned skin, nails chipped and unkempt. She longed to sleep in on weekends, take hot showers instead of washing in icy river water or muddy ponds, use a proper toilet instead of baring herself to more insect bites.
Even excitement wears thin when there’s too much. Her back often ached, her joints protested the strain. So she stopped joining him.
At first, he showed solidarity, skipping a few trips. But she saw his restlessness, his gloom. Eventually, she urged him to go without her. He brightened instantly.
“Why let him go alone? Mark my words, some woman’ll snap him up. He’d have settled down in time,” scolded her best friend, Margaret.
“If no one stole him in his prime, why now?”
“You’re naive. Men aren’t like women—they’re in demand at any age,” Margaret sighed.
“So what? Should I force myself to hike in agony just to stop him from straying? If he wants to cheat, he’ll do it at home. No forest required. Besides, we’ve got our own crowd.”
Margaret only shrugged.
After that, her husband never invited her again. He went alone. Gradually, they drifted apart—fewer shared memories, dwindling conversations. Still, she noticed nothing strange.
Until one evening, he returned distant, distracted.
“Where’d you go this time?” she asked, reheating soup.
“The usual trail. Had some newcomers.”
“Photos? Show me what you took.” She tried to engage him.
“I told you, same trail as before,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew. Exactly what Margaret had warned her about.
Three days of silence passed before he spoke.
“Gwendoline… I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Didn’t think it’d happen to me.” He wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Just like that?”
“She joined our hikes when you stopped. I can’t imagine life without her now.”
“She’s young, isn’t she?”
He said nothing.
“I see. What now? Leaving me for her?” Gwendoline clung to composure—no screaming, no accusations.
“She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—I can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat and split it.” Finally, he looked at her.
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, I… I don’t know…” He stood, pacing nervously.
The flat was marital property. Every fibre of her rebelled—yet after long deliberation, she agreed, insisting on choosing her own place. It stung, watching his relief.
“I knew you were daft, but not this daft,” Margaret groaned, tapping her temple.
“You’re right. But there’s a child involved. Not his fault. I’m not heartless. What do I need a big flat for alone?”
Luck favored her—a bright one-bedder in the same area, recently refurbished, close to work. She didn’t ask about his arrangements. Why bother?
Now alone. No husband, no children. She’d adjust.
Then, late one evening, the phone rang. Her brother. He only called for disasters—last time, a decade ago, when their father died.
Gwendoline had moved from a tiny village to London for university. Lived in halls, married… By family standards, she was wealthy—city job, own flat. Of course, they expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but her relatives’ envy, even her mother’s, wore her down. How to explain that a flat wasn’t luxury, but necessity? That city life drained every penny?
Her parents doted on their younger son. He’d care for them in old age, their pride, their heir. Gwendoline? An afterthought. So she stopped visiting. Then her husband’s hiking obsession left no time.
Ten years since Dad’s funeral—her last trip home.
This call meant trouble.
“Thomas? What’s wrong?” she braced herself. “Mum…?”
“Nah, she’s alive. But poorly. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”
“Can’t now. Maybe in a month.” Relief—Mum was safe.
“Listen…” Thomas hesitated. “Louise left me. Said she’s done nursing Mum, two households to run. Took the boys. I’m a bloke—can’t handle it all. Work’s enough. Mum’s no help, needs care herself.”
He cut to the chase—he’d moved in with another woman. Pregnant. Couldn’t burden her with Mum. “You take her.”
“Who?” Gwendoline wasn’t sure if he meant Mum or the girlfriend.
“Mum, obviously. Not Mandy.”
“Mandy…?”
“My missus. Not official, but…”
She heard his grin.
“How? I’ve only got a one-bedder since the divorce.”
“Perfect. Keep each other company. She’s got her pension, too. Look, Mum hates Mandy. Fetch her. She’ll die here alone.”
However she argued, Thomas wore her down. Forced to take unpaid leave, she returned to the village. All those years Mum bragged about her son—now he palmed her off. No choice. A mother was a mother.
Mum recognised her—no warmth, though. Shrunken, frail. But she agreed to leave. Seeing Thomas, Gwendoline understood—drinking problem. No wonder Louise fled.
They took nothing. Everything worn, ancient. Thomas bought basics, handed down cast-offs. He waved them off at the train station. Never called again.
Bringing Mum home, Gwendoline realised her mistake—should’ve bought a spare bed first. Her own sofa was non-negotiable—bad back, picky sleeper. One night on the floor, then she paid extra for same-day delivery. Shifted her sofa aside, placed Mum’s by the window—she liked to watch the world.
Mum could shuffle about, but shouldn’t. Spilled soup, left taps running, gas was a hazard. Gwendoline returned from work to scrub toilets, pick up shattered plates, scrape dried food from carpets. She switched to remote work—couldn’t leave Mum unsupervised. The last six months, Mum never left bed.
Thomas didn’t come to the funeral. Too busy, apparently.
Back in the office post-funeral, Gwendoline faced Mum’s reeking sofa. Couldn’t bring herself to bin it.
Just as life settled, Thomas called again. Early Saturday—she jolted awake. His calls only meant trouble. She answered, groggy.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?” he deflected.
“You? Never. What now?”
He laughed, unfazed.
“How’re you holding up?”
“My back’s shot, joints ache. Blood pressure’s wild. Why?”
“Brilliant,” he chirped.
“Brilliant that I’m falling apart?”
“Means someone’s there to look after you, sis. Remember my eldest? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s genius material. But our village’s got no uni. Lad’s dead set on studying science. So he’s moving in with you. Just a year—dorm after that.”
She gaped. Again, no asking—just dumping.
“It’s a one-bed flat, Thomas. How?”
“We grew up four to a room. Worried about your reputation? He’s harmless.” Another laugh.
“Feed him, that’s it. Company if you croak.”
“If I what?”
“He’ll fetch shopping, call an ambulance.”
However she protested, Thomas steamrolled her. Spare sofa—thank God she’d kept it.
Her nephew arrived two days later. Sullen, silent. Plonked on the sofa, laptop open.
At least he wouldn’t break dishes or miss the loo, she thought. But his presence stifled her. Once, leaving work early with soaring blood pressure, she walked in on him—bare girl on her prized sofa.
The girl dressed calmly, left. Gwendoline tore into her nephew.
“You smoke?” She spotted a cigarette butt.
“That was Jeanette,” he grunted.
“Not Emily, not Chloe—JeanetteGwendoline slammed the door behind her, finally realising that sometimes the only way to stop being taken advantage of was to stop answering the phone.
