Lucy Bennett stared at the empty kitchen table, the silence of the flat humming louder than any conversation. Her sister Margaret lived in Birmingham, but today Lucy was the only one in her modest Manchester flat who could answer the door. Poppy Harper, Margarets 18yearold daughter, had turned up for a fortnight, ostensibly to sort out university paperwork the University of Manchester, where she hoped to live in a dorm and start her studies. The reasons were murky: exams, registration, a passportphoto Lucy had no need to know the details, only that a visit before enrollment was perfectly normal. Margaret had agreed that Poppy could crash on Lucys couch while she was away.
The tension crackled when Lucy finally found Poppy perched in the livingroom, arms crossed, eyes flashing. Whats the matter? Lucy asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
I thought youd have a proper lunch ready for me, Poppy replied, the words sharp as a winter wind.
Lucys patience snapped. Im not your personal chef, and Im not going to rearrange my schedule for you. Ive got to get out now, Ive work in an hour. Call your mother and have her transfer some money to your account. Go buy yourself a packet of biscuits, a couple of rolls, maybe some tea. And actually buy the tea Im out. She gestured toward the empty kettle. Youre 18, Poppy, you can manage that.
Poppys mother, Susan Harper, had not spoken to Lucy in years. Since the children had fled the nest, Lucys husband had vanished without a trace, and shed thrown herself into a relentless job at a Manchester law firm. Her days were a blur of endless meetings and nightlong emails; home life was a series of brief, chaotic visits. She could barely sleep, let alone prepare meals for anyone else.
Im not going to sacrifice anything for a guest, Lucy muttered, the words tasting like ash. Its nice to see you, Poppy. Youve grown up, youre becomingwell, a woman. But Im not the carefree Aunt Lucy who could once whip up a feast in a flash. I cant afford to waste time on a stove you might break or a flat you might ruin.
Poppys shoulders slumped, the fire in her eyes dimming to a steady ember. She had expected a full board, a motherly indulgence that never came. I guess Ill justmanage, she whispered, the words barely audible over the ticking clock.
Lucy felt a pang of guilt, of course. For decades shed cultivated calm, supportive relationships with everyone in her small circle. Even now, she offered a free couch, though the breakfast clause was conspicuously missing. She had even booked an appointment with a therapist, desperate for gentle phrasing to explain to her family that she was no longer the indefatigable pillar theyd once counted on. Dont expect me to be as functional as before, she thought, we all have to adjust.
The flat fell into an uneasy quiet, the weight of unspoken expectations hanging between aunt and niece like a stormcloud waiting to burst. The scene lingered, each breath a reminder that love, no matter how deep, sometimes has to be measured in pounds and practicality.
