Nothing More Awaits You

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

Victor, Ive got a promotion! Poppys voice burst into an excited squeak as she slipped her shoes off on the spot. Can you believe it? With bonuses its almost twohundredthousand pounds! Hooray!

She barreled into the sittingroom, ready to throw herself around Victors neck. But she froze at the doorway. Victor was lounging on the sofa, and beside him, propped against the arm of his favourite armchair, sat his mother, Eleanor. A strained smile hung on Poppys lips. The air grew thick, heavy. Her cheeks flushed instantlyshed rushed in like a schoolgirl whod just been handed a perfect mark, and now her motherinlaw stared at her with a stern, evaluative gaze.

Victor shifted slightly on the sofa, but didnt fully stand. Eleanor remained silent, her eyes scanning Poppy from head to toe. Seconds stretched into a sticky pause. Poppy clenched the handle of her handbag and dropped her gaze to the floor. The joy that had been bubbling inside her a moment ago now felt childish and outofplace.

Poppy, thats wonderful news! Eleanors voice suddenly cut through the silence, and Poppy snapped her head up.

A broad grin blossomed across Eleanors face. She moved toward her daughterinlaw, arms wide, and Poppy hesitantly stepped forward. The motherinlaw gave a brief but firm hug, then patted her shoulder.

Congratulations, love! Youve earned it! she beamed.

Thank you, Poppy managed, still unsure of what was happening.

Victor rose from the sofa and came closer. A genuine, warm smile played on his lips.

I always knew youd pull it off, he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her in.

Eleanor took a step back, folded her arms, and shook her head.

This is the moment our lives start looking up!

Poppy nodded, at a loss for a reply. Eleanors words sounded right, yet something lingered beneath them that Poppy couldnt quite catch.

Alright, dears, I wont stand in your way, Eleanor said, grabbing her bag from the armrest and heading for the door. Celebrateyouve earned it.

Victor escorted his mother to the exit. Poppy stood in the middle of the living room as the door clicked shut and Victor slipped back in. The same smile lingered on his face, but a flicker of unease darted through his eyes.

What was that about? Poppy sank onto the edge of the sofa, looking at him.

What exactly? Victor replied, heading to the kitchen and turning on the kettle.

She followed him.

So, your mum why did she show up?

Victor rummaged in the cupboard for two mugs.

Just a trivial thing, reallynothing to worry about, he waved it off. Dont mind her.

Victor!

He sighed, turned to her, fatigue surfacing in his gaze.

Dad and I took out a £200,000 loan to redecorate the flat. We thought we could borrow a bit from Mom because we cant meet the repayments just yet.

Poppy nodded. The kettle whistled, water bubbling to a boil. Victor poured the hot water into the mugs, dropped in the tea bags. Poppy cradled her cup, feeling the warmth seep into her palms. A sticky, heavy foreboding settled in her chestshe couldnt explain where it came from, but it was there.

What did you say? she asked quietly.

That Ill help when I can. You know we dont have any spare cash right now.

She nodded again and took a sip. The hot liquid scorched her lips, but she paid it no mind. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, trying to make sense of Victors halfhearted reassurance.

The next two weeks flew by. The new role swallowed Poppy wholetasks piled up, the schedule tightened, yet she reveled in every hectic day. It was exactly what shed been aiming for, and now that the goal was hit, satisfaction poured through her. She returned home tired but content.

One evening Poppy left the office a bit early. Rain drummed on the streets as she hurried to her car, turned on the heater, and stopped by the corner shop for a few basicsbread, milk, something for dinner. Back home she stripped off her wet coat, hung it on the rack, and set the groceries on the kitchen counter.

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Poppy dabbed her hands on a towel and opened the door to find Eleanor, umbrella-less, hair dripping, wrapped in an old coat. No smile greeted her.

Hello, Poppy, Eleanor said, stepping inside. Is Victor home?

No, hes still at work. Is something wrong? Poppy asked.

Eleanor plonked herself on the sofa, looking Poppy up and down.

Ill get straight to the point. I need some moneyjust a little, about £10,000.

Poppy froze in the doorway.

You know were strapped. The loan is crushing us, the pensions are thin. And now you, suddenly flush, can help.

Poppy stared, unsure what to say. Awkwardness tangled with irritation.

I Eleanor, I have no cash on me, she began, but the motherinlaw cut her off.

No problem, just transfer it. You have a phone, dont you?

Poppy stared at Eleanor, realizing arguing was pointless. The look in Eleanors eyes held no doubtshe was convinced Poppy would comply.

She sent the money. Eleanor nodded and moved toward the door.

Thank you, love.

The door shut behind her, leaving Poppy alone in the hallway. Only then did it hit herEleanor never mentioned when or how shed pay it back. Shed simply taken the cash and walked out.

It left a sour taste.

Two weeks later Poppy received her first big paycheck. The figure flashing on her phone made her grinit was real, shed earned it. On the way home she swung by the shop and bought a cake, sushi, and a pizza, eager to celebrate with Victor in a tiny homecoming party.

She climbed the stairs, opened the flats door, and stepped in. Voices drifted from the living room. She walked further, bags in hand, and halted at the threshold. Eleanor sat there, Victor beside her on the sofa, looking weary.

Poppy set the bags down by the entryway.

Anything go wrong?

Eleanors eyes met hers, and Poppy saw a mix of desperation and anger. The motherinlaw moved closer.

Poppy, love, were in a bind. The pension barely covers anything, and the loan demands £30,000 by the end of the month. Were at our wits end

Poppy furrowed her brows. Eleanor spoke quickly, almost breathlessly, as if fearing Poppy might cut her off.

We really need help, Poppy. £30,000 isnt a fortune, right?

Victor rose from the sofa.

Mum, I have nothing. Id love to help, but theres not a penny left for me.

Eleanor glanced at the bags at Poppys feet.

And look, Poppys got moneyshe even bought treats. Isnt that right, dear?

Poppy stepped back a beat. Eleanor drew even closer, the distance now a mere arms length.

Youre a good daughterinlaw, arent you? You wont let the family suffer. Who else can we turn to but you?

The words lodged in Poppys throat. The womans audacity had crossed a line. She stared at Eleanor, unable to process the plea.

Why should I help? Poppy finally managed, voice shaking.

Eleanors eyes flashed with certainty.

Because now you earn the most in the family. Children owe their parents supporteven financial support, imagine that.

Yes, parents, Poppy retorted, taking another step back. But my parents, not yours.

Eleanors face twisted. She leaned in, voice rising.

Im your husbands mother, dear! Dont you remember were family? Youre obligated to help us!

Im under no obligation to anyone! Poppy snapped, clenching her fists. I have my own plans, my own family. And honestly, taking such a huge loan was a mistake in the first place.

Eleanor turned to Victor.

Victor! Hear what shes saying? Sort your wife out! What a cheek!

Victor stepped forward, his expression hardening.

Enough, Mum. If you need money, ask me, not Poppy. She owes you nothing.

Eleanor opened her mouth, but Victor cut her off.

Im taking you out. This conversation is over.

He grabbed her elbow and led her to the door. Poppy stood in the living room, listening to the closing door. A minute later Victor returned. She lifted the bags from the floor and looked at him.

Shall we celebrate?

Victor smiled, tired but genuine, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

Congratulations on your first big salary. Youre brilliant.

Poppy rested her head against his chest, closed her eyes, and felt a calm settle over her. She finally believed Eleanor would never return for more money. In that moment she understood that nothing was shining for her beyond Victors side of the familyeverything else was irrelevant.

A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this *was* the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.