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Maybe we could pop to the cinema at the weekend? Eleanor asked, plumping herself up beside Martin on the sofa.

After Seventy, No One Needed Her – Not Even Her Son or Daughter Remembered Her Birthday, But a Tearful Day in the Hospital Park Brought an Unexpected Reunion

After turning seventy, she found she wasn’t needed by anyone, not even her own son or daughter

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Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs. Hope Parker’s day began the same way: the whistling kettle, two spoons of loose leaf tea in her old, beloved teapot that had survived since the kids were little and everything seemed possible. While the water warmed, she would tune the kitchen radio to the news—half-listening to the anchors whose familiar voices felt like old friends, more familiar than many faces these days. On the wall, the yellow-handed clock faithfully ticked on, but the landline’s ring beneath it grew rare. It used to buzz every evening when old friends called to discuss soaps or their blood pressure. Now, those friends fell sick, moved to family in other cities, or faded away altogether. The phone stood in the corner, heavy, the receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes Mrs. Parker would stroke it in passing, checking if this lifeline still breathed. Her children preferred mobile phones. Really, she knew they called each other more than her—when they visited, their mobiles rarely left their grasp. Her son would fall silent mid-conversation, eyes locked to his screen, mutter “one sec,” and begin tapping. Her granddaughter—a reed-thin girl with a wild ponytail—almost never took her hands off her phone. Friends, games, music, lessons. Everything for them was in that little device now. She herself still had an old button mobile, bought for her after her first trip to hospital with high blood pressure. “So we’re always reachable,” her son had insisted. It lay in a grey sleeve on the hallway shelf, sometimes forgotten, buried under scarves and shopping receipts. It seldom rang, and when it did, Mrs. Parker often failed to press the right button in time, berating herself afterwards. That day she turned seventy-five. The number felt foreign—inside, she was sure she was at least ten years younger, maybe even fifteen. But the passport didn’t lie. Morning went its familiar course: tea, radio, a quick joint exercise routine as the clinic doctor had advised. She pulled yesterday’s salad from the fridge, set a pie out on the table: the family was due at two. She couldn’t get over how birthdays were now planned not by phone but in some “chat.” One day, her son said, “We sort everything with Tanya in the family chat. I’ll show you someday.” He never did. For her, “chat” sounded like something otherworldly, where people lived in tiny windows and spoke in letters. At two they arrived. First crashed in grandson Tom with headphones and a backpack; then granddaughter Daisy—quiet, gliding through the hallway; later, her son and daughter-in-law, laden with bags. The flat buzzed with tight, noisy warmth. Pastry, perfume, some brisk, fresh scent she couldn’t place. “Happy birthday, Mum,” her son hugged her quickly, as if pressed for time. Gifts, flowers, a password request from Daisy for the Wi-Fi. Her son, wincing, fished a slip of paper from his pocket and dictated an absurd mixture of letters and numbers that left her head spinning. “Nana, why aren’t you in the chat?” Tom asked, pulling off his trainers and drifting to the kitchen. “That’s where it all happens.” “What chat?” she scoffed, pushing pie toward him. “This phone’s enough for me.” “Mum,” her daughter-in-law chimed in, exchanging glances with her husband, “actually, we’ve… well, we’ve got a present.” Her son produced a neat white box, glossy, gently trembling in her hands: she guessed its contents immediately. “A smartphone,” he said, as if naming a diagnosis. “Nothing fancy but decent—camera, internet, all the trimmings.” “Why?” she tried to keep her voice steady. “Mum, it’s just… with this, we can do video calls,” her daughter-in-law spoke fast and sure. “We’ve got a family chat—photos and news all go there. Plus, nowadays everything’s online: appointments, bills. You’ve said yourself about the clinic queues.” “I’ll manage…” she started, only for her son to sigh gently. “Mum, it’d put our minds at ease. If something happens, you’re just a message away, no fiddling with that old button phone, trying to remember which is the green receiver.” He smiled to soften the words, but still, she felt a sting—“Find the green receiver” like she was already useless. “All right,” she said, lowering her eyes to the box, “if you insist.” The box was opened together, like gifts for children once were—but now the children were grown, and she felt more like a student at exam time. From inside, a black rectangle emerged, cool and slippery, no sign of a single button. “It’s all touch screen,” explained Tom, swiping a finger to awaken a rainbow of icons. Mrs. Parker flinched. It seemed some sly device ready to demand passwords and something else unfathomable. “Don’t be scared,” Daisy said, unexpectedly gentle. “We’ll set everything up. Just don’t press anything yourself—okay? Not until we explain.” Those words stung most of all. “Don’t press anything yourself.” Like a child who might smash a precious vase. After lunch, the family crammed into the living room. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placed the smartphone on her lap. “Right, look,” he started. “This is the power button. Press and hold. That’s it. The screen lights up—then you swipe to unlock…” He moved too quickly: button, screen saver, lock. It sounded like a foreign language. “Wait,” she pleaded. “One thing at a time or I’ll forget.” “You won’t,” he brushed off. “It’s easy, you’ll get used to it.” She nodded—knowing she wouldn’t, not quickly. She needed time: time to accept that now the world lived inside these rectangles, and she had to squeeze in somehow. By evening, her new phone already held the numbers for her family, neighbour Mrs. Vicki, and the clinic. Her son installed a messenger, created her profile, added her to the family chat, set it to extra-large text. “See? This is our chat—here’s where we write,” he typed, producing a message to himself. Then her daughter-in-law chimed in: “Hurrah! Mum’s here!” Daisy replied with smiling emojis. “And how do I…?” she asked, bewildered. “Tap here,” her son pointed. “Type with the keyboard. Or, if not, hold the mic and speak.” She tried. Her fingers shook. “Thank you” came out “sran you.” Her son laughed, the others too, Daisy sent more emojis. “It’s OK,” her son reassured, seeing her tense. “Everyone gets it wrong at first.” She nodded, but felt ashamed, as though failing some simple test. When they left, silence returned. Uneaten pie, flowers, and the white smartphone box lay on the table. The device, screen down, seemed alien. She flipped it carefully, pressed the side button as shown; the screen glowed softly, displaying the family’s Christmas photo. She saw herself at the edge, in blue, eyebrow raised—like she already doubted whether she belonged there. She swiped, as taught—icons appeared. Phone, messages, camera, and more. She recalled her son’s warning: “Don’t press anything unnecessary.” But how to know what is “unnecessary”? She set the smartphone gently down and washed dishes, letting it adjust to the flat. The next morning she woke earlier. First thing, she checked the phone—still alien, but yesterday’s fear eased a little. It was just a thing. Things could be learned. Once, she’d mastered the microwave, too—though she’d feared it would explode. She made tea, sat, and pulled the smartphone closer. Turned it on, hand sweaty. The Christmas photo appeared. She swiped—found the green phone icon, somewhat comfortingly familiar, and pressed it. Her contacts: son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Tom, Mrs. Vicki. She tapped her son’s name. The phone buzzed, stripes raced across the screen; she held it to her ear. “Hello?” her son answered, surprised. “Mum? All okay?” “Just testing,” she replied, oddly proud. “It worked.” “See!” he chuckled. “Told you so. Only, call on messenger next time, it’s cheaper.” “How?” she faltered. “I’ll show you later. I’m at work now.” She hung up, heart pounding, but warm inside: she’d managed—on her own. A couple hours later, her first family chat message arrived. The phone beeped; screen lit up. “Daisy: Nana, how are you?” Below, a reply field blinked. She stared at it a while, then pressed; the keyboard appeared, tiny letters, but just legible. She tapped: “I am fine. Drinking tea.” Misspelled “fine,” but let it go. Seconds later, Daisy replied: “Cool! Did you type that yourself?” followed by a heart. She smiled. Herself. Typed. Her words had landed where only others’ words used to flash. That evening, neighbour Mrs. Vicki popped by with jam. “So, I hear the youngsters got you one of those—smartphone thingies,” she said, taking off her boots. “Smartphone,” Mrs. Parker corrected—still a trendy word for her, but she enjoyed saying it. “And? Doesn’t bite?” Vicki smirked. “It mostly squeaks, so far,” she sighed. “No buttons at all.” “My grandson keeps nagging me too. Says you can’t manage without one now. I reckon it’s too late for me. I’ll let them play in their internet.” “Too late”—the phrase jabbed. Mrs. Parker had thought that herself. But now, in her living room, lay a thing trying to say the opposite: it’s not too late. You can still try. Two days later, her son rang—he’d booked her GP appointment online. “How online?” she asked. “Through the NHS app. Everything’s digital now. You could do it, too—I wrote out your log-in and password on the note in the phone drawer.” She found the neatly folded note—numbers and letters—like a prescription from the doctor: clear, but who knew how to use it? Next day, she steeled herself. Turned on the smartphone, found the browser icon, typed the address from the note—slowly, missing keys, backtracking, eventually the site loaded. Blues and whites and strange buttons. “Enter username,” she read aloud. “Password.” Username was fine; password harder—letters and numbers jumbling, keyboard vanishing and reappearing. She pressed wrong buttons, cleared the field, cursed softly, surprised by her own irritation. Finally, she set the phone down, picked up the landline, rang her son. “It’s no good—all your passwords are impossible!” “Mum, don’t worry,” he soothed. “I’ll drop by after work and walk you through it.” “You always pop by and show me,” she blurted, “then leave, and I’m alone with all this again.” A pause. “I know,” he replied. “I’ll bring Tom—he’s better at this.” She agreed, but hung up feeling heavy—useless, needing constant hand-holding. That evening, Tom arrived, shed trainers, sat on the sofa beside her. “Go on, Nana,” he said, “show me the problem.” She opened the site, confessed, “It’s all complicated—words, buttons. I’m scared to wreck something.” “You can’t break it,” he shrugged. “Worst is you get signed out. We’ll log in again.” He guided her gently—showing every button, language switch, appointment details. “Look,” he said, “here’s your booking—if you can’t attend, hit cancel.” “What if I cancel by accident?” “Then you’ll just rebook—not a disaster.” Easy for him. For her, a mountain. When he left, she sat with the phone, as if it tested her grit: login, password, error messages. Once, life was simple; now, every step asked for new skills. A week later, trouble: appointment missing, blood pressure up, heart sinking. Surely, she hadn’t cancelled? Panic rose, but her son was snowed under at work, Tom busy at uni; she hesitated calling—ashamed to be seen as hopeless again. She gathered herself, breathed deeply, tried again. Found and logged into the website, hands shaking, hit “Book appointment”—found a slot in three days’ time, confirmed. “You have successfully booked”—her name, date, time. She checked and rechecked—finally, relief. She’d managed—alone. Another step: she opened the messenger, found the GP chat, pressed record: “Hello, it’s Hope Parker—my blood pressure’s not great. I’ve rebooked for the morning after next. Please keep an eye open if you can.” Sent, little icon appeared. Shortly, a text from the GP: “SEE YOU IN SYSTEM. CALL IMMEDIATELY IF WORSE.” Tension eased; she’d done it—through this small screen. That evening, she messaged the family chat: “Booked doc myself online.” Another typo. Didn’t edit—meaning mattered more. Daisy replied first: “Wow! You’re cooler than me!” Daughter-in-law: “Mum—you legend! Proud of you.” Son: “See? Knew you could.” Reading their words, something inside softened. She hadn’t joined all their whizzing memes and jokes, but now a thread connected her—she could tug it and receive a reply. After the GP visit, she wanted to learn more. Daisy had once described how she and friends swapped photos of food, pets, silly things—sharing their days in pictures, while Mrs. Parker’s was radio and the back yard. One sunny afternoon, with glass jars sparkling on the sill, she opened the smartphone’s camera. Her kitchen appeared onscreen, framed neatly; she moved close to the seedlings, pressed the circle; a soft click. The photo came out blurry, but fine—green shoots poking through soil, streak of sunlight. She studied it—these tiny sprouts like herself with her phone, reaching toward the light, heavy earth beneath. She attached the photo in the family chat, wrote: “Tomatoes growing.” Sent. Replies soon rolled in: Daisy sent her messy study room; daughter-in-law a salad plate with “Learning from you”; her son a messy office selfie, tired but grinning: “Mum’s got tomatoes; I’ve got reports. Whose life’s winning?” She laughed as she read, and her kitchen no longer felt empty. As though, across towns and miles, her family was there with her. Of course, glitches happened. Once she accidentally sent a voice message of herself muttering at the TV into the group chat; grandchildren cracked up, son called her “star presenter”; she blushed, but then laughed, too—at least it was her real voice. Confusing chats, she’d sometimes text the entire group instead of Daisy individually—like asking how to delete a photo. She got clear instructions from Tom, “dunno myself” from Daisy, and a “You’re our pioneer!” meme from her daughter-in-law. She still muddled buttons; dreaded updates (“update system” sounded suspicious). Like someone wanted to change everything she’d just begun to understand. Yet, each day, fear faded. Now she could check bus schedules, weather, not just by radio but onscreen. Once, she even found an online recipe for the cake her mother baked; tears prickled her eyes over the ingredients. She didn’t tell anyone, just baked the cake and sent its photo in the chat: “Remembered grandma’s old cake.” Hearts, exclamation marks, recipe requests flooded in—she photographed her handwritten note and sent that, too. Gradually, the landline faded to the background. Still hanging on the wall, but no longer her only strand to the world. Now, an invisible wire—sturdy and true—connected her. One evening, dusk falling, windows lighting up across the road, she sat rereading the family group: her son’s work photos, Daisy’s selfies with mates, Tom’s jokes, newsy notes from her daughter-in-law. In between, her own now-less-hesitant posts: tomato shoots, recipe voice note, question about medicine. Suddenly, she realized—no longer an observer behind glass. She didn’t understand half the grandkids’ words, couldn’t do emojis as swiftly. Yet: her replies were read, her questions answered, her pictures liked, as Daisy put it. The phone beeped—a new message. Daisy: “Nana, algebra test tomorrow. Can I call after and vent?” She smiled. Typed slowly, carefully: “Of course. Always here for you.” Sent. She placed the smartphone beside her tea. The flat was quiet, but not empty; somewhere beyond walls and blocks, calls and messages waited. She’d not joined the “youth movement,” as Tom joked, but she’d found her own place in this world of screens. She finished her tea, stood, switched off the kitchen light, and glanced at her phone before leaving the room. The little black rectangle lay calmly on the table. She knew, when she wanted, she could reach out and connect with those she loved. And, for now, that was enough.

Onward Mornings in Margaret Wilkinson’s flat always began the same. The kettle went onto the hob

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A Friend Betrayed: Grandad’s Story of Loyalty, Regret, and Making Things Right He Understood Me Completely! It Wasn’t Much Fun—Soon I Realised What a Foolish Idea This Was I Sold Him. He Thought It Was a Game, Until He Knew I’d Let Him Go Times Are Always Different For Everyone—Some Long for Luxuries, Others Settle for Black Bread and Sausage We Lived Our Ups and Downs, Each in Our Own Way I Was Just a Child Then—Uncle Tom, My Mum’s Brother, Gave Me a German Shepherd Puppy, and I Was Over the Moon. The Pup Grew Devoted, Understood Me Instantly, Gazed Into My Eyes Waiting for My Word “Lie Down,” I’d Say, and He’d Flatten Himself, Eyes Locked on Mine, Ready to Die for Me, it Seemed “Serve,” I Commanded, and He’d Leap to Attention, Tail Wagging, Eager for a Treat—But I Had Nothing. We Were Hungry Ourselves. Such Were the Times Uncle Tom, Who Gave Me The Pup, Told Me One Day: “Don’t Fret, Lad. Look How Loyal He Is. Sell Him—Then Call Him, He’ll Come Running Back. Nobody’ll See. You’ll Have Some Pennies for Sweets, for Both of You. Take My Word for It.” The Idea Seemed Grand—I Didn’t Think It Wrong. An Adult Told Me, After All. It Was Only a Joke, and Sweets Would Be Nice. I Whispered to Loyal in His Fluffy Warm Ear, Told Him I’d Give Him Away, But Call Him Back—He Understood Me, Barked in Agreement. Next Day, I Put His Lead On, Took Him to the Railway Station—Everyone Was Selling Something There: Flowers, Cucumbers, Apples… As Commuters Poured from Trains, Selling and Haggling Began. I Pulled Loyal Forward—But No Takers. Almost Everyone Had Passed, and Then a Stern-Faced Man Approached: “You Here for Someone, Sonny, or Looking to Sell That Fine Pup? He Is Strong—Alright, I’ll Buy.” Pressed Money in My Hand. I Handed Over the Lead; Loyal Waggled His Head and Sneezed Cheerfully. “Go On, Loyal, Go With This Man, I’ll Call You Soon, Run to Me,” I Whispered He Walked Off with the Stranger. I Hid and Watched Where He Went That Evening, I Brought Home Bread, Sausage and Sweets. Mum Scolded Me: “Where Did You Get That—You Didn’t Steal, Did You?” “No, Mum—I Helped Folks at the Station, They Gave Me Some Change.” “Well Done, then—Eat and Off to Bed, I’m Tired.” She Didn’t Even Ask About Loyal Uncle Tom Came by in the Morning as I Got Ready for School, Though I Wanted Only to Dash Off and Find Loyal “So, Sold Your Mate, Did You?” He Laughed, Ruffling My Hair I Pulled Away, Didn’t Answer—Couldn’t Eat or Sleep All Night for Thinking of Loyal. It Wasn’t Fun—I Knew Now What a Foolish Idea It Was No Wonder Mum Didn’t Like Uncle Tom “He’s No Good, Don’t Listen to Him,” She’d Always Said I Grabbed My Bag, Ran Three Streets to the Man’s House, Heart Thundering Loyal Sat Behind a Tall Fence, Tied by a Thick Rope I Called Him—He Gazed at Me Sadly, Resting His Head on His Paws, Wriggling His Tail, Trying to Bark, But His Voice Was Gone I’d Sold Him. He’d Thought It Was a Game, Until He Knew I’d Betrayed Him. The Man Came Out, Glared at Loyal—He Tucked in His Tail in Fear, and I Knew It Was Hopeless That Evening, I Earned the Right Money Lugging Parcels at the Station. Scared, I Knocked on the Gate at Dusk. The Man Squinted at Me: “What’s This, Boy?” “Sir, I… I’ve Changed My Mind. Here’s Your Money Back.” He Took It Without a Word, Loosened Loyal’s Rope: “Take Him. He Pines for You. He Won’t Make a Guard Dog, but Be Careful, Son—He May Never Forgive You.” Loyal Looked Drained, Eyes Full of Hurt The Game Had Become a Trial for Both of Us Then He Came Over, Licked My Hand, Nudged Me in the Stomach with His Nose Years Have Passed, But I Learned This—You Never, Not Even in Jest, Sell Your Friends Mum Was Thrilled: “I Was So Tired Last Night, Then Wondered, ‘Where’s Our Dog?’ I’m Used to Him Now. He’s Ours—Our Loyal!” After That, Uncle Tom Stopped Dropping In—We Didn’t Much Care for His Jokes Anymore

The Friend I Sold. Grandads Dreamlike Tale And he understood me! It wasnt jolly at all, I soon realised

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On holiday with cheeky relatives: Time to draw the line Ive been putting up with this for two weeks, Alex!

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Hold on, Mum, just a little longer, How long until Dad gets home? Im fed up! Wheres he? Daddy!

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A Friend Sold. Story from Granddad And he understood me! It wasn’t a happy time, I realised what

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Rules for a Classic British Summer: When Grandchildren Visit the Countryside, Traditions and Modern Life Collide Over Family, Freedom, and Finding Common Ground

Summer Rules When the train slowed alongside the small rural platform, Margaret Collins was already at