Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs Margaret Hope followed the same routine: kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of tea into her old bulbous teapot—the very one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world felt full of endless tomorrows. While the water warmed, she’d switch on the kitchen radio and listen to the news with half an ear; the voices of the presenters felt more familiar than most faces these days. Above the table, a clock with golden hands ticked on diligently. But the old landline phone below it grew quieter each month. Once, it would crackle every evening as friends called to discuss the soaps or blood pressure—now, those friends were more often unwell, drifting away to live with family in far-off towns, or quietly leaving forever. The phone, heavy and reassuring in her palm, stood in the corner. Sometimes, Margaret stroked it in passing, as if checking whether this way of reaching out to the world still lived. Her children’s calls came through mobiles now—well, she assumed they did, for whenever they visited, their phones never left their hands. Her son would pause mid-conversation, eyes fixed on the screen, mutter, ‘One moment,’ and begin tapping away. Her granddaughter, a thin girl with a long ponytail, barely let go of her own device. All their lives, it seemed, were there. All Margaret had was an old push-button mobile, bought after her first spell in hospital when, as her son said, ‘We need to know you’re always reachable.’ It sat in its fraying case on the hall shelf, sometimes forgotten and out of charge, sometimes buried under receipts and handkerchiefs at the bottom of her bag. It rang rarely, and when it did, she’d often fumble and miss the call—chiding herself for being too slow. She turned seventy-five that day. The number felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else. Inside, she still felt sixty-five. Perhaps sixty. But ID cards don’t lie. Her morning followed its usual patterns: tea, radio, the gentle stretches her GP had shown her, then a simple salad and the cottage pie she’d baked the night before. The children had promised to come by two. She still found it odd that birthdays were now arranged not over the phone, but in some ‘family chat.’ Her son said, ‘Tanya and I organise everything in our group chat. I’ll show you one day.’ But he never did. To Margaret, the word ‘chat’ sounded like another world, one where people lived inside little windows and spoke in typed letters. At two they all arrived. First her grandson Jamie tumbled into the hallway with his rucksack and headphones, then her granddaughter Lucy slipped in quietly, followed by her son and his wife, arms heavy with shopping bags. Suddenly, the flat was full of bustle and perfume, bakery scents and that fresh, restless tang she could never quite place. ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ her son said, hugging her briskly, almost as if eager to move on. The gifts piled onto the table, the flowers arranged in a vase. Lucy instantly asked for the WiFi password. Her son, frowning, dug the paper from his wallet and dictated a string of letters and numbers that made Margaret’s mind buzz. ‘Gran, why aren’t you ever on the group chat?’ Jamie asked, heading for the kitchen. ‘That’s where everything happens.’ She waved a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t need all that. This old phone is plenty for me.’ Her daughter-in-law broke in awkwardly, ‘Actually, that’s why… well, we’ve bought you something.’ She exchanged a glance with her husband. He handed Margaret a smooth white box. She felt a pang of worry—she guessed what was inside. ‘A smartphone,’ he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. ‘Not top of the range, but a decent one. Camera, internet—the lot.’ ‘What on earth for?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘So we can have video calls, Mum,’ her daughter-in-law replied, her tone bright and automatic. ‘We put family news and photos in the chat, and everything’s online now—doctors, bills, appointments. You complained about NHS queues, remember?’ ‘I’ll manage the old way—’ she started, but saw her son sigh, carefully masking his impatience. ‘It’ll put our minds at rest. If you need us, you can reach us straight away. No more hunting for the green button.’ He smiled hopefully, but she felt the sting all the same. The green button, as if she was useless now. ‘All right,’ she relented, eyes on the box. ‘If it means that much to you.’ They opened it together, like sharing out presents at a children’s party. Only now the children were grown, and she sat in their midst feeling less a guest of honour than a student on her first day. Out came the sleek black rectangle—cold, slippery, buttonless. ‘Everything’s touch-screen,’ Jamie explained. ‘You just swipe—like this.’ His finger flicked across the glass. The screen lit up with bright icons. Margaret startled, half-expecting the thing to demand some secret code, a password, or start barking out commands she’d never understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said gently. ‘We’ll set it all up. Just… don’t press anything by yourself yet, OK?’ Oddly, that hurt the most—like being told not to touch Grandma’s best vase. After lunch, the whole family sat with her in the lounge. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placing the phone on her lap. ‘Now, see here,’ he began, far too quickly, demonstrating buttons and swipes and passwords, until the words jumbled together like a foreign tongue. ‘Wait, one at a time,’ she pleaded, ‘or I’ll forget.’ ‘You’ll pick it up. It’s easy, you’ll see,’ he said, waving off her worries. She nodded, though she knew it would take time—time to accept that the world now lived in these little rectangles, and somehow, she had to fit inside one too. By evening, numbers for the family, her friend Mrs Valentine from down the hall, and the local GP were all stored in the phone. Her son installed a messenger, set up an account and added her to the family group. He enlarged the font so she wouldn’t need to squint. ‘This is the chat. Here’s how to write. If you don’t want to type, you can send a voice message—just hold down the microphone.’ Cautious, her hands trembling, she hit the wrong keys—‘thakn you’ instead of ‘thank you.’ They all laughed—she tried to hide her shame. After they left, the flat was quiet again. On the table: crumbs of the pie, wilting flowers, the phone’s white box. The device itself lay face down. Margaret turned it over, pressing the button as shown. The screen lit up with a photo—her whole family, last New Year. She swiped, looking at the unfamiliar icons. Remember, don’t press anything you shouldn’t. She left the mobile on the table and did the washing up. Let it get used to living here. The next morning, she woke earlier. There was the phone: unfamiliar, but less frightening. She brewed her tea, sat at the table, summoned her courage, and switched it on. The New Year’s photo greeted her again. She poked at the little green phone—the only icon she recognised. A list of contacts appeared. She selected her son. The phone hummed and swirled. ‘Hello?’ her son answered, sounding surprised. ‘Everything all right, Mum?’ ‘Just checking the thing works,’ she replied, feeling a quiet pride. She’d managed on her own. ‘Told you you’d get it. Well done! Next time use the messenger though, it’s cheaper.’ She laughed, heart pounding. She hung up—all by herself. Soon after, the first message arrived in the family chat: ‘Gran, how are you?’ from Lucy. She hesitated, then typed—slowly, painstakingly—‘All good. Having tea,’ and sent it, misspellings and all. ‘Wow, did you write that yourself?!’ came Lucy’s reply, followed by a heart emoji. Margaret caught herself grinning: her words, on the family’s screen at last. When neighbour Mrs Valentine popped in later, she chuckled, ‘So they’ve got you one of those clever phones, eh?’ ‘A smartphone,’ Margaret replied, the word still odd in her mouth, but not unwelcome. ‘Is it biting yet?’ sniffed Valentine. ‘It mostly just beeps, and there aren’t any buttons.’ ‘My grandson swears I need one, but I’m too old for all that online nonsense.’ The word ‘too old’ stung. Margaret used to feel it herself. But now, the phone on her table suggested otherwise—it wasn’t too late to try. A few days on, her son rang: ‘I booked your GP appointment online, Mum. It’s all through Services Online now. You can do it too—I wrote the password down for you.’ She turned to the slip of paper, feeling like it was a prescription—understandable in theory, impossible in practice. But she tried. She opened the browser, typed the address in. It was slow, frustrating—passwords, missed keys, blank screens. She nearly gave up, picking up the landline to confess defeat. ‘I can’t work your passwords. This is just cruel.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you again. Jamie’s better at it anyway.’ Jamie visited that evening. He explained faster than she could follow, but patiently, showing her how to check appointments and send messages to her doctor. ‘If you mess it up, it’s no disaster—you start over,’ he reassured. For him, perhaps, it was simple. For her, every click and tap felt like crossing a minefield—but after he left, she practised. Because now, the world required her to. A week later, trouble struck—she couldn’t find her GP appointment. Maybe she’d clicked the wrong thing before. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself, found the right page, and booked a slot herself. She even managed to send a voice note to her GP via messenger, explaining the problem, just as Jamie had shown her: ‘Hello, Doctor—I’m having trouble with my blood pressure. I’ve booked for Friday morning. Please keep an eye out for me.’ Within minutes, a reply: ‘I’ve got you on my list. Call if you feel worse.’ And it was all done—without calling in anyone for help. That night, she wrote in the family chat: ‘Booked my GP online! On my own!’ The replies came fast: ‘You’re amazing, Gran!’ ‘So proud of you, Mum.’ ‘See, I told you it’d work!’ With every answer, Margaret felt the thread growing stronger. She might not know the memes, nor fire off emojis at speed, but she could reach them when it mattered. There was a connection now—a lifeline. Later that week, she even dared send a kitchen snapshot to the chat: ‘My tomatoes are coming along,’ she typed. The photos poured in—Lucy’s messy revision notes, her daughter-in-law’s salad, her son’s ‘Office selfie: whose day is more exciting, yours or mine?’ For the first time in years, the kitchen was full of voices, laughter, and gentle arguments, even though everyone was elsewhere. Sometimes, everything went wrong—she’d send voice notes to the wrong chat or type public questions she meant for private eyes. But the responses were always gentle. She was learning, and everyone knew it. Gradually, she used the old landline less and less. She realised she could check the bus times herself, look up recipes, send a question or a photo and hear back in minutes. The world hadn’t passed her by. She hadn’t vanished behind the window pane. One quiet evening, reading family chat on her phone—their photos and jokes, her updates about tea and tomatoes—Margaret smiled. The house was still, but not empty. With a gentle tap, she answered her granddaughter: ‘Call me after your test, I’ll always listen.’ She turned out the kitchen light, glanced back at the phone resting on the table, and knew—as long as she wanted, she could reach out, and someone would answer. And for now, that was enough.

Staying Connected

My mornings start in much the same way every day. I put the kettle on, scoop two spoons of tea leaves into my old, round teapotone I’ve cherished since the children were small and the whole world seemed to lie ahead. While the water boils, I switch on the radio in the kitchen and half-listen to the news. The voices of the presenters are more familiar to me than the faces of my neighbours.

On the wall hangs a clock with yellow hands, ticking along reliably. But the ring of the old landline beneath it comes less often now. It used to buzz every evening, friends calling to chat about EastEnders or their blood pressure. Now, some are ill, others have moved up north to be with their children, and somewell, some are gone altogether. The phone still sits heavy and pale blue in the corner, and every so often, as I walk by, I stroke the receiver as if checking whether this link to the outside world is still alive.

My children ring me on mobiles now. Or rather, I know they talk to each other all the time that way, because whenever they’re here, their phones dont leave their hands. My son might suddenly go quiet mid-conversation, stare at the screen, mutter just a second, and start tapping away. My granddaughter, skinny as a bean with her ponytail swinging, seems glued to her smartphone, her friends, her music, her lessons, her entire world tucked safely away inside it.

As for me, I’ve got an outdated little flip phone. They bought it for me when I landed in hospital the first time my blood pressure got the better of me.

Just so we can always get through to you, my son had said.

I keep it in a grey leather pouch on the hall shelf. Sometimes I forget to charge it. Sometimes its lost in a sea of handkerchiefs and receipts at the bottom of my bag. It doesnt ring much and, when it does, I often fumble with the buttons and berate myself afterwards for being so slow.

That day, I turned seventy-five. The number felt alien, awkward. Inside, I couldnt be more than sixty-fiveperhaps sixty. But paperwork doesnt lie. The morning unspooled in its usual patterntea, radio, a gentle stretch for my knees, just as the GP taught me. Then I pulled yesterdays salad from the fridge and placed a freshly-baked Victoria sponge on the table. The children had promised to come by two.

It still amazed me that birthdays were being arranged not by phone calls, but in some family chat. My son once said,

We sort everything with Sarah in the group chat, Mum. Ill show you one day.

He never did. The word chat sounded like something belonging to another universe, where people lived in little screens and spoke in snippets of text.

They arrived right on two. My grandson, Tom, burst into the hallway with his rucksack and headphones, followed quietly by my granddaughter, Emily. Then my son and his wife Sarah traipsed in with bags clinking and rustling. The flat was suddenly cramped, the air sweet with bakery cakes, perfume, and some fresh, fast scent I couldnt quite place.

Mumhappy birthday, my son said, hugging me quickly, already half on his way to the next task.

The gifts went on the table, flowers in a vase. Emily immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. My son grimaced and fished out a crumpled slip of paper, mumbling a jumble of numbers and letters that made my head swim.

Gran, why arent you in our chat? Tom demanded, toeing off his trainers and slouching into the kitchen. Thats where it all happens!

I waved him off and nudged a plate of sponge cake toward him. Ive got all the phone I need.

Mum, Sarah chimed in, this is why we, well She glanced at my son. We have a present for you.

Out came a neat white box with shiny lettering. My stomach jolted. I already knew what was inside.

Its a smartphone, my son announced, as if delivering a diagnosis. Nothing fancy, but it does everythingcamera, internet, the works.

Whatever for? I asked, aiming for a steady tone.

Mum, really! Video calls, our family chat, photos, news. Everythings online now: booking the GP, reading bills. You said yourself the surgerys a nightmare with queues.

Ill manage I started to object, but saw my sons restrained sigh.

Well feel better, Mum. If anything happens, you can text. Or we can message you, no waiting around for you to dig out the old mobile and remember the right button.

He forced a smile, but I felt the sting. Remember the green button, as if I was next to useless already.

Alright then, I said at last, lowering my eyes to the box. If itll please you all.

We unboxed it together, just like we used to unwrap toys for the children. Only now, the children towered around me and I was the nervous one, at the centre of it all, feeling more like a pupil sitting her O-levels than the birthday queen. Out slid a sleek black rectanglecold, slippy, not a button in sight.

Its all touchscreen now, Tom explained. Just drag your finger, like this.

He swiped; the screen lit up with glowing icons. I flinched. It looked like some clever contraption poised to demand passwords, pins, more nonsense.

Dont worry, Gran, Emily said, unexpectedly gentle. Well set it up. But dont go pressing things until we show you, yeah?

That stung most of all. Dont press. Like I was the toddler tottering near the family heirlooms.

After lunch, we squeezed onto the settee. My son settled beside me with the phone on my lap.

Right, seethis is the on button. Hold it, like so. Thats the lock screen. To unlock, just swipe your finger.

He moved so fast; everything blurred. Button, lock, wallpaperit sounded like a foreign tongue.

Hold on, I asked. One step at a timeplease, or Ill forget it all.

You wont forget. Its all obvious, youll get used to it, he waved it off.

I nodded, though I knew it would never come easily to me. I need time. Time to accept that the world had shrunk into these little rectangles, and I was expected to wiggle my way in.

By evening, my childrens and grandchildrens numbers were saved. Sarah from next door and Dr Cook the GP too. My son set up a chat app, made me a profile, added me to the family group, and enlarged the text for my poor eyes.

Here, lookfamily group chat. Ill type something now.

He tapped quickly. A message popped up from himself, answered in a blink by Sarah: Hooray, Mums joined us! Then a row of colourful emojis from Emily.

How do I? I ventured.

Just tap here, my son instructed, jabbing at a text box. The keyboard comes up; type away. Or, hold the mic here and speak if typings hard.

I tried. My hands trembled. Thank you came out thabkyou. They all laughed, giggling and sending more emojis. A flush of shame crept up my neck.

Dont worry, said my son, seeing my tension. Everyone messes it up at first.

I nodded, mortified, as if Id failed a simple quiz.

When they left, the flat fell silent again. On the tablehalf-eaten cake, flowers, and the white box. The smartphone lay face-down. I turned it over, pressed the side button as my son had shown. A photo shimmered to lifefor New Year’s, all of us together. I saw myself to one side, raising an eyebrow like I was unimpressed even then.

I swiped, as taught. Icons scattered across the screen. Phone, messages, camerafar too many options. Dont press anything extra, my son had said. But how to know whats extra?

Finally, I placed the phone gently back on the table and went to do the washing up. Let it settle in a bit, I thought. Let it get used to its new home.

Next morning, I woke early. First thing, I checked the phone. Same place, just as foreign. Yesterdays nerves had eased a touch. It was just a device, after all. Id once learned how to use the microwave, and Id worried it might explode.

I made my tea, sat, and pulled the smartphone over. Switched it on, palms sweaty. The family photo reappeared, then the icons. I found a green phone symbolat least that seemed familiarand pressed it.

A list: Ben (my son), Sarah, Emily, Tom, Sarah-from-next-door, GP. I chose Ben, pressed call. The phone whirred; lines danced on the display. I pressed it to my ear, like I would the old landline, and waited.

Hello? Ben sounded surprised. Mum? Is everything alright?

All fine, I replied, buoyed by a strange pride. Just wanted to check it still works.

He chuckled. Told you so! Nice job, Mum, but best to use the chat app, its cheaper!

How do I do that? I faltered.

Ill show you later, Im at work.

I pressed the red button to hang up. My heart hammered like after a brisk walk, but inside, a glow. Id done it, myself. No help.

A few hours later, my phone pinged. First message in the family chat. Emily: Gran, you alright? The cursor blinked in a reply box.

I hesitated, then tapped and the keyboard appeared. The letters looked tiny, but readable. I pecked, slowly. A missed, got s. Deleted. Started over. Ten minutes on Im fine. Having tea. Misspelt fineleft it. Pressed send.

Within seconds, Emily replied: Wow! You did that yourself? Heart emoji.

I realised I was smiling. Id done it. My words were there, with everyone elses.

That afternoon, Sarah-from-next-door dropped in with a jar of jam.

Heard the kids got you one of those smart gadgets, she said, taking off her wellies.

Smartphone, I replied, pleased at how easily the word rolled from my tongue.

Does it bite? she grinned.

So far, it just bleeps, I sighed. No buttons. Everythings upside-down.

My lot want me on one too, she said. But I tell them they can keep their internet. Too late for us, isnt it?

That too late stung. Id thought the same. But now, this odd little thing sat on my table and seemed to saymaybe its not too late at all.

A day later, Ben phoned to say hed booked my GP appointment online.

How did you do that? I asked.

Through the NHS websiteeverythings online now. I wrote your login and password on a slip; check the telephone drawer.

Sure enough, there it was. A neat slip of numbers and lettersa bit like a prescription, but how to use it, I hadnt a clue.

The next day, I plucked up the courage. Switched on my phone, found the browser icon Ben had briefly shown me. Typed in the web address from the paper, each character a struggle. Twice I made mistakes, twice I erased all my effort. At one point, I muttered a choice word at the screen, startled by my own irritation.

At last, I gave up and rang Ben on the old phone.

I cant manage it, I said. Your passwords are some sort of joke.

Mum, dont worry! Ill come round tonight and show you again.

Youre always showing me, I blurtedand surprised myself at the edge in my voice. Then you go. And its just me and this thing again.

A pause.

I know, he said gently. But Ive work, Mum, you understand. Tell you whatTom will come and talk you through it. Hes better at all this tech than I am.

So Tom came round that evening, hopped onto the sofa, and had me show him what was troubling me.

Its all a muddle, I admitted. These words, these buttons. Im scared Ill break something with one wrong tap.

You cant break it, Gran. Worst thinglog out, then we log you in again.

He explained everything, patience in his voice. How to toggle this, where to click that. Soon, he showed me my GP booking. Here you areif you need to cancel, you can tap there.

And if I cancel by mistake? I asked.

Then you just book again! No drama.

Not for him, maybe. For me, it felt much bigger.

Days passed. Then, disastermy appointment wasnt showing in my bookings. My name wasnt there. Had I pressed something? Cancelled it? My heart thumped. I thought of calling Ben, but imagined him at his desk, irritated by yet another tech mishap because of Mum. Shame burned.

I paused, took deep breaths. Then, staring at the phone, I thoughtlets try. Found the site, found the GP page, hands shaking, and rebooked for three days later. A small step, but all on my own.

For final confirmation, I found my GPs chat in the appTom had added it. I pressed and held the mic icon.

Hello, its Margaret Williams here. My blood pressures not good. Ive booked an appointment for Wednesday morning. If you could see methank you.

The message sent off with a gentle whoosh. A reply popped up: I see your booking, Mrs Williams. Call straight away if you feel worse.

Relief flowed through me. Id managed. On my own.

That night I wrote in the family chat: Booked my doctor online. On my own. Messed up doctor but left it. It was the effort that counted.

Emily replied first: Youre amazing, Gran! Then Sarah: Mum, Im so proud of you! Then Ben, See, I told you youd do it!

I found myself sitting a little straighter, feeling something inside me ease. No, I wasnt zipping through memes and banter like them, but a golden thread now stretched between their world and mine, one I could tug any time for an answer.

After my GP visita breeze, thanks to the bookingI decided to try something new. Emily mentioned once how she and her friends shared pictures of everything; food, cats, the lot. I used to think it frivolous, but I envied how they kept a running story of their lives. Mine was just the kitchen radio and the window onto the street.

So that sunny afternoon, I opened the camera. My kitchen appeared, framed in glass. I set the phone close to my tomato seedlings on the sill, pressed the button. Click. The photo was a bit fuzzy, but you could see sprouting green. I realised these tiny plants were a bit like mereaching up, still growing, in stubborn soil.

I shared the photo to the family chat: My tomatoes are growing.

Replies arrived in moments. Emily snapped her room, books everywhere. Sarah sent her salad: Taking notes from you! Ben posted a selfie: Mums got tomatoes, Ive got spreadsheets. Whose lifes better?

I laughed out loud. Suddenly, the kitchen didnt feel so empty. It was a crowd again, voices from all over, but all here.

Of course, I made plenty of blunders. Once I accidentally sent a rambling voice message to the family group, moaning about the news on the telly. Tom and Emily erupted in laughter. Ben teased me: Mum, you should do a radio show! I cringed, then saw the funny side.

Sometimes, Id message Emily privatelybut send it to everyone by mistake. Once I asked the group how to delete a photo. Tom replied with step-by-step instructions, Emily confessed she didnt know, Sarah sent a sticker: Mum, youre our techie now!

I still trip over the buttons, fret when the phone wants to update. Update your systemsuspicious words, as if its going to rewrite everything Ive managed to learn.

But each day, tech seemed a little less strange. I could check bus times, the weather, even look up my mums old cake recipehad to pick my way through Google, but the moment I found her handwritten ingredient list online, it brought tears to my eyes.

I didnt mention it to anyone. I just baked the cake and sent a picture: Grandmas recipe, remembered. Love hearts, exclamation marks and a request for the recipe came in seconds. I snapped a quick photo of my recipe card, sent it along.

One evening with the sky dimming and the house lights across the street twinkling on, I sat in my armchair, scrolling through the family chat. Bens office snapshot, Emilys selfies, Toms little jokes, Sarahs notes about dinner. Amongst their bright, hurried entries were my own, less frequent but steadytomato photo, voice note, recipe query.

Suddenly, I realised I didnt feel like a bystander anymore. No, I still missed half their slang and couldnt work the silly stickers quite like they didbut my messages were read. My pictures got likes, as Emily called them.

Then, another message: Gran, Ive got a maths test tomorrow. Can I call you after and moan?

I smiled, and with deliberate care, typed: Call me anytime. Im always here to listen. Sent.

I set my phone down beside my teacup. The quiet wasnt lonely anymoreit buzzed with the gentle possibility of calls and messages. No, Id never join their quick-fire banter, but Id carved a little space for myself in this bright, humming world.

I finished my tea, clicked off the kitchen light, and as I left the room, glanced back at the glowing rectangle. If I wanted, I could reach out and connect to my family any time. And for now, that was plenty.

A small lesson, but dearly earned: Its never too late to step into the unknown, especially for the people you love.