Staying Human Mid-December in the town of Middleton was bleak and blustery. A thin layer of snow barely covered the ground. The local coach station, with its perpetual drafts, seemed the last stronghold of frozen time. The air was thick with the mingled scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and decay. Glass doors slammed in the wind, admitting another wave of cold and people with cheeks reddened by the chill. Margaret hurried across the waiting room, checking the station clock. She was here only in passing. A brief business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she needed to get home, which meant two connections. This coach station was the first—and the dreariest—of them. Her tickets were for the evening bus. So Margaret was killing three hours, feeling the damp dullness of this place seep even into the lining of her expensive coat. She had not been back to such surroundings in ten years; everything now seemed smaller, dimmer, slower and impossibly distant from her present life. Her heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor. Here, she was a conspicuous outsider—her sandy wool coat immaculate, her hair perfectly styled despite her journey, a leather satchel slung across her body. Her gaze, trained to appraise and filter, swept the room: the kiosk attendant yawning at her phone, an elderly couple silently sharing a roll, a man in a worn jacket staring into nothingness. She could feel their glances—curious rather than hostile—simply noting: she was not one of them. And mentally she agreed. All she needed was to wait out this interlude and pass through, as through a troubled dream. By tomorrow she’d be back in her cosy London flat—warm, bright, untouched by this bone-deep provincial bleakness. Just as she was about to choose where to sit, someone blocked her path. A man. Sixtyish, maybe older. Weathered, unremarkable face, the kind you forget. His jacket was old but carefully mended, ear-flap hat in hand, having removed it in the warmth. He hadn’t cut her off—he simply appeared, as if conjured by the station’s grey air. He spoke with a low, oddly flat voice, without intonation. “Excuse me, miss… Do you know where… I could get some water?” The question hung in the air, as awkward as the moment itself. Without really looking, Margaret gestured towards the yawning kiosk attendant where bright plastic bottles were clearly on display. “Over there. The kiosk,” she replied, starting to move around him. A brief, sharp pang of irritation struck her. “Some water.” And “miss.” Such old-fashioned words. Couldn’t he see for himself? It was obvious. He nodded, mumbling, “Thank you…” but didn’t move, standing with his head bowed as if gathering strength just to take those few steps. His hesitance, his helplessness in the face of a simple act, made Margaret—already nearly past him—pause for a heartbeat. She saw. Not his clothes or age, but beads of sweat trickling down his temples, his hands clutching the hat spasmodically, the odd pallor of his lips, the glazed look directed at the floor—though clearly seeing nothing at all. Something inside her shifted. Her hurry, her annoyance, her sense of superiority—crumbled in an instant, as if her carefully built inner world had cracked. Her response was automatic, primal. “Are you all right?” she heard herself say, her voice oddly gentle, stripped of the usual metallic edge. She didn’t sidestep, but took a step towards him. He looked up. There was no plea in his eyes, only embarrassment and confusion. “My blood pressure, I think… Feel dizzy…” he whispered, eyelids fluttering with the effort of staying upright. Margaret moved on instinct. Taking his arm—gently, but firmly. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit. Over here,” she said, her tone quiet but decisive, leading him to the nearest vacant bench. Seating him, she knelt in front of him—unconcerned what it looked like. “Lean back. Breathe. Slowly. Don’t rush.” She dashed off and swiftly returned from the kiosk with a bottle of water and a plastic cup. “Here. Sip. Slowly.” Digging a handkerchief from her coat pocket, she dabbed his brow without thinking. All her attention sharpened on this man—his ragged breaths, the feeble pulse fluttering at his wrist. “Help!” Her clear, commanding voice cut through the station’s hush—not a frightened cry, but a call to action. “Somebody—call an ambulance! A man’s unwell!” Suddenly the coach station—the “haven for those with nowhere to be”—came alive. The elderly couple responded first, the woman fetching heart medicine, a drowsy man in the corner sprang into action, dialling for help. Even the bored kiosk attendant abandoned her post. These unseen, background people now rallied into a community, united by an unforeseen emergency. Margaret, still at the bench, quietly soothed the man, pressing his cold fingers between her warm hands. In that moment, she was neither a high-flying executive nor a conspicuous outsider. She was simply a human being present at the right time. And suddenly, that was enough—more than enough. Then, into this strange quietness, new sounds burst from outside—the staccato wail of a siren, the heavy swing of the glass door. Two paramedics in navy jackets with red crosses strode through, bringing with them December’s icy breath. Their arrival broke the hesitating crowd’s huddle; people parted silently to form a clear passage to the bench. The flurry gave way to a respectful stillness. Margaret, still seated beside the man, met the weary, skilled gaze of the paramedic kneeling before them. “What happened?” the woman asked briskly, movements crisp, practised. Margaret reported as she would at a meeting—but this time without steel, only fatigue and relief. “He felt faint. Dizzy, weak, sweating heavily. Blood pressure, he said. We gave water, heart tablets. He seems stable.” While she spoke, the other medic was checking vital signs and shining a torch in the man’s eyes. He was now lucid enough to answer quietly: name, age, medication. The paramedic nodded approvingly. “You handled it well. Water was the right call. We’ll take him in—get him on a drip.” They helped the man stand, unsteady but upright, supported by the medic. Suddenly, searching the small crowd, he caught Margaret’s eye. “Thank you, love,” he croaked, gratitude filling his gaze enough to make her throat catch. “You… you may have saved my life.” Margaret had no words, only a silent nod, feeling drained where adrenaline had just raged. She watched as they led him outside to the waiting ambulance, the chill air swirling in as the door opened. Someone muttered, “Shut the door—bloody freezing!” The door slammed. The siren wailed into the distance. The station slowly—reluctantly—slipped back into its old inertia: sluggish waiting. People drifted to their benches, the air thick with routine. Margaret remained standing. Looking at her hands. Red indentations from her bag had left marks. Her perfect hairdo was lost, her coat creased and dirty from crouching on the floor. She made her way to the ladies’ room. The freezing water stung her skin. In the cracked mirror she saw: makeup smeared, tired eyes, dishevelled hair. A face she hadn’t recognised in years—not polished by success, but simple, human, alive with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried her face and returned to the waiting room. There was over an hour until her bus. This time, she bought a bottle of water for herself. One sip: cool, unremarkable—yet, in that moment, it seemed absolutely vital. Not just a drink, but a connection. Simple, human connection that emerges the moment you see a fellow person—not as an obstacle or background, but as simply another person. The faces of those who came to help—flushed with concern, unattractive—she had never seen truer or more honest faces. They were alive. Gazing at her reflection in the grimy station window, in her crumpled coat, concern etched on her face, Margaret felt—for the first time in ages—utterly real. Not an image, but a human being capable of hearing another’s quiet distress and responding. Back on her bench, the familiar lethargy returned. But something had changed. Her gaze no longer skimmed past others with distant irritation. She saw details: the kiosk attendant bringing a hot tea to the elderly woman with a cane, a man helping a young mum manoeuvre a pram inside. These little things formed a new picture—not dreary, but quietly governed by the rules of mutual aid. Margaret checked her phone. A work message—something about a report error. A couple of hours ago, it would have seemed urgent. Now she typed simply: “Move it to tomorrow. It’s manageable,” and put the phone on silent. Today she’d remembered a simple, almost lost truth. The world needs masks—the mask of professionalism, wellbeing, aloof self-assurance—costumes for life’s many stages. We must wear them. But it’s dangerous if, beneath them, our real skin forgets to breathe. If we start to believe we are only the mask. Today, in the draughty station, her mask cracked. And through the crack came something real—the capacity to fear for another, to drop to a dirty floor without thought for appearances, to become—for a moment—just “the girl who helped,” not “Ms. Peters, department head.” Staying human does not mean abandoning every mask. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And sometimes—like today—letting that living, vulnerable, authentic part out to meet the world. Even if it is just to reach out a hand.

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 2

Staying Human

Its mid-December in the town of Nettleford, and a biting wind cuts through the lingering drizzle. The snow barely dusts the pavements. The local coach station, with its ever-present drafts, feels like the last stronghold of frozen time. The air hangs with the scent of filter coffee from the canteen, disinfectant, and the slow decay of travel-weary dreams. Glass doors slam in the wind, letting in another blast of cold and a rush of people with cheeks flushed red from the chill.

Margaret sweeps through the waiting hall, glancing at the big station clock. Shes here in transit. A brief business trip to a neighbouring town wrapped up ahead of schedule, and now shes got to make her way home via two changes. This coach station is the firstand by far the drearieststop on her journey.

Her tickets for the evening coach. So now Margarets spending three hours trying to fight off the damp, sinking boredom that seems to seep right through the lining of her expensive coat. She hasnt been out this way in a decade, and everything looks smaller, duller, slower than she remembersand miles away from the life she lives now.

Her heels echo sharply on the tiles as she walks. Here shes an outsider, a bright, foreign elementher sand-coloured wool coat, her hair perfectly styled despite the journey, her leather shoulder bag.

Her gaze, trained to size people up and filter what she sees, slides across the hall: the kiosk lady yawning over her phone, an elderly couple quietly sharing a bread roll, a man in a threadbare jacket staring at nothing.

She feels their eyes on hernot hostile, just stating the obvious: shes not from here. In her mind, she agrees. All she needs to do is wait it out, get through this place and this time like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, shell be back in her warm, well-lit flat in the city, far from the bone-deep chill of provincial gloom.

Just as shes deciding where to perch, someone steps into her path.

A man. About sixty, perhaps a little older. Weathered face, the sort that doesnt stick in your mind. His old, neat jacket is well repaired; a furry hat, removed for the warmth indoors, sits in his hands. He doesnt deliberately block her wayhe just appears, as if conjured from the stations grey air. Then he speaks. His voice is soft, oddly flat, without much tone.

Excuse memiss Could you tell me where I might get some water round here?

The question hangs in the air, as awkward as the moment. Margaret, barely glancing up, points toward the kiosk with the yawning attendant. Through the glass, neat rows of bottled water stand bright and obvious.

Over there, in the kiosk, she says briskly, ready to pass by. A quick, sharp irritation slides through her. Get some waterwhy not see for yourself? Isnt it obvious? Why call her miss in that old-fashioned way?

He nods and mumbles a hesitant thanks: Thank youbut doesnt move. He stands, head bowed, as if gathering the will to walk just a few steps. His confusion, his struggle with such a simple task, makes Margaret pause, even as shes about to stride past.

Then she sees it. Not the jacket, not the age. She sees beads of sweat at his temples, sliding down his cheek despite the chilly hall. She notices how his fingers twitch anxiously over his hat, the strange pallor of his lips, the glassy stare, unfocused on the floor.

Shes jolted. Her haste, her annoyance, her sense of distancethey all crumble in an instant, as if a crack splits through the tidy, protected world inside her. Theres no time for thinking. Instinct takes over.

Are you all right? Her voice sounds softer than shes used to, lacking its usual sharp edge. She doesnt skirt around him nowshe steps forward.

He lifts his eyes to hers. Theres no plea, just embarrassment and bewilderment.

Think its my blood pressure Bit dizzy, he murmurs, eyelids fluttering as if its a battle just to keep upright.

In the next breath, Margaret acts on pure reflex. She takes his arm, gently but firmly.

Dont standlets sit down here, her tone is low but commanding. She leads him to the nearest bench, where shed just intended to pass by.

Sitting him down, she crouches in front of him without a thought to how she might look.

Sit back, breathe, steady now, she urges.

In a stride, she heads to the kiosk, returns with a bottle of water and a plastic cup.

Here, sip thisjust a bit at a time.

From her coat pocket she pulls a tissue and, without hesitation, dabs at his brow. Her whole being is tuned to him: his broken breaths, the faint pulse she feels at his wrist.

Help! she calls out, her voice ringing crisp and clear across the waiting hall. Its not a panicit’s a command. Someones unwell! Please call an ambulance!

And suddenly the coach station, so full of aimless lingering, springs to life. The elderly couple are firstone woman rushes over with a GTN spray. A dozing man snaps awake, phone in hand, dialling for help. The kiosk attendant emerges from her booth. Others move closernot just background now, but a community, gathering around an unexpected crisis.

Margaret, crouched beside him, keeps talking gently, holding his cold fingers in both her hands. In that moment, shes neither a successful businesswoman nor a stranger standing out. She is simply a human being, present at the right moment. And that, she realises, is more than enough.

And then, breaking the stillness, come new soundsthe wail of a siren ending sharply at the entrance, and the bang of a door flung open. Two paramedics in navy jackets, marked with red crosses, stride into the hall, trailing December air behind them.

Their arrival is like a releasethe crowd steps back, forming a clear path to the bench. The bustle fades to an attentive hush. Margaret, still by his side, looks up: her gaze meets that of the lead paramedica tired, but attentive professional.

Whats happened? the paramedic asks, kneeling by the patient. Her movements are quick, precise, practiced.

Margaret responds, her words clearmore like a business report than a pleabut with a new, worn tenderness.

He felt unwell. Dizzy, weak, sweating heavily. He mentioned his blood pressure. Gave him some water and GTN. He looks stable now.

While she speaks, the second medic is already taking a blood pressure reading and shining a torch into the gentlemans eyes. Hes well enough now to mutter his name, age, what medication he takes.

The paramedic nods to Margaret.

You did absolutely right. Water, GTNperfect. Well take him in, run some tests, put him on a drip.

They help him up, steady on his feet, leaning on the medics shoulder. He turns to find Margaret in the small crowd, his eyes meet hers.

Thank you, love, he croaks, gratitude so real it chokes the throat. You may have saved my life.

Margaret cant find words. She just nods, a strange emptiness inside where adrenaline rushed moments ago. She watches as they support him out to the waiting ambulance. The cold hits as the door flaps open and someone grumbles, Oi, shut the door! Its freezing!

The door slams. The siren wails and fades. Once more, the coach station slowly settles into its sluggish rhythm. People drift back to their benches, movements weighted and slow as before.

Margaret stands awhile, looking down at her hands. Red marks streak her right palm, imprinted by her handbags straps where shed clutched it. Her stylish hair is a lost cause; her coat, rumpled and mud-marked from kneeling.

She heads to the bathroom, splashes icy water on her face. The cracked mirror shows mascara smudged, eyes tired, hair all control lost. A face she hasnt seen in yearsnot polished by success, but marked with real emotion: worry, kindness, exhaustion.

She dries her face, not bothering to fix her reflection, and returns to the waiting area. Still over an hour until her coach.

At the same kiosk, Margaret buys a bottle of waterthis time, for herself. She sips it. The water is cold, utterly ordinary. But in that instant, it feels vital. Because now, its not just a drink. Its a connection. A real, human connection, formed when you stop seeing others as obstacles or scenery, and start seeing them as people.

She thinks of the man, the others who respondedfaces not beautiful, flushed with worry, tense with effort. But Margaret has never seen faces so honest, so alive.

And seeing herself in the grimy station glass, in her creased coat, worried expression, Margaretfor the first time in agesrecognises someone real looking back. Not a perfect picture, but a person who heard anothers silence and answered.

She reclaims her seat, setting her water down. The familiar hush returns around her, but something is different. Her eyes no longer skate over the room in detached irritation. Now she notices the kiosk lady making tea for an elderly woman with a stick, the man helping a young mum with the pram. These little acts build a new imagenot one of dreary disconnection, but of steady, unspoken care for strangers.

Margaret checks her phone: a work chat notification about a spreadsheet issue. Hours ago, shed have jumped at the message. Instead, she types, Push this til tomorrow. Ill sort it. She turns her phone to silent.

Today, she recalls an almost-lost truth. Masks are needed: the professional, the capable, the unflappablecostumes for the stages of life. But its dangerous if, underneath, your skin forgets how to breathe. When you start to believe you are only the mask.

Today, in the bleak draft of this coach station, her mask cracked. And through the fissure, something real broke freethe capacity to fear for another, to drop to the dirty floor without caring how you look. To become simply the woman who helped, not Miss Bradshaw, Head of Department.

Staying human doesnt mean always dropping the mask. It means always remembering what lies beneath. And, sometimeslike tonightletting that soft, vulnerable, true part step into the light. Even if it’s only to reach out a hand.

To Stay Human It was a bleak and blustery mid-December afternoon in the town of Newbridge. The snow barely covered the ground, and the local bus station, with its ceaseless draughts, felt like the last stronghold of frozen time. Scents of buffet coffee, disinfectant, and fading hopes lingered in the air. The glass doors banged in the wind, ushering in another wave of shivering faces flushed from the cold. Margaret hurried through the waiting hall, double-checking the time on the station clock. She was only here in passing—a quick business trip to a neighbouring town had ended ahead of schedule, and now she had to reach home, two connections ahead. This bus terminal was the first and dreariest stop. Her tickets were for the evening coach. With three hours to kill, she felt the damp boredom of the place seep into the lining of her expensive coat. It had been a decade since she’d last seen these parts; everything appeared shrunken, faded, slowed down, and impossibly distant from her current life. Her heels tapped sharply on the tiled floor: an out-of-place figure—expensive sand-coloured wool coat, flawless hairstyle intact despite the journey, leather crossbody bag. Her analytic gaze swept the room: a kiosk attendant bored over her phone, an old couple quietly sharing a bun, a man in a battered parka staring into space. She felt the nearby eyes—not hostile, just registering: stranger. And she silently agreed. She only needed to endure this, to push through space and time like a bad dream. By tomorrow morning, she’d be back in her cosy city flat, warm and far away from the bone-chilling gloom of the provinces. Just as she was deciding where to sit, her path was blocked. A man. Sixty-something, maybe older. Weathered face, ordinary, the kind of face you don’t remember. His coat was patched but clean, and his ushanka hat dangled from his fingers. He hadn’t stepped in front of her; he just seemed to materialise from the grey air. He spoke in a soft, oddly flat voice. “Excuse me… miss… could you tell me where to get a drink of water?” The question hung awkwardly in the air, odd as the scene itself. Automatically, barely glancing at him, Margaret gestured towards the kiosk with its weary vendor and rows of gleaming bottles. “Over there. At the kiosk,” she said, starting to move past. Annoyance, sharp and petty, pricked at her. “To get a drink.” And “miss.” Archaic, out of place—couldn’t he see for himself? He nodded, murmured thanks—yet didn’t move. He stood, head bowed, as though gathering the strength for a few paces. His hesitation, his helplessness before a trivial task made Margaret, almost past him now, pause. She saw—not his clothes, not his age. She saw beads of sweat rolling down his temples, even in the chill hall. Fingers kneading the old hat in spasms. Lips pale, his glassy gaze lost somewhere near his shoes, unseeing. Something shifted inside her. Her haste, her irritation, her sense of superiority—all crumpled in an instant. No time for thought; something primal took over. “Are you all right?” Her own voice surprised her, gentler, without its usual metallic ring. She didn’t dodge him now, but stepped in. He lifted his eyes. Not pleading—just confusion and defeat. “Just—dizzy… Blood pressure, maybe,” he whispered, eyelids fluttering as if remaining upright cost him all his strength. Margaret acted on instinct. She took his arm—a steady, but careful grip. “Don’t stand. Let’s sit, here…” Her voice was quiet but commanding, guiding him to a nearby bench. She crouched down before him, forgetting her appearance. “Sit back, breathe. Steady now. Don’t rush.” She hurried to the kiosk, returned with a water bottle and plastic cup. “Here, sip this.” From her coat pocket she produced a paper tissue, gently dabbing his brow. Her entire being was focused on this man: his ragged breaths, the stuttering pulse beneath her fingers. “Help, please!” Her strong, clear call sliced through the station’s stupor. Not panic, but command. “He needs an ambulance!” Suddenly, the station came alive. The old couple were first to react, a woman bringing tablets. The man who’d been dozing dialled emergency services. The kiosk attendant emerged. Others, previously invisible, gathered round. They became a community, united by a sudden crisis. Margaret, beside him, kept murmuring reassurance, hands clasping his cold fingers. For that moment, she was neither a high-powered businesswoman nor an outsider. She was simply a fellow human being. And it was enough—more than enough. Then, in a breath of cold December air and the burst of a siren, two paramedics hurried in, blue jackets streaked with red crosses. Their arrival reset the room. People parted to make way, silence fell. Margaret met the paramedic’s professional, weary eyes. “What happened?” asked the woman, kneeling by the man, her moves swift and precise. Margaret reported clearly, no longer metallic but drained with relief. “He felt faint, dizzy, sweating a lot. Said it was his blood pressure. He’s had water and a tablet. Seems stable.” As she spoke, the other medic took his vitals. The man could now answer softly: name, age, medications. The paramedic nodded to Margaret. “You did the right thing with the water. We’ll take him to the hospital for a check and a drip.” Helping him up, the man turned, searching for Margaret. Their eyes met. “Thank you, love,” he rasped, gratitude shining through. “You… might have saved my life.” Margaret said nothing, only nodded, empty now where adrenaline had burned. She watched them leave, the white ambulance looming through the doors as the cold whistled in. Someone grumbled, “Close the door, it’s freezing!” The door slammed. The siren faded, and the lounge eased back into sluggish waiting. People dispersed, their slow movements resuming. Margaret remained standing. On her hand, red lines—the pressure from her bag. Her hair undone, coat rumpled and stained from kneeling. She wandered to the cramped bathroom, bracing herself with cold water. The cracked mirror reflected smudged makeup, tired eyes, dishevelled hair, a face she’d not recognised in years. Not polished by success, but alive—with worry, compassion, exhaustion. She dried off and returned to the bench, still with an hour to wait. From the same kiosk, Margaret bought a water bottle—this time for herself. The water was cool, unremarkable, but now seemed the most important thing in the world. Not just a drink, but a connection. A simple, human connection, born at the very moment someone stops seeing another as background or nuisance—just as a person. She noticed details now: the kiosk attendant bringing tea to an old lady; a man helping a mother with a pram. These small kindnesses built a picture—not bleak, but gentle and vital. Margaret checked her phone. A work group chat pinged—some issue with reports. Two hours ago it would have mattered. Now she typed: “Postpone till tomorrow. It’ll be fine.” And switched off notifications. Today she remembered an old truth. The world needs masks: professional, prosperous, impassive—they’re costumes for each scene. But it’s dangerous if, underneath, your skin forgets how to breathe. If you start believing you’re just the mask. Today, that mask cracked, and something real escaped—a breathless fear for another. The readiness to kneel on a dirty floor, unabashed. To be just “the young woman” who helped, not Ms Parker, Head of Department. To stay human doesn’t mean shedding all masks. It means remembering what’s beneath them. And, sometimes, as today, letting the real, vulnerable self come into the light—just to reach out a hand.

“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, sounding like a stranger. “We need to get rid of them, Dave. They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for our winter duvets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere.” Olga continued, practically, pulling modest jumpers, skirts, and summer dresses belonging to her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Margaret Ferguson had always hung up her clothes with care to keep them neat—something she’d taught her only son. Olga, on the other hand, forever had chaos in her wardrobes, diving in each morning to hunt for the right blouse, always complaining she had nothing to wear, then furiously attacking the crumpled clothes with her steamer; everything looked like it had been chewed up and spat out. It had only been three weeks since Dave said his final goodbye to his mum. Margaret had needed care—mostly palliative by that point—and peace and quiet. Stage four cancer had taken her in just a month after Dave brought her home. That evening, coming back from work, he found her things strewn in the hallway like unwanted junk, and he froze. Was that it? Was this how his mother’s memory would be treated? Dumped and instantly forgotten? “Why are you staring at me like I’m the enemy, Dave?” Olga shot back. “Don’t touch these things,” Dave hissed through gritted teeth, so furious he lost feeling in his hands for a moment. “What do we want with all this old rubbish?” Olga snapped, growing aggravated. “Want to turn the house into a museum or something? Your mother’s gone, accept it! You should’ve looked after her like this when she was alive—maybe visited more, actually known how ill she was!” Her words hit Dave like a whip. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice trembling. Olga scoffed, “Yeah right. Madman…” Everyone who disagreed with Olga was automatically ‘mental’. Still in his coat, Dave marched to the corridor cupboard, pushed open the top doors, climbed onto a stool, and fetched one of their checkered moving bags—there were about seven from their last move. Carefully, he folded and packed all his mum’s belongings: her jacket, her shoes, each piece handled with care, placed just so. His three-year-old son toddled alongside, dropping his toy tractor into the bag for good measure. Finally, Dave rummaged in the hall drawer, found a key, and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” Dave smiled sadly, gripping the front door handle. “I’ll be back soon, mate, go to mummy.” “Wait!” Olga called, suddenly anxious. “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, but I’m full up on your attitude towards my mum,” he shot back. “Oh come off it, Dave,” Olga grumbled. “Where are you off to at this hour?” Without responding, Dave left, bag in hand. He started the car, leaving the drive, heading towards the motorway. The stream of cars drowned out every other thought: work stress, holiday plans, the silly Facebook pages he liked to read to unwind. Everything shrank before the heavy, slow-moving thought sludging through his head like a tortoise: only a few things really mattered—his kids, his wife, and his mum. He blamed himself for her death—always busy, always something getting in the way. She’d never wanted to trouble him, so he’d postponed visits, called less, listened less and less. Three-quarters of the way there, he stopped at a roadside diner for a bite, then drove the next three hours straight. Once, he noticed the sunset—a blood-red split in the western sky, like the sun fighting not to slip off the edge of the world. In darkness, he reached the quiet village, dented lanes, and eventually pulled up outside his childhood home. In the dark, everything was unfamiliar. Dave fiddled with the gate, lighting the way with his phone; five missed calls from his wife. Not tonight. Let the mobile stay on silent. Blossoms from the dying cherry tree gave off a sweet, heavy smell, night moths flitting through its ghostly pale petals. Cloudy windows reflected the night sky. Dave unlocked the first door, groped for a switch, and a dusty bulb flickered on. By the door, his mum’s old garden slippers waited. By the next door, leading into the house, her battered blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—the ones he’d bought her for Christmas eight years ago. He paused, staring at them, then shook himself, opened the door, and stepped inside. Hi Mum, were you waiting for me? No—no one in this house waited for him any more. The air held the smell of old pine furniture and a trace of damp. The house was quick to get musty; you had to light the fire constantly, or mould crept in. On the dressing table: her hairbrush, a plain set of cosmetics, a bag of value pasta. In the lounge, the only new thing stood out—a sofa Dave had bought with the telly for his mum. The kitchen fridge, wide open, was empty—no one left to live here now. Mum’s old bedroom opposite—her bed piled with pillows, covered with a crocheted throw. Dave sat on the edge. Once, that had been his room. Mum and Dad used the bigger room down the hall. His brother’s bed had been tucked against the wall, with a desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine occupied that space—Mum adored sewing. She’d swapped the spare bed for a wardrobe, her wardrobe. Dave sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe like a ghost. His eyes glazed over. He put his head in his hands, hunched over, face on his knees, and began to sob—huge, choking, hidden sobs. He sobbed for all the words he’d never said as he sat beside her, holding her hand on her last day. He’d been struck dumb, a statue, watching her fade, a thousand unspoken words stranded in his throat. Mum had whispered, “Don’t look at me like that, Dave… I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her—for his carefree childhood, for her kindness, for sacrifices and love, for always being there, for that feeling of being safe, always welcome, no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he’d just sat, stone-faced, unable to find the words. Sometimes it’s impossible—everything sounds dated, overblown, clumsy to a modern ear. Our times have lost the language for real emotion; it’s all cynicism and sarcasm these days. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep on her bed without undressing, careful not to disturb the neatly made sheets. He found a blanket on the chair. He hadn’t expected sleep to be so easy. In the morning, as always, he woke at seven on the dot—no matter how late he’d stayed awake. Dave collected the bag from the car. Birches lined the lane, dressed in new green leaves, standing like young debutantes of spring. Their branches soaked up the sun, ready to warm the earth. He breathed in the birdsong, the fresh air—so lucky to have grown up here, not in the city. He stretched, loosened up, and hauled the bag to his mum’s wardrobe. One by one, Dave unpacked his mother’s clothes, carefully laying them on the shelves. Hung the dresses and blouses, her shoes lined up below. When he finished, he stepped back. For a moment, he saw her right there, beaming at him, dressed in one of those blouses. She always smiled with that mum’s smile, saying “I love you” without words. He ran a hand over the hanging row of clothes, then hugged the whole lot, breathing in that familiar scent… Stood there, lost. He had no idea what would happen to these things—just that for now, they stayed. Eventually, he remembered the present and rang work. “Hi, Tony, I can’t make it today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home this evening. Love you.” Flowers edged the garden path; daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, lilies of the valley near the gooseberry bushes. He gathered a bunch of each, splitting them into three bouquets—there were three waiting for him at the churchyard. Popping by the village shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Grabbed some milk, a roll, and a chocolate bar. “Oh, morning, Dave! Back again already?” said the shop lady. “Yeah…just visiting Mum,” he said, looking away. “Right. Want any crumbly cheese? Fresh in from the farmer. Your mum always had some.” He looked at her. Was she having a go? No, just a kind-hearted soul. “Erm, go on then. And you—how are you, Irene?” She waved it off. She’d been Margaret’s mate. “Don’t ask, love. My Terry’s a lost cause—he drinks and drinks.” He ate his breakfast at the graveyard, dividing the bouquets over three gravestones: daffodils, lilies, tulips; brother, father, mother. Brother went first—a fall from a roof, just twenty years old. Dad, five years ago. Now Mum. He left them chocolate, broke off some cheese for Mum. Their faces smiled at him from the photographs on the headstones. He talked to them in his mind. Remembered the mischief with his brother. Remembered going fishing at dawn with Dad, expertly casting the line. Remembered Mum yelling across the lane, “Daaave! Dinner!” in a voice that carried for miles—how he used to cringe in front of his mates. How he wished she’d call him like that now. Dave stood, stroked the wooden cross on his mother’s grave, the earth still fresh and new. “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t look after you well enough. We were living our own lives, but without you, it’s just empty. There’s so much I want to say to you, and to you too, Dad. You were the best parents in the world—I’m so grateful… How did you do it? Me and Olga, we’re just selfish. Me, me, me, mine, I want… Thank you for everything. And you too, Charlie, mate, thank you.” Time to go. Dave walked down the path, picking wild grass and chewing the soft stalks. On the first street, he ran into Terry, Irene’s son. Already drunk and down on his luck. “Oi, Dave! Back again?” Terry slurred. “Yeah… Came to see the folks. You still drinking?” “’Course, it’s a holiday.” “What holiday?” Unexpectedly, Terry pulled a tiny page-a-day calendar from his shorts, torn to yesterday’s date. He flipped it. “World Turtle Day! See?” he said proudly. Dave smirked, “Right. Listen, Terry… Look after your mum, she’s a diamond. And she won’t be here forever. Remember that.” He walked on, leaving Terry looking confused. After a moment, Terry called out, “Yeah, alright, mate. Take care, Dave!” “Yeah, goodbye,” Dave replied, not looking back.