Enough of Being Convenient
Well, thats settled then, Eleanor! chirped Aunt Sylvia, blotting her lips delicately with a paper napkin. The napkin came from the cake Eleanor Watson had baked for her guest, and now it bore a telltale smudge of buttery icing. The fifth of May, well meet at yours. Ill bring my own special pickled sausagesfamily recipeand you, darling, be so good as to sort the main course. After all, its your birthday! Well have important guests, Davids colleaguesserious people. Best not look as if weve never hosted anyone.
Eleanor sat across the table, cradling a teacup filled with tea she had let go cold ages ago. She watched Aunt Sylvia and nodded automatically. Nodded and thought about the quarterly report due tomorrow, that they were out of butter, that Charlies back was acting up and she still hadnt got the new heat patch he needed. She thought of everything except what Aunt Sylvia was actually saying. While Sylvia talked on and on, rearranging her lilac scarf and gazing out the window as if she were already mentally laying out plates on Eleanors table.
At least twenty people, continued Aunt Sylvia. Pull out all the stops, Eleanor. Youre a marvelremember the spread for Olivias wedding? Not a crumb left! Same again this time. Ill help, obviously. Ill direct proceedings.
She laugheda short, sharp laugh, like a little dog yapping.
Eleanor smiled, of course. Because thats what one does. Because Aunt Sylvia was Davids auntDavid, Olivias husband and only son-in-law. Because family rows were the last thing anyone wanted. Because thats what Eleanor had always done: smiled and agreed.
Alright, she said. Its settled.
Aunt Sylvia left at half eight, content and considerably full. Eleanor closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and just stood there for a moment. The hall smelled faintly of heavy, cloying perfume that wasnt hers. The TV in the living room muttered onCharlie was watching yet another fishing programme, and hadnt even come out to say hello.
Is she gone? he called from his seat, eyes glued to the screen.
Shes gone.
What did she want then?
Eleanor headed to the kitchen and started washing up. The tap ran scalding hot and she didnt pull her hands away.
Theres going to be a party here, she said. Fifth of May. At ours.
Our place? What for?
My birthday. And Davids work or something.
A non-committal grunt from the living room. Then silence. Then more fishing.
Eleanor dried her hands on an old tea towel with faded roosters on the hema market buy from fifteen years before, still not discarded. She looked at it and thought suddenly: she was just like that towel. Washed-out. With roosters round the edge. Hanging up, waiting for someone to come and wipe their hands.
She shook the thought off and inspected the fridge: what was there, what else would she need?
In ten days, Eleanor Watson would turn fifty. A big birthdayhalf a century. Of those fifty years, she remembered at least thirty-five. And of those, she could not recall a single day she had done something only for herself. Not for Charlie, nor Olivia, nor her mother (whom shed lost five years ago and had cooked Sunday roasts for every weekend), nor for her mother-in-law (living nearby, demanding attention like a child). Just for herself. Not once.
Shed been an accountant at a construction firm for twenty-two years. Respected by colleagues, valued by managementbut never promoted. Why would they? Eleanor managed. Eleanor never complained. Eleanor coped.
At home, it was the same. Charlie, fifty-four, worked as an engineer at the plant. He disliked it, but stayed for the pension. At home, he said he was resting, which meant: television, phone, sofa, sometimes the shed. Eleanor cooked. Eleanor cleaned. Eleanor handled the bills, because she did it better. Shopping? Eleanor. Hosting guests? Also Eleanor. Charlie participated as little as possiblenot that it was ever argued over, it had simply become the background hum of their life, like the sound of traffic you stop hearing after a while.
Their daughter Olivia had married four years back. David was good-natured and hardworking, but his family was complicated. His mother had died young, his father lived up north somewhere, but Aunt Sylviahis dads sisteracted as everyones stand-in. Bold, loud, and used to having her way. Shed never liked Eleanorno clear reason, just that Eleanor was too quiet, too obliging. For people like Sylvia, that sort invited not respect, but domination.
Olivia loved her mum, but David more. That was normal, as it should be. But when it came to choosing between mums comfort and Davids peace, Olivia always quietly chose the latter.
So Eleanor lived in their three-bedroom flat in Reading, on the ninth floorthe sort of block where every building looks the same, and only the trees stand out because no one prunes them. She lived and never complained. Who to? Why bother?
After Sylvias visit, Eleanor sat another hour in the kitchen, listing what shed need to feed twenty people. The list was long. The cost, alarming. She stared at the scribbled numbers on the back of an old receipt and felt a heavinessnot pain, just a weight on her chest, like a brick someone forgot to take off.
She flicked off the kitchen light and went to bed.
For the next nine days, she lived in what she called the pre-party slog. At first, she told herself all was wellshe was just helping her family, the party would be lovely, she just had to get through it. But by the third day, self-persuasion failed.
She woke at six to defrost tomorrows dinner, draft shopping lists, ring the shop about a delivery. She worked until six, sometimes laterthere was still the quarterly report. After work: heavy bags from the shopstins, bottles, grains, meat. Everything up nine flights because the lift broke down as often as it worked. Home, start something boiling, a quick tidy, collapse at one or two in the morning. Up again at six.
Charlie saw all thiswell, physically saw, as they lived togetherbut looked right through it. Once, he did ask if she needed help. She said, Ill manage. He nodded, relieved, and went back to his phone.
Olivia rang Wednesday. Asked if everything was readyAunt Sylvia wanted to know about the hot food and reminded her about the starters. Eleanor asked, Livvy, could you handle the salads? Im worn out. Olivia paused, then said, Mum, you know how it is, long hours for both of us. Well come help set up. Which meant moving food from pots to plates. Eleanor got the message and didnt argue.
Two days before the party, she was up a stool, cleaning windowsbecause Aunt Sylvia had commented on the dust last time. As she wiped, she realised the last time shed cleaned the windows for herself was eight years ago, when shed had her mum visitingno, that was for mums sake too. Always for someone. Never herself.
Her foot slipped, she nearly tumbled but caught the frame. Heart pounding. She sat down on the floor beneath the window to catch her breath. Her back hurt. Her legs ached. Her head buzzed.
She thought: if Id fallen and broken something, the main question would be: But what about the party?
That thought was so bitter it made her laugha laugh with a cough.
Then she got up and finished the window.
On the night between the fourth and fifth of May, she managed three hours sleepthe rest she spent boiling, roasting, chopping, arranging. Shepherds pie, two kinds of salad, a fish mould Sylvia had specifically asked for (which Eleanor didnt like), cabbage rolls for Charlies cousin Barryhe wouldnt accept a celebration without them. She baked her own cake the day before: Victoria sponge with cherries, her favouritethe one indulgence just for her.
At seven in the morning, Eleanor showered, put on the blue dress shed bought two years ago but never worn. Looked in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, red hands from cleaning and cooking, parched lips. But the dressstill beautiful. She knew it.
Ooh, all dressed up, said Charlie as he shuffled past in the hallway. Good for you.
That was it. No you look lovely, no happy birthday, no how are you? Just good for youand gone.
Guests started arriving at twelve. Aunt Sylvia first, by half-past eleven, with a large bagher vaunted sausages, a giant jar of pickles, a box of chocolates. The chocolates she deposited on the table with a flourish. Sausages and pickles too. Then a walkabout of the flat, a peek into the kitchen, a curt nod.
Well done, Eleanor, said Aunt Sylvia, echoing Charlie. Youve done a grand job.
Then she took out her phone and started calling people.
By one oclock, everyone had arrivedtwenty-three in total, by Eleanors count as they squeezed round the table (a patchwork of the dining and writing tables, their ironed cloth stretched to the limit). Of those twenty-three, Eleanor truly knew six. The rest: Davids colleagues or Sylvias crowd. Strangers in her home, eating her food, sitting on chairs borrowed from Mrs. Price on the third floor because there werent enough of their own.
The toasts began with Charlies cousin Barry: a rambling anecdote from the nineties that had nothing to do with Eleanor or her birthday, but it raised a laugh. Next, son-in-law David: Congratulations to Eleanor, shes one of lifes stalwarts. Drinks clinked, people knocked back spirits, and then David launched into a speech about his mate Anthonys promotion, rattling off job titles and figures Eleanor couldnt follow.
Aunt Sylvia stood next, speech clearly prepared, but not about Eleanorit was Anthony again. His struggles, his triumph, what a star he was. Then, almost as an afterthought: And lets not forget our hostess, gracious enough to have us all! Laughter. Another toast.
Eleanor smiled. Sat at the head of the table, because the birthday girl must, smiled and raised her glass and said thank you to each clipped greeting. But inside, something was happening. Slow, subtle. Like water getting warm until it boils.
Eleanor, no salt on this end! called someone.
She got up and fetched the salt.
Not enough bread, love, more please, said Barry.
She brought bread.
Ms. Watson, were short on forks, said a woman shed never met.
She fetched forks.
Someone wanted another platter. More plates. Sylvia needed sparkling waterthe kind Olivia had forgotten to bring, so Eleanor had to make a dash to the frostbox on the balcony.
She whirled back and forth to and from the kitchen. In between, shed try to sit, but never managed more than two minutes. Her own plate remained untouched.
Once, she tried to make a toast. Rose with her glass. Olivia, noticing, lifted hers, but at that very moment Sylvia launched into another story about Anthony, voice booming. The room turned to Sylvia. Olivia set her glass down. So did Eleanor. The toast evaporated.
The guests ate. They praised the foodFish is divine, These rolls are to die for, How do you get your pie so fluffy? Eleanor smiled, explained, nodded. It was nice. But it stungbecause they praised the dishes, not the woman behind them. Because here, Eleanor was just the kitchen, the apron, the could you fetch and have you got. Not the celebrant. The staff.
Hours passed. By three oclock, the May sun streamed in, mild and indifferent. Around the table, voices got louder, faces ruddier. Anthony talked about his new role. Sylvia peppered in laughs, her yap-like cackle ringing out. Charlie sat at the far end with Barry, deep in manly talk, fishing or cars.
Eleanor headed to the kitchen for the fourth helping of hot food. Mitts on, baking tray out. Her hands trembled from exhaustion. Three hours sleep was running out. She was dizzy. She set down the baking dish and started transferring the meat.
From the dining room came Sylvias commanding voice: Eleanor! Is it coming? And bring some cream, weve run out!
Not dear Eleanor. Not if its not too much trouble. Just bring. Like she was the hired help.
Eleanor stopped, spoon poised mid-air. Silence in the kitchen, apart from the branches quivering outdoors. The kettle on the hob, empty.
Something clicked inside her.
Not loud. Not painful. Simply: click, like a light being flicked off.
She set down the spoon. Hung the mitts on their usual hook. Picked up the dish of meat, grabbed the cream from the fridge, and walked into the room.
Set everything down.
Straightened her shoulders.
Excuse me, she said, quietly, but close guests turned toward her. Excuse me, please.
Sylvia kept talking at Anthony. Olivia eyed her mother, puzzled. Charlie didnt look up.
Please listen, Eleanor said, this time more clearly.
Now Sylvia turned, annoyance in every line of her face.
Is something wrong? she asked sharply.
Eleanor looked round the table. Her guests, and not-quite guests. Her husband, now belatedly paying attention. Her daughter, glass halfway to her lips, not sure what was happening. Sylvia, with her lilac scarf and the complacent, stuffed expression of someone well-fed.
Id like to say something, Eleanor began. Its my birthday today. Im fifty.
Of course, cheers! called someone from the far side, glasses raised.
Wait, please, Eleanor stopped them. Just a moment.
The room quietened. Her heart beat steadily. Surprisingly steady, as if shed made a decision her body knew, even if her mind hadnt yet caught up.
Ive spent the past ten days preparing, and not for myself. I havent slept. I bought the food, did all the cooking, cleaned, ironed, borrowed chairs, all by myself. Today I sit at a table I set for strangers, for a party that barely has anything to do with me except for being in my home. I havent made a single toastthree times I was interrupted. Ive stood up eight times from this table while you were eating. And Ive just been asked to fetch cream as if Im a maid.
A hush fell. The kind of hush when everyone knows exactly whats been said but no one knows what to do with it.
Eleanor, whats got into you? said Charlie, confused more than cross.
Mum, said Olivia, quietly.
Sylvia breathed in, lips pursed for a retort. Eleanor met her gaze, unwavering. Sylvia swallowed her protest and said nothing.
Id like to ask you all, Eleanor went on, remarkably steady, to please take what you brought and continue the party elsewhere. Theres a caféThe Nookjust nearby, perfectly nice. Ill gladly pay the bill for the rest of the night, since its come to this. But here, in my home, the party is over.
A pause, three seconds long, then everyone started talking at once.
Barry muttered something rude, under his breath. One of Davids colleagues started looking for his jacket. Sylvia got up stiffly, glared at Eleanor with a look that said youll regret this, but didnt utter another word. She picked up her bagand her jar of pickles, a small but telling act which, oddly, Eleanor found amusing.
Olivia came over.
Mum, what are you doing? she whispered. This is its awful. Sylvia will
Livvy, interrupted Eleanor softly, I love you. But please, go for now.
Her daughter stared at her as if meeting a stranger. And maybe, Eleanor thought, she was a stranger now, a different woman than Olivia remembered.
Charlie was last to leave. He paused in the doorway.
Have you lost your mind? he asked, not angrily, almost curious.
No, said Eleanor. I think Ive found it.
He left, unable to think of a reply.
She locked the door, stood in the quiet hallway.
The silence was thick and genuinethe sort you get at midnight, when all the world is asleep. Only this wasnt midnight; it was three in the afternoon of the fifth of May, sparrows chattering outside, the communal door slamming below. She was simply alone in her flat, breathing out after so many held-in breaths.
In the dining room, she surveyed the remains: the meat dish, half-eaten salads, bread, glasses. Her own plate, still untouched.
She took her plate, didnt bother reheating. Collected a fork. Headed to the kitchen, where her cakeher own cherry spongestood ready. She set down her meal, cut a slice of cake, poured real, hot tea from the freshly boiled kettle.
She sat.
Outside, the wind jostled the sycamore. Leaves small and sticky, just budding out. Eleanor watched the tree and ate. The meat was good. She really could cook, whatever Sylvia said.
Then a bite of cake. Light sponge, tart cherry, gentle cream. She chewed slowly. No rush. No one to shout Eleanor, fetch or look straight through her. Just her and the cake shed made for herself.
For the first time in who knew how many years.
She didnt cry. She thought she might; it seemed appropriate. If this were a film, the sad music would swell and tears would streak her cheeks. But her eyes stayed dry. Instead, something solid settled inside herreal, like the ground beneath her feet. As if she finally stood on something steady, not the shifting surface shed always tiptoed over for others.
She ignored her phone for two hours. When at last she checked, there were messages. Three from Olivia: Mum, ring me, then Mum I dont get what happened, and are you alright. One from Charlie: That was out of order. Nothing from Sylviawhich surprised her. A few from unknown numbers, likely guests. Mrs. Price from the third floor: Eleanor, when will the chairs be back?
She replied only to Mrs. Price: Tomorrow, sorry for the hassle.
To Olivia: Im fine. Dont worry. Well talk tomorrow.
Nothing to Charlie.
She cleared the table slowly, not out of anger, just methodically. Food into containers, into the fridge, plates soaking, rubbish out. Folded the cloth. Returned Mrs. Prices chairsMrs. Price answered in her dressing gown, eyed her curiously, but asked no questions. Sensible woman.
Back home, Eleanor ran a bath. A long one, with foaming bubbles. Lay back, watched the ceiling: a large stain from the old leak (must repaint that, Charlie had said for three years, never did). She thought: putting off repainting the ceiling for three years was like putting off her own life for three decades. One and the same.
Charlie returned at ten. She heard him unlock the door, take off his shoes. He hovered in the bedroom doorway. She was reading in bed.
Do you realise what youve done? he asked.
Yes, she replied.
And?
And thats it. I do.
Sylvia David Therell be a scene now, did you think of that?
I did, said Eleanor. Charlie, I am very tired. Can we talk tomorrow?
He lingered before going to sleep on the sofa, as he did when they quarrelled. She left him be.
Turned off the lamp. Darkness.
She slept ten hoursthe first real sleep in ages.
The morning of the sixth was unremarkable: slant of sunshine, sparrows, the scent of coffee shed set to brew overnight. She got up, had coffee and toast. Charlie still slept; his snores drifted from the lounge.
She opened her laptopjust to check the weeks weather. But a tab was still open: a travel page, tours around Englands historic towns. She remembered: shed opened it weeks earlier, curious, but had shut itno time.
She clicked it now.
Bath, York, Canterbury, Salisbury. Eight days, small group, minibus, with tours and breakfast. She scrolled through pictures: abbey ruins by the river, cobbled lanes, ancient stone walls lit by early summer. Shed never seen any of this, but had always wanted to. Charlie didnt like tours no point, better the garden centre. Twenty years in summer, always to the same caravan park. Lawn, shed, barbecue.
She phoned the agency at nine on the dot.
Good morning, you were looking at the Historic England tour, eight days? The reps voice was bright.
Yes. Is there space in the next group?
Yes, one spot for the fourteenth of May.
One? she echoed. Thats perfect. I only need one.
She paid by card there and then. When she hung up, she stared out the window. Her mind was calmnot elated, not nervous. Just calm, like shed finally done the right thing.
Olivia called. Cautious voice, as though stepping onto unknown ice.
Mum, hello. Are you OK?
Im well.
We need to talk. Sylvias really upset. David too. It was a shock.
I understand.
Could you call Sylvia and say sorry? Shed calm down, everything would
No, Livvy, said Eleanor.
Pause.
No?
Im not apologising for asking people to leave my home on my birthday.
But Mum
Listen, Livvy. Eleanor held her coffee mug. It was warm in her hand. I want you to hear me, just as your mumnot the worried wife or niece, just me.
Olivia waited.
I turned fifty yesterday. I spent that day as staff at someone elses do. I was so tired, my hands shook, I didnt eat, was interrupted, forgotten. Was told to fetch cream with no please or thank you, never once looked at as a person. And what gets me most? I allowed it. I set that table, welcomed those people, lived for twenty years so nobody thought to ask how I wasbecause I never gave them a reason to.
She paused. A bus trundled past. A pigeon landed on the sill, waddled, flew away.
Mum, Olivia said softly, her tone changedsimply human now. “Youre probably right. But its so sudden…”
I know. For me, too.
Are you going to be like this now?
Eleanor smiled.
Who knows? For now, I bought a trip.
A trip?
A historic tour round England. Eight days. Leaving the fourteenth.
A long silence.
On your own?
Just me.
Mum, Olivia whispered.
Its the first trip Ive ever planned for myself. First in fifty years. I suppose you have to start sometime.
Olivia only said, Alright. Call me, and hung up.
Charlie found out about the tour over lunch. Eleanor told him simply: she booked a place, leaves on the fourteenth, eight days, touring the English countryside.
He raised his eyebrows.
“And you didnt ask me?”
No.
And whats that supposed to mean?
Exactly what it sounds like, Charlie.
Are you alright, Eleanor? Do you need a doctor?
She salted the soup. Tasted it. Adjusted.
Im fine. It’s nearly done.
He left the kitchen, pacing the flat, then quiet. Then the TV clicked on. Life carried on.
The next days were uneasy. Charlie veered between silence and outbursts: Youve changed, People just dont do that. Eleanor listened, didnt agree or apologise. Odd, since before she apologised for everythingnow, no longer.
Olivia rang again after three days. Said Sylvia had declared, shell never set foot in this house again. Eleanor said, Alright. Olivia sounded thrown.
Mum, dont you mind?
No.
But family
Sylvias not my family. Shes Davids aunt. Thats different. My family, Eleanor paused, is you. And Charlie. I want us to learn to live differently. Sylvias not my concern.
Olivia muttered hmm, then asked about the tour: the route, the hotels. This was a small but significant step. Eleanor noticed, and explained.
On 13 May, the day before the trip, Eleanor packed. A small suitcase, light enough to manage herself. As she packed, she recalled not doing this in years. The last time, a family holiday seven years beforethen, shed packed for everyone: his stuff, hers, medicines, food. Now, just for herself. The blue dress went in, too.
Charlie came in, saw the suitcase, perched on the bed.
Youre really going, he said. Not a question.
I am.
Eight days.
Yes.
He rubbed his forehead. Sighed.
Is there anything to eat, just in case? You know Im no cook
Charlie, she said gently, youre a grown man. The fridge is stocked for three daysyou only need to reheat it. After that, youll managecook or order takeaway. Youll cope.
He stared at her. She could tell he wanted to say something snarky, but he stopped. Maybe something in her face warned him offshe couldnt say what had changed, but something had.
Alright, he said. Go on.
Just go on. No enjoy yourself, no take care. But no are you mad? either. Progress.
She clicked the case shut.
That evening, her oldest friend Sally, from school days, rang.
Heard from Mrs Price you threw everyone out on your birthday, Sally said.
I asked them to leave.
Eleanor. Good for you.
Pause.
Really?
Ive known you thirty-five years. Youve always shouldered everything and never moaned. Im glad you finally
Sally, dont get dramatic, Eleanor laughed.
Right, no drama. So, wherere you off to?
A tour round Englands old cities. By myself.
On your own! Sally paused. Ive always wanted to do something like that.
So do it.
Hed never let me.
Sally, said Eleanor, people only stop you if you let themfine, at eight you ask mums permission to go out. At fifty? Its up to you.
Sally laughed, then grew serious.
Youve changed, El.
Maybe. Im simply tired of making things easy for everyone but myself.
Lots of people get tired. Few actually do something about it.
Maybe more do than we think. They’re just ashamed to say so.
Are you ashamed?
Eleanor glanced outside; lights glowed in block windows across, a woman washed up, a man flicked TV channels, someone else bustled. Whole worlds, behind glass.
No, she said. Not the least bit.
On 14 May, Eleanor rose at half-five. Charlie still asleep. She made coffee, packed sandwiches, checked documents. Dressed, zipped the case. She wore the blue dresswhy not? At fifty, she could wear a lovely dress at sunrise if she pleased.
In the hallway, she surveyed her flatthree rooms, ninth floor, view of sycamores. That ceiling stain still waiting. The faded tea towel with roosters. Everything familiar, ordinary, beloved. Yet she was stepping out, for once, as slightly a different person. A real truth.
From the kitchen, footsteps approached. Charlie, in a vest and old joggers, hair a mess, gazed at her suitcase.
Youre off, then.
Yes, the taxis here.
He nodded. Fidgeted. Then muttered:
Happy birthday, Eleanor. I didnt say it the other day.
She looked at himfifty-four, tired face, greying hair. Twenty-seven years together. She had no idea what would come nextif things would change between them, if shed build something new, if this trip would fix anything. Life isnt a telly drama that sorts itself in eight days.
Thank you, Charlie, she said simply.
She opened the door and left.
The taxi was waiting. She loaded her bag, settled in the back. The driver, a young man, smiled: To the station? She replied, Yesthe station.
Reading was waking up. The streets were quiet, little traffic. May morningbright, a slight chill. The trees whispered in new green, nearly unnaturally vivid, and Eleanor watched them, thinking how long it had been since shed noticed such things: the leaves, the open sky, the sunrise over the rooftops.
The station buzzed, as alwayssmell of pastries from the café, loudspeakers, people towing suitcases. The living din of a crowd. Eleanor found her platform.
The train arrived precisely on time.
She found her seat, placed her case, by the windowa stroke of luck. Her compartment companions: elderly, polite, said hello. A woman opposite offered tea from a flask; Eleanor thanked her and declined for later.
The train set off.
Reading slipped byhouses, trees, old sheds. Then fields; the world opened up, hedgerows and sky. Eleanor watched, thoughts meanderingnot planning meals, not counting costs, not anticipating demands.
Her phone buzzed quietly. She checked: Olivia. Mum, you alright? On the train?
She replied: On my way. Dont worry.
Another messagefrom the tour coordinator, Kate: Looking forward to meeting you in Bath. Safe journey!
Eleanor wrote back: Thank you. See you soon.
She put her phone away, gazed out again.
The train pressed on, fields and woods sliding past, sky huge and gentle. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes just for a momentnot to sleep. Just to be.
There was a life behind her: the ninth-floor flat, faded tea towel, ceiling stain, all those birthdays given away to others. Ahead: Bath, abbey ruins, medieval streets, a group of strangers, eight days that belonged only to her.
She didnt know what would come when she returnedwhether she and Charlie would really talk, whether she and Olivia would mend what needed mending, whether Sylvia would ever speak to her again. The futureblank and uncertainno longer scared her the way it once had. Where once any uncertainty felt threateningsomething to manage or smoothnow, it simply was life.
And life goes on. Unpredictable, and all her own.
As the train sped through the wild, green English countryside, Eleanor Watson looked out the window and thought that next time someone told her, Fetch the cream, in that tone, she would probably just smile, politely.
And say, No.
Such a small word.
Three letters.
And yesterday, shed finally found the courage to say it.
Youre never too old to learn how.
And its never too late to start living for yourself.
