The Caretaker for the Widower A month ago, she was hired to care for Regina White—bedridden after a stroke. Thirty days she tended to her every need, turning her, changing sheets, monitoring IVs. Three days ago, Regina passed away quietly in her sleep. Doctors declared it a second stroke. No one to blame. No one—except the nurse. At least, that’s what the daughter believed. Zina brushed a thin white scar on her wrist—a burn mark from her first job at the local clinic. Fifteen years ago, she was young and careless; now, she was near forty, divorced, her son with her ex-husband. And with a reputation that was about to be ruined. “You dare come here?” Christina seemed to appear out of nowhere. Hair pulled so tight her temples paled, eyes red from sleeplessness—she looked far older than her twenty-five years. “I wanted to pay my respects,” Zina replied calmly. “Pay respects?” Christina hissed. “I know what you did. Everyone will know.” Christina stalked off—toward the coffin, toward her stone-faced father with his right hand in his jacket pocket. Zina didn’t follow. She didn’t explain. She’d realised already: no matter what, she’d be made the villain. Christina’s post appeared two days later. “My mum’s death is shrouded in mystery. The nurse who was supposed to look after her may have hurried her on. Police refuse to investigate. But I will find justice.” Three thousand shares. Comments mostly sympathetic. A few screaming, “Find that monster.” Zina read it on her bus ride home from the GP clinic—or rather, from her now-former side job. “Zinaida Palmer, you understand…” the head GP didn’t meet her eye. “This has caused a stir… Patients are worried. Staff are anxious. Temporarily—until things settle.” Temporarily. Zina knew that meant never. Her tiny flat—one room, a kitchenette, three floors up, no lift—greeted her with silence. All that was left after divorce: twenty-eight square metres, just enough to survive, not to live. Her phone rang as she filled the kettle. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias White.” She nearly dropped the kettle. She remembered his low, hoarse voice—during that month caring for Regina, he seldom spoke, but when he did, she remembered. “Yes?” “I need your help. Regina’s… things. I can’t. Christina least of all. You’re the only one who knows where everything is.” After a pause, Zina said, “Your daughter accuses me of murder. You know this?” A long, heavy silence. “I know.” “And you’re still calling?” “I’m still calling.” She should have refused—any sensible person would have. But something in his voice—less a request, more a plea—made her say: “I’ll be there at two tomorrow.” The White family home stood outside town—two stories, spacious, echoing with emptiness. Zina remembered it differently, full of bustle, beeping machines, nurses. Now, silence covered every surface like dust. Elias answered himself. Nearly fifty, grey at the temples, broad-shouldered—now hunched. Right hand in pocket, she noticed something metallic outlined beneath the fabric. A key? “Thank you for coming.” “I’m not doing it for you.” He arched an eyebrow. “Then for whom?” For herself, she thought. To understand: why the silence? Why not defend her when he knew she was innocent? Aloud, she said, “For order. Where are the keys to her room?” Regina’s room smelled of lily-of-the-valley—sweet and suffocating. Perfume. The scent lingered, soaked into the walls. Zina worked methodically: sorting cupboards, packing clothes in boxes, organising paperwork. Elias stayed downstairs—she heard his footsteps, pacing corner to corner. On the bedside table: a photo. Zina reached to pack it—and froze. Elias, young, about twenty-five; next to him, a woman. Fair-haired, smiling—not Regina. Zina turned it over. “Eli and Laura. 1998,” the faded inscription read. Strange. Why did Regina keep her husband’s photo with another woman by her bed? She placed it in her bag and kept working. Kneeling near the bed, her hand brushed something wooden. A small box. No lock. She pulled it out; the lid flipped open. Inside—envelopes. Dozens, stacked neatly, all in a woman’s rounded hand. All opened and re-sealed with care. The top: “Elias Andrew White.” Sender: “L. V. Melnyk, Leeds.” Date: November 2024, last month. She rifled through—the oldest dated 2004. Twenty years. For two decades someone wrote to Elias—Regina intercepted the letters. And kept them. Not thrown away, but preserved. Why? Zina sniffed an envelope—the same lily-of-the-valley scent. Regina had handled them, read and re-read, the creases worn. She left the box on the bed and sat, hands trembling. This changed everything. “Mr. White.” He looked up from the kitchen table, untouched mug before him, gardens and terraces blurred beyond the window. “All done?” “No.” She put an envelope before him. “Who is Larissa Melnyk?” His face transformed—not pale but stone. His hand tightened in his pocket. “Where did you find this?” “Box under the bed. Hundreds. Twenty years’ worth. All opened and resealed by your wife.” He was silent a long, unbearable moment. Then rose, turned to the window, back to her. “You knew?” Zina asked. “Found out three days ago. After the funeral, sorting her things… Thought I could manage. Found the box.” “And you say nothing?” “What am I supposed to say?” He spun toward her. “My wife stole my post for twenty years. Stole letters from the woman I loved before her. “Kept them—as trophies, or punishment, I don’t know. And now am I supposed to—what—tell my daughter? She worshipped her mother.” Zina stood. “Your daughter accuses me of killing your wife. I lost my job. My name is being dragged through the mud online. And you stay silent—afraid of the truth?” He stepped closer, eyes dark, drained. “I stay silent because I don’t know how to live with this. Twenty years, Zinaida. For twenty years Larissa wrote—I thought she’d forgotten me, moved on, had children. But she…” He couldn’t finish. Zina raised the envelope. “Return address—Leeds. I’ll go.” “Why?” “Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.” Larissa Melnyk lived in a ground-floor flat at the edge of Leeds—windows lined with geraniums, a cat on the sill. Zina rang the bell uncertainly. A woman of Elias’ age opened. Blonde hair in a loose bun, crow’s feet at her eyes, cautious but not hostile. “You’re Larissa Valerie Melnyk?” “Yes. And you are?” Zina held out the envelope. “I found your letters. Every one. Opened, read, hidden away.” Larissa looked at it as if it might bite, then met Zina’s eyes. “Come in.” They sat in a cramped kitchen, tea cooling in mugs. “I wrote for twenty years,” Larissa said. “Every month. Sometimes more. No reply. I thought—he hated me. For letting him go.” “Letting him go?” She gripped her mug. “We were together three years. From university. He wanted to marry. I… I was scared—just twenty-two, life ahead, why rush?” “I said wait. He waited. Six months. Then she came—Regina. Beautiful, certain, knowing exactly what she wanted. And I…lost.” Zina said nothing. “When they married, I moved to Leeds. Thought I’d forget. I didn’t. After five years, I started writing. Not to win him back—just so he’d know. That I existed. That I still thought of him. “And he never replied.” “Never,” Larissa gave a bitter smile. “Now I know why.” Zina produced the photo. “This was on her bedside table. ‘Eli & Lara, 1998’.” Larissa’s fingers shook as she took it. “She kept this… by her bed?” “Yes.” Silence. “You know,” Larissa said softly, “I hated her, my whole life. The woman who stole my love. But now… now I pity her. “Twenty-five years with a man, always fearing he’d remember another. Reading my letters, hiding them. That’s hell—her own, self-made hell.” Zina stood up. “Thank you for telling me.” “Why are you doing this?” Larissa asked, rising. “You’re not family or a friend.” Zina stalled. “I’m blamed for her death. Elias’s daughter… she thinks I wanted her place.” “And you want to prove your innocence?” Zina shook her head. “I want to understand the truth. The rest will follow.” Zina called Elias on the way back—said she was returning. He waited on the porch, dusk painting the grass in long streaks. “You were right,” she told him as she approached. “Larissa wrote for twenty years. She never married. She waited.” He didn’t answer. His hand in his pocket tightened, relaxed. “There’s something in your safe,” she said. “You keep touching the key—as if you fear it’ll disappear.” Pause. “Come.” The safe was in the study, the old sort from the Thatcher days. Elias unlocked it and retrieved an envelope—the handwriting, harsh and jagged, Regina’s. “She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while searching for funeral papers.” Zina took it. Inside—a page covered in cramped writing. “Elias, if you’re reading this, I’m gone, and you’ve found the box. I always knew you would, someday. I knew—and still couldn’t stop. I began stealing her letters in 2004. Five years after our wedding. You grew distant, silent. I thought you stopped loving me. Then I found her first letter in the mailbox. And I knew. She never let you go. I should have shown you the letter. Should have asked. But I was afraid—afraid you’d leave, choose her. So I hid it. Then the next one. And the next. For twenty years, I stole your post. Twenty years I read someone else’s love for you. Hated myself daily. But I couldn’t stop. I loved you so much, I destroyed everything—your chance to choose, her hope, my own conscience. Forgive me, if you can. I know I don’t deserve it. But I ask anyway. Regina.” Zina let the letter drop. “Does Christina know?” “No.” “She should. You know that?” Elias turned away. “She adored her mother. This will ruin her.” “She already is,” Zina said softly. “She lost her mum and fears she’ll lose you. So she blames me. She needs a villain; otherwise, she’d have to face her own grief, and that’s something you can’t fight.” Elias was silent. “If you tell her the truth—she might hate you, for a while. But later she’ll understand. If you lie—she’ll never forgive you. Not you. Not herself.” He turned, eyes wet. “I don’t know how to talk to her. Since Regina fell ill… we stopped speaking.” “Then you’ll learn. Today.” Christina arrived an hour later. Zina saw her from the window—getting out, retying her ponytail, freezing as she saw her father on the porch. They talked for ages. Zina heard only voices, not words. At first Christina yelled, then cried, then fell silent. The door finally opened. Christina emerged, Regina’s letter in hand, face blotchy with tears, but her eyes—changed, not angry but lost. She approached Zina, who braced for accusations. “I deleted the post,” she said. “And posted a correction. And… I’m sorry. I was wrong.” Zina nodded. “I understand. Grief makes people cruel.” Christina shook her head. “Not grief—fear. I was terrified of ending up alone. Mum left. Dad changed. You were there. You saw her final days. You knew her differently. I thought—you meant to take her place. To steal Dad. “I don’t want to steal anything.” “I know. I do now.” Christina reached out, awkward as if she’d forgotten how. Zina shook her hand. “Mum… was she unhappy? All her life?” Zina thought of the letter—of twenty years of fear and jealousy, of love turned prison. “She loved your dad. In her own way. Wrong, maybe. But she did.” Christina nodded, then sat on the porch steps and wept, quietly, soundlessly. Zina sat beside her. Not hugging—just present. Two weeks passed. Zina was reinstated at work—after Christina personally phoned the head GP. Reputation is fragile, but sometimes, you can piece it back together. Elias called that night—like the first time. “Zinaida Palmer. Thank you.” “For what?” “For the truth. For not letting me hide.” Pause. “I’m going to Leeds,” he said. “Tomorrow. To see Larissa. Don’t know what I’ll say or if she’ll see me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long to be silent.” Zina smiled—he couldn’t see, but perhaps he heard. “Good luck, Elias.” “Elias. Just Elias.” A month later, he returned—with company. Zina discovered by chance; saw them at the local market. Elias carrying shopping bags, Larissa picking tomatoes. An ordinary scene—just two people shopping. But there was a lightness, a synchronicity—more than routine. Elias noticed her, raised a hand—his right hand, no longer hidden. Zina waved back and went on her way. That evening, she opened her window. May carried the scent of lilac and petrol from the road—a familiar, living smell. She thought of Regina—her lilies of the valley, her secret box of letters, a love that became a prison. Of Larissa—twenty years of waiting, unanswered letters, faith undimmed. Of Elias—his silence, the key in his pocket, the man who finally chose. And then she stopped thinking. She simply sat by the window, listened to the city, and waited—not quite knowing for what. Her phone rang. “Zinaida Palmer? It’s Elias. Just Elias. We’re having dinner here tonight. Larissa’s making pie. Care to join us?” Zina looked round her flat—twenty-eight square metres of quiet. At the open window. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up, grabbed her keys, and left. The door softly clicked behind her. Above the city, the sunset glowed gold and warm—a promise of a gentle tomorrow…

The Widows Carer

Its been a month, they said. Only a month since they hired her to look after Margaret Woodhousea woman struck down by a stroke and left whittled to her bed. For thirty dreamlike days and nights, Janet would turn her every two hours, change the sheets, monitor gentle drips of morphine and the hum of machines that only made sense in shadow.

And then, three nights ago, Margaret was gonesilent, as if carried off in sleep by an invisible procession. The doctor had a piece of paperanother strokeno one to blame, as though it had been ordained by the clockwork of nightmares.

No one, at least, except the carer. Or so Margarets daughter believed.

Janet ran her thumb over the old, pale scar on her wristonly a thin vein of memory now, a trace of a burn from her first job at the clinic. Young then, careless, a different reality. Now, just past thirty-eight, divorced, her son at her ex-husbands home, and a reputation resting on bruised glassabout to shatter from a single whisper.

Youve got some nerve, coming here.

Christine seemed to appear from nowhere, as if the ground itself had produced her. Her hair was pulled so tightly back it looked painful at the temples; eyes red, sleepless; for the first time, she looked older than her years.

I wanted to say goodbye, Janet said, voice quiet, floating.

Goodbye? Christine let her words fall to a hiss. I know what you did. Everyone will.

And she drifted offto the coffin, to her father, who stood still as a memorial with his right hand buried in his jacket pocket.

Janet didnt move, didnt chase, didnt argue. Already the logic of this place was clear: whatever happened, she would always be the one punished by the dream.

Christines post bloomed across the internet two days later.

My mother passed away in mysterious circumstances. The carer, whom we employed to look after her, may have hurried her end. The police refuse to open an inquiry. But I will have justice.

Three thousand shares. The commentsa murmur of sympathy and, here and there, a clutch of hissing demands to find that monster.

Janets hands trembled over her phone on the number 72 busreturning not from her job, but from the place where her job had ceased to be.

Janet Palmer, you know how it is, said Dr. Beckett, unable to meet her eye. This sort of uproar Patients are worried, the staff too. Temporarily, just until things settle down.

Temporarily. Janet knew this languageknew it meant never.

Her small flat, with its kitchen cubby and joint bath, held nothing but silence. Her kingdom after the splittwenty-eight square metres up three flights with no lift. Enough to survive. Never quite enough to live.

Her phone started up just as she reached for the kettle.

Janet Palmer? Its William Woodhouse.

She nearly lost grip on the kettle. His voice was deep, raspya soft echo. Over the month, words from him had been rare, but each remained with her.

Im listening.

I need your help. Margarets things I cant deal with them. Christine certainly cant. Youre the only one who knows where everything is.

Janet paused. Then, steady, Your daughter blames me for killing your wife. Did you know?

A pause as long and weighted as a cathedral.

I know.

And youre still ringing?

Im still ringing.

Logic said declineanyone sensible wouldbut some note in his voice, not quite begging but trembling toward it, meant her answer was:

Tomorrow at two.

The Woodhouse home floated at the edge of towna two-storey thing, too broad and too empty. Janet recalled it alive with nurses, beeping machines, Margarets TV always blathering. Now, only the hush: silence draping every stair and corridor like dust.

William answered the door himself. Just under fifty, grey at the corners, shoulders broad but bentbentness that hadn’t existed a month ago. Right hand in his pocket, gripping something with a metallic edge; a key perhaps.

Thank you, for coming.

No thanks needed. Im not doing this for you.

He raised an eyebrow. Then for whom?

For myself, she thought. To untangle all of this, to know whats truewhy youre silent, why you wont shield me, knowing Im blameless.

Aloud, she said, For orders sake. Where are the keys?

Margarets room still stank of liliesthick, sickly-sweet, and cloying. Perfume in the walls.

Janet worked like a gentle automaton: opening wardrobes, boxing up clothes, sorting tired paperwork. William stayed below. She heard him moving, always circling and circling.

A faded photograph sat on the bedside table. She picked it up, intending to pack it awaythen froze. William, young, about twenty-five. Smiling next to a womanpale-haired. Not Margaret.

She turned the picture. In faded biro: Billy and Anne. 1998.

Strange. Why would Margaret keep a picture of her husband and another woman, right by her pillow?

She slipped the photograph into her bag and pressed on. Kneeling by the bed, reaching for a box, her fingers brushed something wooden.

A little casket, without a lock. She flipped the lid.

Inside, letters. Dozens, stacked in careful hands. One swirling, feminine handwriting. Every one neatly opened, then resealed.

Janet picked up the topmost envelope. Address: William A. Woodhouse. Sender: A. Melrose, York.

Date: November 2024. Just last month.

She riffled through the others. The earliest marked 2004. Twenty years. Twenty years of letters, all to Williamgathered and intercepted by Margaret.

And keptnot thrown out, just sheltered away. For what purpose?

Janet lifted a letter to her nosethe same heavy lily scent. Margaret had held them, read and reread, worn them on their folds.

She left the box on the bed and sat beside it, hands unsteady.

This changed everything.

William.

He looked up. Sitting at the kitchen table, untouched tea cooling beside him.

Finished?

Not quite. She slid the envelope across. Who is Anne Melrose?

His face altered. Not paled, but grew set and hollow. His hand clenched around whatever hid in his pocket.

Whered you get that?

Box under the bed. Hundreds in there. Twenty years worth. All opened and resealed. All hidden by your wife.

Silencelong, nearly unbearable. Then he rose and faced the window, back turned.

You knew? Janet asked softly.

Found out. Three days ago. After the funeral, clearing her drawersthought I could manage. Found the box.

And you keep quiet?

What can I say? He turned, fast. My wife stole my post for twenty yearsletters from the woman I loved before her. Kept themtrophies, or self-punishments, who knows. And now whatam I to tell Christine? Christine, who worshipped her mum?

Janet stood.

Your daughter blames me for Margarets death. Ive lost my job. My names being spat at all over the internet. And you say nothingbecause youre scared of the truth?

He stepped toward her; his eyes were dark, exhausted.

I say nothing because I dont know how to bear it. Twenty years, Janet. Twenty years Anne wrote to meI thought shed forgotten. Moved on, married, had children. But she

He did not finish.

Janet lifted the envelope. She lives in York. Ill go.

Why?

Because someone needs to know the truth. If not you, then me.

Anne Melrose lived in a modest flat on the edge of York. Ground floor, geraniums in the window, a cat staring with ancient patience. Janet rang the bell, uncertain which language she would need.

A woman answeredabout Williams age, silver-blonde hair knotted loosely, fine lines around the eyes, a look both weary and kind.

Youre Anne Melrose?

I am. And you are?

Janet held out the envelope.

I found your letters. Every one. Opened, read, and hidden.

Anne stared at the envelope as if it might bite, then looked deep into Janets face.

Come in, please.

They sat opposite each other in a narrow kitchen, mugs of tea collecting dust.

Twenty years I wrote to him, Anne faltered. Every month. Sometimes more. Never a reply. I thoughthe must hate me, for letting him go.

Letting him go?

Anne gripped her cup.

We were together three years university onward. He wanted marriage. I panicked. I was only twenty-two. Life seemed so vastI thought, why rush?

Told him to wait. He did, half a year. Then she arrivedMargaret. Striking, certain. I lost.

Janet gazed at her shoes.

When they married, I left for York to live with my aunt. Thought it would pass. It didnt. After five years I started writing again. Not to win him backjust so hed know I was still here, still thinking of him.

And he never replied?

Anne gave a sour smile. Now I see why.

Janet pulled out the photograph.

This was on Margarets table. Billy & Anne, 1998.

Anne took it, trembling.

She had that beside her own bed?

Yes.

For a while, only the clock ticked.

You know, Anne said at last, all these years I despised Margaret. She took what I loved most. NowI pity her.

To spend twenty-five years with a man, never certain hes fully yours To read another womans letters every day, then hide them, burn with jealousy, fear Thats hell. Her own, homemade hell.

Janet stood to leave.

Thank you for telling me all this.

Waitwhy are you doing this? Youre not family, not a friend.

Janet hesitated.

Theyre accusing me of her death. Williams daughter. She thinks I wanted to take her mothers place.

You want to prove your innocence?

Janet shook her head.

I just want to know the truth. The rest will follow.

On the journey back, she phoned William. He waited on the steps as the sun was folding behind trees, long shadows lying like silk ribbons on the grass.

You were right, Janet told him as she approached. She wrote for twenty years. Never married, waited for you.

He didnt answer, his pocketed hand flexed and unflexed.

Youve got something locked up at home, Janet ventured. You keep checking that keylike youre afraid of losing it.

He was silent.

Come with me.

The safe in the dark study was old, heavya relic from another century. William opened it and produced a letter. This time, the handwriting was differentspikier, jagged. Margarets hand.

She wrote this two days before she died. I found it while sorting through her papers after the funeral.

Janet took the letter. Inside, every bit of space was covered in writing:

William, if youre reading this, Im gone and youve found the box. I always knew youd discover it. I knewbut I couldnt stop. I started intercepting her letters in 2004, five years after our wedding. You grew distant, withdrawn. I thought youd stopped loving me. Then I found her first letter. And I knew. She never let you go.

I ought to have shown you that lettershould have asked you. But I was afraid youd leave. Choose her. So I hid it, and then the next, and the next.

For twenty years I stole your post. For twenty years I read love not meant for me. And I hated myselfevery day. Still, I couldnt stop. I loved you so much, I destroyed everything: your choice, her hope, my conscience.

Forgive me, if you can. I shouldnt ask. I ask anyway.
Margaret.

Janet set the letter down.

Does Christine know?

No.

She needs to. You know that, dont you?

William turned away.

She adored her mother. This will crush her.

Shes crushed already, Janet whispered. She’s lost her mother and is terrified of losing yougrappling for someone to blame.

Shes striking at me. She wants an enemy, because the real enemy is grief. And you cant fight grief.

William said nothing.

When you tell her the truth, she might hate youmaybe for a while. But shell understand, in time. Leave it silent, and shell never forgive you. Not you. Not herself.

He turned back, eyes wet.

I dont know how to speak to her. After Margarets illness, we stopped talking.

Learn. Start today.

Christine arrived in an hour. Janet watched her from the windowhow she climbed out of her car, snapped off her ponytail. How she paused, seeing her father waiting.

Their voices drifted through the wallsraised, then broken, then quiet sobs.

When Christine reappeared, Margarets letter in hand, her face was swollen with tears, her eyes not angry anymore, just lost.

She stopped before Janet, who braced herself for anything.

I deleted the post, Christine murmured. Wrote a correction. And Im sorry. I was wrong.

Janet nodded.

I understand. Grief is cruel.

Christine shook her head gently.

Not grief. Fear. I was terrified of ending up alone. Mother left, Dad was a stranger. You were there; you saw her at the end. Knew her differently. I thought you wanted to take her placesteal Dad from us.

I have nothing to steal.

I get that now. I do.

She offered her hand, awkward as if shed forgotten how. Janet squeezed it and let go.

Mum she was miserable, wasnt she? All her life?

Janet pictured the letterthe two decades of fear, jealousy, love become a cage.

She loved your dad. In her own way. It wasnt the right way, but it was love.

Christine nodded, then folded onto the steps and weptsilent, crystalline tears.

Janet joined her, not to consolejust to share the space.

Two weeks passed.

Janet was reinstated at work, after Christine phoned the clinic herself. Reputation, she thought, was breakable, yet sometimes you could glue its pieces back together.

William rang her in the evening, just as he had at the beginning.

Janet Palmer. I wanted to thank you.

For what?

For the truth. For not letting me hide.

Silence.

Im travelling to York tomorrowto Anne. I dont know what Ill say, nor if shell want to see me. But I have to try. Twenty years is too long for silence.

Janet smiled. He couldnt see her, but perhaps he heard it.

Good luck, William.

Just William.

A month passed. He returned. Not alone.

Janet found out by accident: on a foggy Saturday at the farmers market, she saw William carrying bags, Anne inspecting tomatoes, two shapes moving in synchrony, something lighter in the way they stood together.

William noticed her. He waved, with his right handnow free from its pocket.

Janet waved back and stepped on.

That evening, she opened her window to the warm May dusklilac and a whiff of petrol rising up from the street. Ordinary air, but alive.

She thought for a while about Margarether lilies, her casket of letters, love that became a prison. She thought of Anneher twenty years of waiting, hope sustained letter by letter. She thought of Williamhis silence, his pocketed key, a man who had, at last, chosen.

Then she stopped thinking. She just sat at the window, listening to the city, waiting for something she couldnt name.

The phone rang.

Janet Palmer? Its William. Just William. Were having supper here. Anne’s made a pie. Would you come?

Janet glanced around her flatall twenty-eight square metres of silence. Then again, at the open window.

Ill be there in an hour.

She hung up, took her keys, and stepped out into the descending dusk.

The door whispered shut behind her. Above the street, the sun was finishing its descentburnt gold, gentle, a promise of quiet tomorrow.