The Cupboard and the Scales She went rummaging through the cupboard—not for memories, but for a jar of pickled cucumbers for her salad. On the top shelf, behind a battered box of tangled Christmas lights, the corner of a long-forgotten case caught her eye. The fabric had faded, the zip stubborn. She tugged, and from the depths slid a long, narrow shape, thin as a stretched shadow. She put the jar on a stool by the door so she wouldn’t forget it, then crouched down, as if that might make decisions easier. On the third try, the zip finally gave way. Inside lay a violin. Its varnish dulled in places, strings slack, bow bedraggled like an old broom. But the shape was unmistakable, and something inside her clicked, like a switch flicked on. She remembered lugging that case around the neighbourhood in Year 9, embarrassed by how silly she must look. Then came college, work, a wedding, and one day she simply stopped going to music lessons, too busy chasing a different life. The violin went to her parents for safekeeping, travelled with her to new flats, and now lay here, forgotten but not rejected, wedged amongst bags and boxes. She lifted the instrument gingerly, as though it might crumble. The wood was warm from her palm, despite the cupboard’s chill. Her fingers automatically found the neck—and then it felt awkward, as if she were trespassing on something no longer hers. On the stove, water boiled. She stood, closed the cupboard, but didn’t return the case. Instead she props it by the corridor wall and goes to switch off the hob. Salad could be made without cucumbers. Already, she finds herself searching for excuses. That evening, after the dishes are washed and only breadcrumbs linger in a plate on the table, she brings the case into the lounge. Her husband sits at the television, channel-hopping absent-mindedly. He glances up. ‘What’ve you dug up there?’ ‘A violin,’ she says, surprised at how steady she sounds. ‘Oh. Still alive?’ He grins, not unkind, just the familiar, gentle home humour. ‘Not sure. About to find out.’ She opens the case on the sofa, sliding an old towel underneath so the upholstery won’t scratch. Out come the violin, the bow, a tiny cracked box of rosin. She rubs the bow; its hairs barely catch the surface. Tuning is a separate humiliation. The pegs are stiff, the strings squeal, one snaps and stings her finger. She mutters a curse, quietly, not for the neighbours to hear. Her husband hums. ‘Maybe best leave it to the professionals?’ he suggests. ‘Maybe,’ she replies, but feels a surge of frustration—not at him, but herself, for forgetting how to even tune. She downloads a tuning app, sets her phone on the coffee table. The screen flashes notes, the needle dances; she twists the pegs, listens to the sound drift and peak. Her shoulder aches, her fingers clumsy with the unfamiliar task. When the strings finally stop groaning, she brings the violin up to her chin. The chinrest is cold, and her neck feels suddenly thin and exposed. She tries to stand as taught in lessons, but her back protests. She laughs at herself. ‘A concert, is it?’ her husband calls, his eyes still on the screen. ‘For you,’ she says. ‘Brace yourself.’ The first note comes out as more of a complaint than a sound. The bow shivers, her hand can’t hold a straight line. She pauses, exhales, tries again. It’s a little better, but still embarrassing. The shame is different now—grown-up. Not the teenage kind, when you think the whole world is watching. Here, the world isn’t watching—just the walls, her husband, and her own disobedient hands. She plays open strings, like in childhood, slow, counting silently. Then attempts a D major scale; her left-hand fingers tangle, and she can’t remember which finger goes where. Her hands are thicker now, and the pads miss each spot. No familiar ache at the fingertips, just a dull sensation, the skin strangely soft. ‘It’s alright,’ her husband says unexpectedly. ‘Well… it’s early days.’ She nods, unsure who it’s ‘alright’ for—him, her, or the violin. The next day, she brings it to the local music shop by the underground. Romantic? Not really: glass doors, a counter, guitars and violins on the wall, the air thick with varnish and dust. The repairman, a young chap with a stud, takes the violin like it’s a tool of trade. ‘Definitely need new strings,’ he says, ‘pegs oiled, bridge adjusted. The bow could do with a rehair, but that’s pricier.’ She hears ‘pricier’ and tenses. Bills, medicine, birthday gifts for the grandchild flit through her mind. She almost says, ‘Never mind, don’t bother,’ but instead asks, ‘Could I just have the strings and bridge for now?’ ‘Of course. It’ll play.’ She hands over the violin, tucks the receipt into her purse. Outside she feels as if she’s left behind not just an instrument, but a part of herself for repair. Back home, she opens her laptop and searches ‘adult violin lessons near me.’ The phrase makes her grin. Adult. As if there’s a whole separate breed that needs slower and gentler instruction. She finds a handful of ads: some promise ‘results in a month’, others ‘personalised approach.’ She shuts the tabs—it’s daunting. Then opens them again and writes a message to a female tutor in the next neighbourhood. Brief: ‘Hello. I’m 52. Want to relearn violin. Is it possible?’ Sent, and instantly she regrets it, wishing she could unsend, like erasing a confession of weakness. But it’s done. That evening, her son drops by. In the kitchen, he kisses her cheek, asks about work. She puts on the kettle, brings out the biscuits. He spots the case in the lounge. ‘Is that a violin?’ Genuine surprise. ‘Yes. Found it. Thinking… might give it a go.’ ‘Mum, seriously?’ His smile is lost, more puzzled than mocking. ‘But you… it’s been ages.’ ‘It has,’ she agrees. ‘That’s why, really.’ He sits down, spins a biscuit between his fingers. ‘Why, though? You’re already run off your feet.’ She feels the old reflex to explain, justify, convince him of her right. But explanations always sound a bit pitiful. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘I just want to.’ He looks closer, like he’s seeing—maybe for the first time—not just the mum who does it all, but a woman who wants something for herself. ‘Well… alright then. Just don’t wear yourself out. And spare the neighbours.’ She laughs. ‘Neighbours will cope. I’ll stick to daytime.’ When he leaves, she realises she’s lighter. Not because he gave permission, but because she didn’t have to justify. Two days later, she picks up the violin from the shop. The strings gleam, the bridge is true. The repairman shows her how to tune gently, how to store it. ‘Keep away from the radiator,’ he tells her. ‘And in the case.’ She nods, as obedient as a student. Home again, she sets the case on a chair, opens it and stares at the instrument as if afraid to break it. Her first exercise is the simplest: long bows on open strings. Boring punishment in childhood, now it’s salvation. No tune, no judgement. Just sound, and the attempt to make it smooth. After ten minutes, her shoulder aches; after fifteen, her neck is stiff. She stops, packs the violin into its case, zips up. Anger rises—at her body, her age, the way everything is harder. She goes to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, and stares out at teenagers on scooters, laughing on the playground. She envies—not their youth, but their shamelessness; how they fall, get up, keep going, never thinking it’s too late to learn balance. She returns to the room and opens the case again—not because she must, but because she refuses to end with irritation. The tutor’s reply arrives that night: ‘Hello. Of course it’s possible. Come along, we’ll start with posture and simple exercises. Age is no barrier, but do bring patience.’ She reads it twice. That word—patience—is honest, and it calms her. On lesson day, she travels with the case, clutching it like something precious and fragile. In the Tube, people steal glances, some smiling. Let them, she thinks. Let them see. The teacher is a petite forty-ish woman, short hair, keen eyes. The studio has a piano, shelves of music, a child’s violin on a chair. ‘Let’s have a look,’ she says, and invites her to hold the violin. She takes it—and it’s clear she grips it wrong. Her shoulder hitches, chin clamps, left hand wooden. ‘That’s fine,’ the teacher assures. ‘You haven’t played. Let’s just stand for now. Remember, the violin isn’t your enemy.’ It’s strangely liberating—and a bit funny—to stand at fifty-two and learn to hold a violin. No one asks her to be good. Just to show up. After the lesson, her hands tremble as if from PE. The teacher hands her a routine: ten minutes of open strings daily, then a scale, no more. ‘Better little and often,’ she advises. Her husband asks, ‘Well, how’d it go?’ ‘It’s tough,’ she says, ‘but alright.’ ‘Are you happy?’ She thinks. Happy isn’t quite right—anxious, amused, self-conscious, but lighter somehow. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It feels like I’m doing something for me, with my hands, and not just working or cooking.’ A week on, she dares to play a short tune she remembers from childhood. She finds the notes online, prints them at work, slips them into her folder so colleagues won’t ask questions. At home, she props the music on a DIY stand—an old book and a box. The sound is patchy, the bow snags neighbouring strings, her fingers stray. She stops, starts over. Eventually her husband pops in. ‘You know… that’s lovely,’ he says gently, as if afraid to interrupt. ‘Don’t lie,’ she retorts. ‘I’m not—it’s just… familiar.’ She smiles. Familiar is almost a compliment. At the weekend, her six-year-old granddaughter visits, spots the case immediately. ‘Nanna, what’s that?’ ‘A violin.’ ‘Can you play?’ She wants to say, ‘Once, maybe.’ But for a child there is only ‘now’. ‘I’m learning,’ she says. Her granddaughter perches on the sofa, hands neatly folded, like at a recital. ‘Play for me.’ The nerves tighten in her belly. Playing for a child is scarier—you can’t fool them. ‘Alright,’ she says, and lifts the violin. She plays that tune she’s struggled with all week. At bar three, the bow skids, a sharp squawk. Her granddaughter doesn’t flinch, just tilts her head. ‘Why does it squeak?’ ‘Because Nanna holds the bow crooked,’ she laughs, relieved. Her granddaughter giggles, too. ‘Go again!’ she cries. She does, and it’s not much better, but she doesn’t stop out of embarrassment. She just finishes. In the quiet later, when everyone else has gone, she sits in the lounge. Printed music on the table, a pencil for marking tough bits. Violin in its case, zipped but not put away. Standing by the wall—a reminder that it’s part of her day now. She sets a ten-minute timer on her phone—not to force herself, but to avoid burning out. Opens the case, checks the rosin, tightens the bow. Brings the violin to her chin and breathes. The sound is softer than this morning. It falters; she doesn’t curse, just adjusts and keeps trying for a steady note. When the timer rings, she finishes the bow stroke, carefully puts the violin away, and places the case by the wall—not back in the cupboard. She knows tomorrow will be the same: a little embarrassment, some fatigue, a few pure seconds worth opening the case for. And that’s enough to keep going.

Author Walton MerrittReading 11 minViews 1

Diary Entry: The Store Cupboard and Scales

I wasnt rummaging in the store cupboard for nostalgiajust for a jar of pickled gherkins for the salad. But, as I reached for the top shelf, just behind the box with the tangled fairy lights, I spotted the corner of a case. It poked out stubbornly, as though daring me to remember it. The fabric was faded now, the zip jammed. I tugged, and out slid the long, narrow caseshadow-likeone I thought Id exiled from my life years ago.

The jar of gherkins ended up on the old stool by the door, so I wouldnt forget. I crouched down, as if the decision might be easier from the floor. The zip finally gave in after three tries. Inside lay my violin. The polish was dulled, strings slackened, bow bristly as an old broom. But the shape was unmistakable, and something flicked inside mea switch I hadnt touched in years.

I remembered. In Year 9, I used to haul that case right across Lewisham, mortified that I looked daft. College came next, then work and a wedding. Eventually, I just stopped going to lessons; life simply moved too fast. The violin ended up with my parents, then migrated here with boxes and bags. It wasnt hurtjust forgotten.

I picked up the instrument gingerly, afraid it might crumble. The wood warmed to my palm, though the cupboard itself was chilly. My fingers instinctively found the neck, and suddenly I felt awkwardas if it was someone elses possession Id borrowed without asking.

From the kitchen, water began to boil. I stood, shut the cupboard, but left the case out in the hallway, propped against the wall as if it might change its mind. I went to turn off the hob. The salad could survive without gherkins. Already, I was looking for an excuse.

By evening, when the dishes were done and only breadcrumbs dotted the table, I fetched the case into the lounge. My husband sat channel-hopping, unseeing.

What are you up to? he asked, glancing up.

A violin, I replied, surprised at how calm my voice was.

Still alive? He smirked, gently; his usual dry humour, no edge.

Not sure. About to find out.

I set the case on the sofa, put a battered towel underneath so it wouldn’t scratch the fabric, and unpacked: violin, bow, battered little box of rosin. The rosin was cracked, like frost on puddles. A hopeful stroke of the bow produced only a faint catch on the surface.

Tuning was humiliating. Pegs were stiff, strings creaked, and one snapped, smartly stinging my finger. I muttered a swear, softlyno need to broadcast to the neighbours. My husband grunted.

Maybe you should take it to the repair shop? he said.

Maybe, I agreed, though resentment simmerednot at him, but at myself for forgetting how.

I downloaded a tuner app and balanced my phone on the coffee table. Letters danced, the needle twitched. I twisted, listened, tried again. My shoulder ached, fingers numbed with unfamiliar strain.

Finally, the strings stopped sounding like wires in the wind. I lifted the violin to my chin. The chinrest was cold; for a moment, my skin felt strangely thin. I tried to stand upright, as Id been taught long ago, but my back protested. I laughed at myself.

So, concert time? called my husband, eyes still on the screen.

For you, I replied. Brace yourself.

My first note was more of a whimper than a sound. The bow shook, the line faltered. I paused, inhaled, tried again. Slightly betterstill, embarrassment prickled.

It was a curiously adult shamenot the teenage variety, convinced everyones watching. Here, the world wasnt. Only the walls, my husband, and my own hands, now unfamiliar, paid any attention.

I played the open strings, slowly, counting to myself. Tried a D major scale; my left hand tangled, fingers thick and clumsy, no calluses, just soft skin.

Dont worry, my husband said, unexpectedly gentle. Its not instant, is it?

I nodded, not sure who the reassurance was forhim? Me? The violin?

The next day, I visited the repair shop near the station. Not romantic at allglass door, counter stacked with instruments, everywhere the smell of varnish and dust. The technician, a young man with a stud, took the violin with easy confidence.

New strings for certain, he said. Pegs oiled, bridge sorted. Bow could do with a re-hairbut thatll cost.

Just strings and bridge for now? I asked, mind leaping to the electric bill, prescription costs, birthday present for my granddaughter.

Thatll work. Shell play.

I left the violin, took my receipt, slipped it into my purse. Stepping outside, I felt Id handed over a bit of myselfsomeone promised to fix it and send it back working.

At home, I sat at my laptop. Searched Violin lessons for adults. The wording made me smirkadults, as if we need things explained gently, as though were fragile.

Found plenty of adverts. Some promised results in four weeks, others offered personalised approach. I shut the tabs, growing anxious over empty promises, then opened them again and messaged a teacher in Catford. Just: Hello. Im 52. Id like to brush up my skills. Is it possible?

Instant regret. Wanted to delete it, like a secret Id accidentally confessed. But it was sent.

That evening, my son popped round. He kissed my cheek, asked about work. I put the kettle on, brought out some custard creams. He noticed the case.

Is that a violin? Genuine surprise.

Yes. I found it. Thinking of giving it another go.

Really, Mum? His smile was uncertain, not mocking, just mystified. Its been, wellages.

It has. I admitted. Thats why I want to.

He sat down, spinning a biscuit, then asked, Why, though? Youre tired enough as it is.

The usual urge to justify myself flared upstand my ground, prove my right. But explanations always came out meagre.

I dont know, I said honestly. I just want to.

He looked at me more closely, as if noticing for the first time I wasnt just Mum who managed everythingbut a woman, wanting something for herself.

Well alright, he said. Just dont overdo it. And spare the neighbours.

I laughed.

Theyll cope. Ill only play in the daytime.

After he left, I felt lighter. Not because hed given permission, but because I hadnt apologised.

Two days later, I picked up the violin from the shop. Strings gleamed, bridge steady. The technician explained how to adjust and store her.

Dont leave her by the radiator, he said. Always keep her in the case.

I nodded, feeling like a pupil again. At home, I placed the case on a chair, opened it, and simply watched the instrument for ages, afraid to spoil it.

I chose the simplest exercise: long, slow bow strokes on open strings. Childhood punishment then, but nowsalvation. No tune, no judgement. Just the sound, and the fight to keep it steady.

Shoulder sore after ten minutes, neck stiff after fifteen. I packed up, zipped the case closed. Anger surged: at my body, my age, how simple things had become hard.

I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, stared out the window. Teenagers zoomed round the playground on scooters, laughing loudly. I envied their lack of shamenot their youth, just their unselfconsciousness. They fell, got up, carried onno one thought it was too late to learn balance.

I returned, opened the case again. Not because I should, but because I didnt want anger to be the full stop.

A reply from the teacher arrived: Hello. Of course its possible. Come alongwell start with posture and simple exercises. Age is no barrier, but patience is key. I read it twice. Patiencehonest and reassuring.

On my way to the first lesson, case in my arms, I felt I was holding something precious. People on the tube glanced, a few smiled. I let themI wanted to be seen.

The teacher was a petite woman, about forty, cropped hair, sharp but kind eyes. Her sitting room had a piano, sheet music on the shelf, a child-size violin on a chair.

Lets have a look, she said, inviting me to position the violin.

It was instantly apparenteverything wrong: raised shoulder, clamped chin, wooden wrist.

Dont worry, she said. You havent played for years. Lets just stand. Feel your violin is a partner, not an enemy.

I felt silly and a bit shystanding at fifty-two, learning to hold a violin. But there was a weird freedom to it. No expectations; only presence.

Afterwards, my hands were trembling, like after PE. The teacher handed me a routine: ten minutes of open strings each day, then work towards a scale, nothing fancy. Better little and often, she advised.

At home, my husband asked, So? How was it?

Hard, I admitted. But good.

Are you happy?

I thought. Happy didnt feel quite right. I felt nervous, silly, embarrassedand oddly light.

Yes, I replied. Its as if Im making something again, instead of just working and cooking.

A week later, I dared a snippet of a tune Id known since childhood. Found the music online, printed it at work, hiding the sheets in my document folder. At home, propped the music up on a makeshift standbook and a box.

The sound was wobbly, bow sometimes catching another string, fingers missing notes. I stopped, restarted, over and over. At one point, my husband poked his head round the door.

You know thats lovely, he offered, cautiouslyas if he might spook me.

Dont fib, I replied.

Im not. Its recognisable.

I smiled. Recognisablealmost a compliment.

At the weekend, my granddaughter visited. Six years old, eyes sharp, she spotted the case instantly.

Grandma, whats that?

My violin.

You can play?

I wanted to say, Once. But she only understood now.

Im learning, I said.

She settled on the sofa, hands neatly on her lap, awaiting the performance.

Play, please.

My nerves pinchedplaying for a child is somehow scarier than for adults. They hear straight through you.

Alright, I said, and started.

The melody Id worked at all week fell apart on the third bar; a squeal. She didnt flinch, just tilted her head.

Whys it squeaking?

Because Grandmas bowing crooked, I said, and chuckled.

She laughed, bright and easy.

Again, she urged.

So I did. No better, maybe, but I finishednot stopped short by shame.

As evening fell and everyone drifted off, the lounge grew quiet. My printed music sat on the table, pencil by its side for tricky passages. The violin rested in its case, zipped closed, standing by the wall and not hidden awaya reminder, part of my daily routine.

I set a ten-minute timer. Not to force myselfjust to keep it gentle. Opened the case, drew out the violin, checked the rosin, tightened the bow. Raised it to my chin, breathed.

The note was softer than in the morning, though still wavering. When it slipped, I corrected without cursing, just adjusted and carried on.

When the timer rang, I finished my bow stroke, set the violin carefully in its case, zipped it closed and left it where I could see.

I knew tomorrow would be much the same: a little embarrassment, a bit of tiredness, a handful of clear secondsthe moments I opened the case for. And just that felt enough to keep going.

I Saw It Happen She was closing up the office accounts when her manager poked her head out and softly asked if she could “pick up” the supplier report tomorrow—a gentle request you don’t refuse. She nodded, inventorying her day: picking up her son from school, stopping at the chemist for her mum’s tablets, checking homework at home. She’d long learned not to argue, not to stand out, never give anyone an excuse. At work, they called it reliability; at home, peace of mind. That evening, carrying a bag of groceries, she walked home from the bus stop, her son beside her, nose in his phone, negotiating “just five more minutes.” She answered, “Later”—because later always came soon enough. At the shopping centre crossroads, she waited at the green light, cars lined up, horns impatient. Stepping onto the zebra crossing, a dark SUV suddenly surged forward from the right lane, overtaking the queue and gunning for the fading green. The impact sounded dry and heavy, like a wardrobe falling. The SUV struck a white Ford just pulling onto the junction, spun it out, sending the rear towards the crossing. Shoppers scattered, kids pulled back. She managed to grab her son’s sleeve in time. A second of stillness, then someone screamed. The Ford’s driver slumped, dazed. In the SUV, the airbags deployed, and behind the cracked windscreen appeared a sharply dressed man already reaching for the door. Setting her shopping on the tarmac, she grabbed her mobile and dialled 999. The operator’s voice was steady—like it wasn’t happening here, now. “There’s been a collision at the shopping centre junction—injured at the scene,” she stated as evenly as possible. “The car spun onto the crossing, driver in the white Ford… I’m not sure if he’s conscious.” Her son stood pale, looking at her as if she’d suddenly become truly grown up. While she answered questions, a young man ran to the Ford, spoke to the driver. The SUV man exited confidently, surveyed the chaos, spoke into his mobile. Expensive coat, no hat; he moved as if this were a minor travel delay. Ambulance first, then police. The officer asked who witnessed the crash. She raised her hand—after all, she’d been right there. “Name, address, phone please,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “Just tell it as you saw.” She replied: SUV sped out from the right; Ford had the signal; there were people on the crossing. The officer nodded, jotting it all down. The SUV man drifted closer—not menacing, just enough to unsettle. “You sure?” he murmured. “There’s CCTV, you know.” “I said I saw it,” she replied, instantly regretting her firmness. He half-smiled and walked away. Her son tugged her sleeve. “Mum, can we go home?” The policeman handed back her ID, said she might be called in to clarify. She nodded, picked up her shopping, led her son through the estate. At home, she washed her hands for ages, though they were clean. Her son was quiet, then asked: “Will they send that man to prison?” “I don’t know. It’s not up to us,” she said. That night she dreamt of the crash, the SUV slicing through the air. At work next day, numbers blurred—her mind returned to the crossroads. After lunch, an unknown number called. “Afternoon, you witnessed the accident yesterday,” a polite male voice said. “Just want to reassure you—” “Who are you?” she asked. “Doesn’t matter. It’s an awkward situation—witnesses these days get pressured, dragged into court. Do you want that? You have your job, your son.” He spoke gently, like recommending laundry powder, and it scared her more. “No one’s pressuring me,” she said, voice trembling. “Good,” he replied. “Just say you’re not sure. It’s easier for everyone.” She ended the call, stared at her screen, then hid the mobile in her desk drawer as if dropping the whole conversation there. That evening after work, she visited her mum, who greeted her in a dressing gown and immediately launched into complaints about her blood pressure and muddled surgery records. “Mum,” she asked, sorting out the tablets, “if you saw a crash and people told you to ‘stay out of it,’ would you?” Her mother sighed. “I’d keep out. I’ve no need for heroics at my age. You shouldn’t either—with a child, you know?” The words stung, as if her mum doubted her strength. Next day, another call, another number. “We’re just concerned,” that familiar voice soothed. “The driver has family, job—mistakes happen. Witnesses end up dragged through it for years. Why deal with it? Maybe best to say you didn’t see the moment.” “I saw it,” she said. “You sure you want to get involved?” the voice cooled. “What school does your son go to?” She froze. “How do you know?” “Small town,” came the unfazed reply. “We’re just thinking of your peace.” She hung up, staring at her kitchen worktop. Her son quietly did homework. She locked the door with the chain, knowing it wouldn’t stop phone calls. A few days later, a man in a plain jacket stopped her at her building door. “You’re flat twenty-seven?” he asked. “Yes,” she replied, automatically. “About that crash—don’t worry,” he said, holding up his hands as if she were already backing off. “I’m a friend of friends. You don’t want years in court, do you? Let’s keep it civil. Say you’re unsure—done.” “I don’t take money,” she blurted. No idea why. “No one mentioned money,” he smiled. “Just… peace. You have a child—you get it. Unsettled times: in your son’s school, your job. Why bother with more?” He spat out “more” like it was rubbish to be binned. She walked past, silent, made it home, and realised her hands were shaking. Dropping her bag, she went straight to her son. “Don’t leave school on your own tomorrow—I’ll come for you,” she tried to sound casual. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing,” she lied—for the first time, it felt alive and real. Monday brought a summons: she was called to the station to give evidence, identify the crash parties. The letter was official, with a seal. Tucking it in her folder felt like storing a heavy stone. That evening her manager kept her back. “So, some people came about you. Very polite: asked me not to stress you out, because you’re a witness. I don’t like that—it affects the whole team. Be careful.” “Who came?” she asked. “No names—just… confident types,” her manager shrugged. “As a friend, maybe stay out of it? We’ve got audits coming. If the calls start, it’s everyone’s problem.” She left, feeling stripped of not just speech but the safety she found in spreadsheets. At home, she told her husband. He listened quietly, finished his soup, finally asked: “You realise this could end badly?” “I do.” “Then why bother?”—not angry, just weary. “We’ve got the mortgage, your mum, the boy. You want us shaken up?” “I don’t,” she said. “But I saw it.” He looked at her as if she was being childish. “Saw it and forget it. You owe no one.” She didn’t argue. Arguing meant admitting she had a choice, and choice pressed heavier than threats. On the day, she woke early, packed her son’s breakfast, charged her mobile, took her passport and summons, texted her friend where she’d be, and when to expect her out. “Got it—let me know when you’re done,” her friend replied. The station smelt of paperwork and damp carpets. She hung her coat, approached the desk, and was sent to the detective’s office. He was young, tired, switched on the recorder. “You know the consequences of false statements?” “I do.” He went through questions with no pressure: where she’d stood, what was the traffic signal, which way the SUV came, how fast. She answered plainly, nothing extra. He finally looked up. “Anyone contacted you?” She hesitated. To say so meant admitting she’d been intimidated; not to meant facing it alone. “Yes,” she said. “Called. Came to my building. Told me to say I wasn’t sure.” He nodded, as if not surprised. “Got the numbers?” She showed him; he copied, asked for screenshots to the police email. Her fingers barely cooperated. Afterwards, she was asked to wait in the corridor for a line-up. On the bench, clutching her bag, she watched as the SUV man passed with his lawyer, murmuring quietly. He glanced at her: calm, tired, resigned—like he’d seen it all solved before. The lawyer paused. “You’re the witness?” he smiled. “Yes.” “Be careful with your wording,” he advised sweetly. “People confuse things under stress; you wouldn’t want consequences.” “I’ll tell the truth,” she replied. He raised his eyebrows. “Truth’s different for everyone.” Then walked away. In the next room, they showed her photos and asked her to identify the driver. She pointed, signed the statement. The pen made sharp lines on paper—comforting, leaving marks no threat could erase. It was dark when she left the station. She kept glancing back—though no one followed. On the bus, she sat close to the driver, like people who need some sense of safety. At home, her husband was silent. Her son peeked round the door. “Well?” he asked. “I told them what I saw.” Her husband sighed. “You know they won’t drop it?” “I do.” She didn’t sleep that night, listening for every door, every step on the stairs, each movement a warning. Morning, she took her son herself, asked his teacher not to release him to anyone—even someone “from Mum.” The teacher observed her, nodded with no questions. At work, even her manager spoke more brusquely. Less work was handed to her; she was now a risk. Colleagues glanced, quickly looked away. No one spoke outright, but a hollow space formed around her. Calls stopped for a week, then came a message from a faceless number: “Think about your family.” She showed it to the detective, who just said, “Logged. Let us know if there’s anything else.” She wasn’t protected, but her words hadn’t vanished. One night a ground-floor neighbour caught her at the lift. “Heard you’re involved in that thing—look, my husband’s home often, just call us if. We’ve been meaning to get a camera for the entrance—let’s split the cost and put one up.” The neighbour spoke plainly, no heroics, just like fixing the intercom. It made her throat sting. A month later, the detective called again. The case was going to court; there’d be more hearings. No promises of justice—just procedures, tests, diagrams. “Any more threats?” he asked. “No,” she said. “But I’m always waiting.” “That’s normal,” he replied. “Try to keep life as before. Report anything odd.” She left, thinking “normal” sounded alien. Life had changed. Now, she took different routes home, never left her son alone, used call recording, messaged her friend whenever she got indoors. She didn’t feel brave, just someone holding a line to keep from collapsing. In court, she saw the SUV man again: upright, attentive, taking notes, never glancing at her. That hurt more than a stare—she felt like paperwork. When asked if she was certain, fear surged. Images of her son at the gates, her manager, her mother urging her not to interfere. Yet she said, “Yes. I’m certain.” Afterwards, outside, she paused at the steps. Her hands were cold, gloves on. Friend texted: “How are you?” She replied, “Alive. Coming home.” She stopped at the corner shop for bread and apples—still had to make tea. The ordinariness was a strange comfort: life hadn’t stopped, it still asked for simple chores. At home, her son met her at the door. “Mum, are you still coming to the parents’ meeting?” She looked at him and knew she’d endured for the sake of that question. “I’ll be there. Dinner first though.” Later, locking door with both bolts, checking the chain, she realised it wasn’t panic—it was the new routine. This was the price of the calm she’d had to relearn. No victory, no gratitude, no hero status. Just the hard, clear knowledge: she hadn’t strayed from what she saw, and now she no longer needed to hide from herself.

Even now, there are nights I wake up and wonder: When did my father manage to take everything away from us? I was 15 when it happened. We lived in a small but well-kept house—furnished, with a fully stocked fridge after grocery trips, and the bills mostly paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Things began changing when Dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without a word, toss his keys onto the table and disappear into his room, phone in hand. Mum would say: — “Late again? Do you think the house runs itself?” And he’d reply, his voice flat: — “Leave me be, I’m tired.” I’d hear it all from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was wrong. One night, I saw him talking on the phone outside. He was quietly laughing, saying things like “It’s almost sorted” and “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straightaway. My stomach twisted, but I said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I got home from school and saw his suitcase on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway with her eyes red. I asked: — “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me: — “I’ll be away for a while.” Mum shouted: — “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He exploded: — “I’m leaving with another woman. I can’t stand this life anymore!” I burst into tears: — “What about me? My school? Our home?” All he said: — “You’ll manage.” He closed his suitcase, grabbed papers from the drawer, picked up his wallet and left without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to get money from the cashpoint and the card was blocked. The next day at the bank, they said the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the savings. Then we found out he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan, listing Mum as guarantor, without telling her. I remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table—checking bills with an old calculator, crying over and over: — “It’s not enough… it’s not enough…” I tried to help add up the numbers but didn’t understand half of it. A week later, our internet was cut off, and the electricity nearly went too. Mum started working—cleaning people’s houses. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed to stand during break with a bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because at home we didn’t have the basics. One day I opened the fridge: there was just a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried by myself. That night we ate plain rice, nothing more. Mum apologised, saying she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw on Facebook a photo of Dad with that woman—raising a toast with wine in a restaurant. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. He never rang again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He simply disappeared. Today, I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But the wound is still there—not just from the money, but the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us in debt and moved on as if nothing happened. And yet, so many nights I still wake up with the same question stuck in my chest: How do you get through it when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out survival while you’re still just a kid?