The Ever-Helpful Grandmas Eleanor Stirling awoke to laughter. Not to a quiet chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but to a loud, riotous guffaw so inappropriate for a hospital ward that it grated her nerves. It was her bed neighbour, pressing a phone to her ear, waving her free arm as if the person on the other end could see her. “Lynn, honestly! He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Eleanor glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Morning rounds wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes – fifteen precious minutes she’d hoped to spend in silence, preparing herself for the surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, her roommate was already in bed, typing furiously on her phone. Their greeting had been brief: “Good evening.” “Hello.” And then they’d retired to their own thoughts. Eleanor was thankful for the quiet. But now? A circus. “Excuse me,” she intoned, clear but soft. “Could you keep it down a little?” Her roommate turned. Round face, short silver-grey hair, unapologetically uncoloured, a flamboyant polka-dot pyjama—bright red in a hospital ward! “Oh, Lynn, I’ll call you back, looks like I’m in trouble,” she said, slipping the phone away and turning to Eleanor with a grin. “Sorry! I’m Cathy Shepherd. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before operations. That’s why I call everyone I know.” “Eleanor Stirling. Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean others don’t need to.” “But you’re awake now,” Cathy winked. “All right, I’ll whisper from now on. Promise.” She didn’t whisper. By breakfast, she’d already made two more phone calls, each growing louder. Eleanor dramatically turned to face the wall and pulled her duvet over her head—but it was useless. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained at breakfast—neither of them actually ate as surgery loomed. “She’s worried, bless her. I’m trying to keep her calm.” Eleanor said nothing. Her own son hadn’t rung. Not that she expected him to—he’d warned that there was an early work meeting, very important. She’d taught him: work is everything, responsibility above all. Cathy was taken down to surgery first, waving a cheery goodbye and shouting some joke to the nurse, who laughed. Eleanor found herself hoping her neighbour would be moved to another ward after her surgery. She herself was collected an hour later. Anaesthesia had always been hard on her. She woke nauseated, her right side throbbing dully. The nurse reassured her it had gone well. She’d just have to be patient. Patience, at least, she had in spades. When she returned to the ward that evening, Cathy was already back, lying still, face ashen, eyes closed, drip needle in, silent for the first time. “How are you?” asked Eleanor, though she had no intention of starting a conversation. Cathy opened her eyes, managed a slight smile. “Still alive. You?” “Yes. Alive.” They fell silent, the room prickled by the shiver of gathering twilight and the quiet ring of IV drips. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy finally said. “When I’m anxious, I talk non-stop. I know it’s annoying. I just can’t help myself.” Eleanor wanted to retort, but she couldn’t muster the strength. She eked out, “It’s all right.” Neither slept much that night, both troubled by pain. Cathy no longer called anyone, but Eleanor could hear her shifting, sighing; once, she thought she heard quiet sobs muffled in a pillow. The doctor arrived in the morning, checked stitches, took temperatures, then commended them both: “Doing well.” Cathy immediately grabbed her phone. “Lynn, hi! All fine, I’m alive, no need to worry. How are the kids? Really? Kyran had a fever? Is it gone now? See, I told you it would be nothing.” Eleanor listened unwillingly. “The kids”—so, Cathy’s grandchildren. Her own phone sat quietly. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s it going?” and “Text when you can”—sent last night, as she’d been groggy from anaesthesia. She replied: “All fine,” added a smiley. He liked them, said messages felt cold without. Reply came three hours later: “Brilliant! Love you.” “Don’t your family visit?” Cathy asked later that day. “My son works. Lives far. No real need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you’ll manage.’ Anyway, what’s the point if everything’s okay?” Something in her voice made Eleanor look closely. Cathy was smiling, but her eyes were far from cheerful. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kyran—the oldest, he’s eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy produced her phone, scrolling through pictures: children at the seaside, at a birthday, hugging, grinning, Cathy always with them, clowning for the camera—her daughter behind the lens, never in view. “She hates being in photos,” Cathy explained. “Your grandkids stay with you a lot?” “I basically live with them. My daughter works, my son-in-law as well, so I do…well, everything. School run, homework checks, dinners.” Eleanor nodded. Her story was similar—daily help in her grandson’s early years. Then it lessened—now, once a month, Sundays, if plans aligned. “And you?” “Only one grandson. Nine. Keen footballer, does well at school.” “See him much?” “Some Sundays. They’re busy. I understand.” “Yes,” Cathy turned to the window. “Busy.” They grew quiet as evening rain speckled the window. Later, Cathy suddenly announced, “I don’t want to go home.” Eleanor looked up. Cathy sat on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought about it and…I don’t.” “Why?” “What for? I’ll get back, Kyran’s homework won’t be done, Maddy’s got snot all over her face again, Leo’s ripped his trousers. My daughter’s at work until late, my son-in-law’s always away. So I cook, clean, tidy, help, sit, fix. And no one even—” she faltered, “even says thank you. Because, well…that’s just what grandmas do.” Eleanor said nothing. She felt a lump rising in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Don’t know what’s got into me.” “Don’t apologise,” murmured Eleanor. “Five years ago, I retired. Thought I’d finally focus on myself. Wanted to go to the theatre, to exhibitions. I even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked me to help. I’m the grandma, I’m not working, surely not a problem. I couldn’t say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, every other day. Then school—once a week. Now…now I’m not really needed. They have a nanny. I just sit at home, waiting for them to call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded. “My daughter was meant to come in November—for a visit. I cleaned the house, baked pies. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kyran’s got football club, we can’t come after all.’” “She didn’t come?” “No. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat, quiet, listening to the patter of British rain. “You know what stings?” Cathy said. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I keep hoping they will. I clutch my phone, thinking: maybe now they’ll call because they miss me. Just to chat—not needing something.” Eleanor felt the sting of tears in her nose. “I do too. Every time my phone rings, I hope my son just wants to talk. But no—it’s always for something.” “And we always help,” Cathy shrugged. “Because we’re mums.” “Yes.” The next day brought redressing of wounds—painful for both. Afterwards they lay quiet, until Cathy said, “I always thought I had the perfect family. Wonderful daughter, good son-in-law, lovely grandkids. That I was essential—that they couldn’t do without me.” “And?” “And now I’ve realised, here, that they manage just fine. My daughter hasn’t complained in four days. In fact, she sounds more upbeat than ever. So…they could cope all along. It just suits them to have a grandma-nanny on hand.” Eleanor propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault, too. I taught my son—Mum always helps, always waits, always stands aside. His plans matter, mine don’t.” “Me too. I always drop everything for my daughter.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Eleanor said quietly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. And was silent. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” On day five, Eleanor managed to get out of bed unaided. On day six, she walked to the end of the corridor and back. Cathy was a day behind, but determined. They took walks together, slow, trailing a hand along the wall. “After my husband died, I felt lost,” Cathy confided. “I thought it was all over. My daughter said: ‘Mum, now your whole meaning is the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. Only now it feels…one-sided. I live for them; for me, they’re there when it suits.” Eleanor related her own divorce, thirty years ago when her son was five. How she raised him alone, worked two jobs, studied evenings. “I thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up, and has his own life,” Cathy finished. “Yes. I suppose it’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On day seven, her son showed up, unannounced. Tall, in an expensive coat, with a carrier bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Better now?” “Better.” “Fantastic! Doctor says three more days and you’re out. Maybe you’ll come stay with us? Olesya says the guest room is free.” “Thanks, but I’m better at home.” “As you wish. If you need anything, call.” He stayed twenty minutes—work stories, grandson updates, new car chat. Asked if she needed money, promised to visit again next week. Left quickly, with palpable relief. Cathy pretended to sleep through, then opened her eyes. “Your son?” “Yes.” “Handsome fellow.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice, though.” Eleanor could only nod. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe it’s time we stopped waiting for their affection. Just…let it go? Understand that they’ve grown up, their lives are their own. Time to find ours again.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But, what’s the alternative? Sitting here hoping they’ll remember us.” “What did you say to your daughter?” Eleanor asked, surprised to have switched to ‘you’. “Told her I’d need two weeks’ rest after discharge; the doctor said so,” said Cathy. “Not able to watch the kids.” “Was she cross?” “Oh yes. But you know what? I felt lighter, like a huge weight was lifted.” Eleanor closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no, they might take offence—stop calling entirely.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can’t get worse. Can only get better.” On day eight, they were discharged together. Packing in silence, as if saying a final goodbye. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Eleanor agreed. They did. Stood there, looking at one another. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “For being here.” “Thank you. You know…I haven’t spoken like that to anyone in thirty years. Heart to heart.” “Nor have I.” They hugged—awkwardly, gently, careful not to jostle stitches. The nurse arrived with their discharge notes, called a taxi. Eleanor left first. Her flat was quiet and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son. “Mum, are you discharged yet?”, “Call when you’re home”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set the phone aside. She stood, went to the cupboard, pulled out a folder—untouched for five years. Inside, a French class leaflet and a printed theatre schedule. She stared at the leaflet, thinking. The phone rang: Cathy. “Hi—sorry to ring so soon, but…I just wanted to call.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “Shall we meet up? When we’re both fitter? In a week or so—coffee, maybe? Or just a walk? Only if you’d like.” Eleanor looked at the leaflet in her hand, then at the phone. Then back at the leaflet. “I’d like that. Really. In fact, why wait? Let’s meet Saturday. I’ve spent long enough lying around.” “Saturday? Are you sure? The doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I looked after me.” “Deal. Saturday.” They rang off. Eleanor picked up the French leaflet again. Classes started in a month. Registration was still open. She reached for her laptop, hands trembling slightly, and filled out the registration form. All the way to the end. It was raining outside. But behind the clouds, the sun was breaking through—just a little, the soft, silvery glow of an English autumn. And Eleanor Stirling suddenly thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. Then she pressed ‘submit’.

Comfortable Grandmothers

Margaret awoke to laughter. Not a mild chuckle or a restrained giggle, but a raucous guffaw that seemed entirely inappropriate for a hospital wardexactly the sort of loud merriment shed never been able to stand. It was her bedfellow, Patricia, cackling into her phone and gesturing animatedly with her free hand, as if her conversation partner could see her.

Oh, Pam, really! Did he say that? In front of everyone?

Margaret glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Still fifteen precious minutes before the nurses woke everyone up. Fifteen minutes that could have been spent in silence, gathering her thoughts before the operation.

The night before, when Margaret was admitted, her roommate was already lying in bed, tapping away at her mobile. Their greeting was brief. Good evening. Good evening. And that was it. Margaret was grateful for the quiet. But nowutter bedlam.

Excuse me, Margaret said softly but firmly, Would you mind keeping it down?

Patricia turned, her face round, hair cropped and grey with not a smudge of dye, clad in a loud red-polka-dot pyjama set. In hospital, no less.

Oh, Pam, Ill ring you laterIm being told off. She tucked away her phone, turning to Margaret with a sheepish grin. Sorry! Im Patricia. Did you sleep well? I never do before operationsso I call everyone I know.

Margaret. Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean the rest of us arent trying.

Patricia winked. But youre awake now, arent you? Fine, Ill whisper. Promise.

She didnt whisper. Before breakfast, shed rung up twice more, her voice growing louder with each call. Margaret pointedly turned her back and pulled the blanket over her head, but it was no use.

My daughter just called, Patricia explained over a breakfast neither touched. “She’s worried sick. I keep telling her it’s nothing.”

Margaret said nothing. Her own son hadnt rung, but she hadnt expected him to. Hed explained last night that he had an early meetingan important one. Shed raised him to work first, after all; work meant duty and responsibility.

Patricia was taken for her operation first. She waved cheerily as she went, cracking a joke to the nurse, who burst out laughing too. Margaret caught herself hoping theyd move Patricia to another room after surgery.

An hour later, Margaret was wheeled off herself. Shed never taken well to anaesthetic, and woke groggy, nauseous, with a dull pain along her right side. The nurse assured her it had all gone well, that she just needed to grit her teeth for a bit. So she did. Margaret was used to gritting her teeth.

That evening, back in the ward, Patricia was in bed, face ashen, eyes closed, IV attached, for once absolutely silent.

How are you? Margaret asked, though she hadnt planned to start small talk.

Patricia opened her eyes, giving a weak smile, Still breathing. And you?

Much the same.

They fell silent. The dusk thickened beyond the window. The drip clinked softly, filling the quiet.

Sorry about this morning, Patricia said suddenly. Whenever Im nervous, I chatter constantly. I know its annoying, but I cant help myself.

Margaret wanted to reply sharply but couldnt muster the energy. She forced out, Its fine.

That night, neither of them slept. Both were in pain. Patricia made no further calls, but Margaret heard her shifting, sighingmaybe even crying quietly into her pillow.

Morning brought the ward doctor to check their wounds, take their temperature, and remark, Well done, ladies. Everythings looking good. Patricia instantly reached for her phone.

Pam! Yes, all finedont worry… What, Jamies feverish? Really? Has it passed? See? I said itd be nothing.

Margaret caught herself listening. Mine clearly meant grandchildrenher daughter reporting in.

Margarets own phone was silent aside from two texts from her son, sent the previous evening while shed been unconscious with the anaesthetic: How are you, Mum? and Let me know when you can. She replied, All fine, and added a smiley facehe’d often told her that no emoji made her texts too cold.

His reply came three hours later: Great! Love you.

Will your family be visiting? Patricia asked her later.

My sons working. He lives quite far. Besides, Im not a child.

Exactly, Patricia agreed. My daughter always says, Mum, youre a grown woman, youll manage. And to be fair, why should anyone come if things are all right?

Something in Patricias voice made Margaret look at her more closely. She was smiling, but her eyesthose werent smiling at all.

How many grandchildren do you have?

Three. Jamies eldesteight. Then Bonnie and Ben, three and four. Patricia was beaming now, unlocking her phone. Want to see photos?

For twenty minutes she scrolled through snaps. Children in the garden, at seaside holidays, at birthday teas. Patricia featured in them allhugging, kissing, pulling silly faces. Not a single one of her daughter.

Shes always behind the camera, Patricia explained, Cant stand being photographed.

Do you see them often?

Oh, I practically live with them! My daughter works, her husband too, so its mepickup from school, homework, tea.

Margaret nodded. Shed done much the same when her own grandson was a toddler, helping out most days. As he grew, her visits became less frequent, now maybe once a month on a Sundayif the calendars aligned.

And you? Patricia asked.

One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does scouts.

See him often?

Sometimes on Sundays. Theyre busy, I understand.

Busy, yes, Patricia turned to the window. Always busy.

They lapsed into silence. Rain began pattering softly on the glass.

That evening Patricia said, I dont want to go home.

Margaret looked up. Patricia was sitting on the bed, arms wrapped round her knees, staring at the floor.

I really dont. Ive been thinking about it and… I just dont.

Why?

Whats to look forward to? Ill get thereJamie wont have done his homework, Bonniell have caught another cold, Ben will have ripped his trousers again. My daughter at work till late, her husband off everywhere with his job. Ill be left doing the lotwashing, cooking, cleaning, sorting, helping. And they dont even She trailed off. Dont even say thank you. Because Im Gran, Im supposed to do it.

Margaret was silent. Her throat felt tight.

Sorry, Patricia wiped her eyes. Ignore meIm just being silly.

Dont apologise, Margaret murmured. Five years ago, when I retired, I thought Id finally have time for myself. That Id go to the theatre, see exhibitions. I even signed up for a French courselasted two weeks.

What happened?

My daughter-in-law was on maternity. She asked for help. I was Granretired, why not? I couldnt refuse.

And?

Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. Then school, once a week. NowMargarets voice falterednow they barely need me. Got a nanny. And I just… sit at home, waiting for an invitation. If they remember.

Patricia nodded. My daughter was meant to visit in November, with the children. I scrubbed the house, baked pies. Then she called: ‘Sorry, cant come, Jamies football.

So they didnt come?

Nope. Gave the pies to my neighbour.

Both women sat, silent as rain drummed against the window.

You know what really hurts? Patricia finally said. Not that they dont visit. What hurts is… I still wait. I keep clutching my phone, hoping theyll call just to say they miss me. Not for babysitting or favours, just because.

Margarets nose prickled.

I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I wonder if its my son just wanting to chat. But its never just that. Always something to sort.

And we always drop everything, Patricia gave a bitter laugh, Because thats what Mums do.

Yes.

The next day, dressing changes began. It hurt, for both of them. After, they lay in silence, until Patricia spoke.

I always thought I had the perfect family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, delightful grandchildren. I thought I was needed. Indispensable.

And?

And only here have I realisedtheyre fine without me. My daughter hasnt complained once in four days. Shes chirpy. So clearly, they manage. Its just easier when grans the free childminder.

Margaret propped herself up. You know what Ive realised? I caused it myself. I taught my son that Id always be there, always bail him out, that my plans could be dropped in a heartbeat for his.

I did the same. My daughter calledId drop everything and dash round.

Weve taught them were not people, Margaret said slowly. That we dont have our own lives.

Patricia was silent, then said, What now?

I dont know.

On the fifth day Margaret managed to get out of bed unaided. On the sixth she walked the corridor and back. Patricia, always a step behind, persevered. Theyd hobble up and down together, clinging to the rail.

When Roger died, I lost myself completely, Patricia confided. My daughter said, Now youve got the grandchildren, Mum. Live for them. So I did. Exceptwell, its one way traffic, isnt it? Im there for them, but theyre there for me only when… convenient.

Margaret spoke about her divorce, thirty years ago, when her son was five. Raising him alone, night classes, two jobs.

I thought if I was the perfect mother, Id have the perfect son. Be selfless, hed be grateful.

And he grew up, living his own life, Patricia finished.

Yes. And maybe thats how it should be. Still feels… unexpectedly lonely.

Me too.

On the seventh day, Margarets son visited, unannounced. She was reading when he appeared in the doorway. Tall, smartly dressed, a bag of fruit dangling from one hand.

Hi, Mum! He kissed her forehead. How are you? Feeling any better?

Better, yes.

Excellent! Doctor says youll be home soon. Fancy staying with us for a few days? Emma says the guest rooms free.

No, thank you. Id rather go home.

If youre sure. But ring if you change your mindwell fetch you.

He stayed barely twenty minutes, talked about work, his son, his new car. Asked if she needed anything, offered cash. Promised to check in next week. Then left, with visible relief.

Patricia had lain with her eyes closed through the visit. As the door shut, she opened them.

Yours?

Mine.

Handsome.

Yes.

And cold, like ice.

Margaret didnt answer. Her throat ached.

You know, Patricia said quietly, Ive been thinking. Maybe we ought to stop waiting for their love. Let them be, accept that their lives are separate. And try to find our own.

Easier said than done.

Hard to do. But what choice do we have? Otherwise, well just keep sitting here, waiting for scraps of attention.

And what did you say to your daughter? Margaret, surprising herself, shifted to you.

I told her, after discharge, Id need to rest a fortnight. Doctors orders. No babysitting, no heavy lifting.

How did she take it?

“Furious at first. But I told her, Pam, youre an adultyoull manage. Im just not up to it yet.

She sulked?

Terribly. Patricia grinned. But you know what? I felt lighter. It was like setting down some huge weight Id lugged for years.

Margaret closed her eyes.

Im afraid. If I say no, if I draw the line, maybe theyll turn away altogethernever call again.

Do they call much now?

Silence.

There you go. Things can only get better.

On the eighth day, both were discharged together. They packed in silence, as if aware this was farewell.

Swap numbers? Patricia suggested.

Margaret nodded, tapping her mobile. They hesitated, and then, awkwardly and gently, huggedmindful of sore stitches. The nurse brought their papers and ordered cabs. Margarets arrived first.

The house was quiet, empty. Margaret unpacked, showered, laid on the sofa. There were three messages from her son: Are you home yet? Let me know when youre back, Dont forget your tablets.

She wrote back: Home. All fine. Put down her phone.

Rising, she went to the cupboard and pulled out a folder she hadnt opened in years. Inside: a French course leaflet and a printout of the Philharmonics new season. She studied the brochure, deep in thought.

Her phone rangPatricia.

Hello. Sorry to ring so soon. I just…wanted to call.

Im glad you did. Truly.

Shall we meet up? Once were both fully recoveredmaybe in a fortnight? Coffee somewhere? Walk in the park? Only if you fancy, of course.

Margaret looked from the French brochure to the phone, then back.

I would love that. But why wait a fortnight? Lets do Saturday. Im tired of lying about at home.

Saturday? Really? But the doctors…

They said take it easy. Ive spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time I thought about myself.

Deal. Saturday, then.

They said their goodbyes. Margaret put down her phone and picked up the application form for French classes. The course started in a monthenrolment still open. She fetched her laptop and began to fill out the registration, hands trembling but determined.

Outside, the rain beat down. But through the clouds, a hint of autumn sunshine crept inpale, but real.

And it dawned on Margaret that perhaps her life was only just beginning.

Personal lesson: Sometimes, its not others who need to change, but ourselves. Boundaries arent selfishthey are a small mercy to ourselves, and perhaps, the first step toward finding a little happiness.