The Handy Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a soft chuckle or a polite giggle, but a booming, hearty cackle, the kind she’d avoided her entire life and found especially inappropriate for a hospital ward. The culprit was her bedside neighbour, phone pressed to her ear, waving her free hand enthusiastically as if her caller might see. “Len, you’re kidding! Seriously? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. They still had fifteen precious minutes of morning peace before the nurses would come bustling in—a few moments to gather herself before her surgery. Last night, when Helen was wheeled in, the woman across the way was already tapping away at her phone. Their greeting was brief: a “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then silence. Helen was grateful for the quiet. And now, this circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you lower your voice, please?” The neighbour turned around—round-faced, short grey hair left defiantly uncoloured, and a bright pyjama set covered in red polka dots. In hospital, no less! “Oh, Len, I’ll call you later, someone’s telling me off,” she cheerily ended the call and turned to Helen, beaming. “Sorry! I’m Cathy. Did you manage any sleep? I never do before surgery, that’s why I’m on the phone to everyone I know.” “Helen. And if you can’t sleep, it doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to rest.” “But you’re awake now, right?” Cathy winked. “Fine, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She did not whisper. By breakfast, she’d made two more calls, and her voice only got louder. Helen ostentatiously turned away and pulled her covers over her head, to no effect. “My daughter called,” Cathy explained over untouched bowls of hospital porridge. “She’s worried because of the surgery, poor thing. I try to reassure her, you know?” Helen remained silent. Her own son hadn’t rung, but she hadn’t expected it: he’d warned her of an early meeting, very important. She’d taught him that—work comes first, that’s responsibility. Cathy was taken to surgery first. She waved goodbye all the way down the corridor, shouting something to a giggling nurse. Helen hoped the staff would move her to a new room after the operation. Her own turn came an hour later. She never took anaesthetic well—came round nauseous, her side pounding dully. The nurse patted her hand: all went well, you just need to rest. Helen did what she’d always done: she endured. By the evening, back in her room, Cathy was lying on her bed, her face ashen, eyes closed, drip in her arm. Silent, for once. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking, against her intentions. Cathy opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still alive. You?” “Me too.” They fell quiet as dusk thickened outside, the IV bags softly clinking. “Sorry about this morning,” Cathy said suddenly. “When I’m nervous, I can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying, but I just can’t help myself.” Helen wanted to make a sharp retort, but she was too tired. She just managed: “It’s fine.” That night neither of them slept—a dull ache kept both awake. Cathy made no more calls, just shifted and sighed. Once, Helen was sure, she heard her crying, muffled into the pillow. In the morning, the doctor came—examined their stitches, checked their temperature, gave a cheery, “Well done, ladies, you’re both doing brilliantly!” Cathy instantly grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! I’m alive, you don’t need to worry. How’s my bunch? Kieran still have a fever? What? It’s cleared up? See, I told you so!” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My bunch”—must be grandkids, her daughter reporting back. Her own phone lay silent. Two texts from her son, sent last night, as she was still groggy. “Mum, how are you?” and “Message me when you can.” She wrote back: “All fine 😊”. Her son loved emojis—said messages seemed cold without them. His reply came three hours later: “Awesome! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t visiting?” Cathy asked that afternoon. “My son’s busy. Lives far away. Besides, I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Cathy agreed. “My daughter always says, ‘Mum, you’re a grown woman, you can manage!’ Why bother coming if it’s all okay, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closer. Cathy smiled, but her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “How many grandchildren do you have?” “Three. Kieran’s the oldest, eight. Then Maddy and Leo—three and four. Want to see photos?” Cathy pulled out her phone. She showed Helen pictures for nearly twenty minutes—children at the beach, at home, blowing out birthday candles. In every photo, Cathy’s right there with them, hugging, pulling faces, cuddling—her daughter behind the camera, never in the shot. “She’s not fond of photos,” Cathy explained. “I’m with the kids most of the time. My daughter works, son-in-law too, so I’m…well, I help. Pick them up, homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same at first—helped out every day when her grandson was born. Now she visited maybe once a month, usually Sundays, if their schedules matched. “And you?” “One grandson. Nine. Bright lad, does activities.” “You see him much?” “Sundays…sometimes. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Yeah. Busy.” They sat in silence, watching the drizzle patter the window. That evening Cathy said, out of the blue: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cathy was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the floor. “Really, I don’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just don’t.” “Why?” “What’s the point? I’ll get home—Kieran will have fluffed his homework, Maddy will be full of snot again, Leo will have ripped his trousers. My daughter will be at work till late, son-in-law always travelling. Me? I’ll be on laundry duty, cooking, babysitting, always on call. And they never even—” she paused, voice catching, “—they never even say thank you, because that’s just what grandmas do, right? We’re meant to.” Helen said nothing. There was a lump in her throat. “Sorry,” Cathy wiped her eyes. “Falling apart.” “Don’t be,” Helen said quietly. “I…retired five years ago. Finally thought I’d have time for myself. Go to the theatre, galleries, learn French even. I made it to two weeks of French class.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave. Asked for help. ‘You’re grandma, you don’t work, it’s easy for you.’ I couldn’t say no.” “And?” “Three years babysitting all day. Then, when he started nursery, every other day. Then school, so, once a week. And now…now they have a nanny. I sit at home, waiting for a call. If they remember.” Cathy nodded solemnly. “My daughter promised to visit in November. I cleaned the house top to bottom, baked pies. She rang last minute—‘Sorry Mum, Kieran’s got sports, we can’t come.’” “And she never came?” “Never came. I gave the pies to my neighbour.” They sat in silence, listening to rain against glass. “You know what’s hardest?” Cathy said. “Not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I keep that phone in my hand, hoping they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.” Helen’s nose prickled. “I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I think, maybe my son just wants a chat. But it’s always practical.” “And we drop everything to help,” Cathy gave a short laugh. “Because we’re mums, after all.” “Yeah.” The next day began with painful dressings. Afterwards, they lay quietly, until Cathy suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Loving daughter, good son-in-law, grandchildren. I believed I was needed. That they couldn’t manage without me.” “And?” “And now, here, I see they’re coping just fine. My daughter, four days, never once complained. She’s even cheerful on the phone. So—they can do without me. I just make things easier. One free granny-nanny.” Helen pushed herself up on one elbow. “You know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son his mum would always help, always be there, her plans coming second to his.” “I did the same. My daughter calls—I drop everything.” “We taught them that we’re not people,” Helen said slowly, “that we don’t have lives of our own.” Cathy nodded. Silence. “So now what?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day Helen could get up without the nurse’s help. On the sixth she walked to the end of the corridor. Cathy followed a day behind, the two of them shuffling along arm-in-arm. “After my husband died,” Cathy said, “I was lost. My daughter told me, ‘Your new purpose is the grandchildren. Live for them.’ So, I did. But that purpose…felt one-way. I’m there for them—but they’re only there for me when it suits.” Helen told Cathy about her divorce—thirty years ago, when her son was five—how she’d raised him alone, worked evenings, two jobs, fittings studies in between. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, he’d be the perfect son. That if I gave everything, he’d always be grateful.” “But he grew up and lives his own life,” Cathy finished. “That’s right. And that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel so lonely.” “Me neither.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son turned up unannounced. Tall, smartly dressed, a bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doc says a few more days, you’ll be home. Fancy coming to ours for a bit? Olesya says the guest room’s ready.” “Thanks, but I’d rather be at home.” “Whatever you want. Just ring if you need anything.” He stayed twenty minutes—shared his news, chatted about work and new car, asked if she needed money, promised a visit next week. He left quickly, clearly relieved. Cathy pretended to sleep during the visit. When the door closed, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” “Yes.” “Handsome.” “Yes.” “Cold as ice.” Helen said nothing, her throat tight. “You know,” Cathy whispered, “maybe we just need to stop waiting for love from them. Just…let go. See that they’re grown up, living their own lives. Let’s find our own, too.” “Easier said than done.” “Hard to do. But what choice is there? Keep waiting forever?” Helen surprised herself by shifting to a familiar tone. “What did you tell your daughter?” “Told her: after the operation, I need two weeks rest. Doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “And?” “At first she protested. I said, ‘You’re an adult, you’ll manage. I can’t right now.’” “Was she cross?” “Oh, furious,” Cathy giggled. “But you know? I felt lighter. Like I’d taken off some heavy coat.” Helen closed her eyes. “I worry if I say ‘no’, they’ll stop calling altogether.” “How often do they call now?” Silence. “Exactly. Can hardly get any worse.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed quietly, as if parting for good. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cathy suggested. Helen nodded. They added numbers. Stood awkwardly, not quite able to let go. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “Thank you. I haven’t talked to anyone like this in thirty years. Not really.” “Me neither.” They hugged, gingerly, careful with their stitches. The nurse brought their paperwork, called them taxis. Helen left first. At home, it was silent, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Checked her phone—three messages from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Call me when you get in”, “Don’t forget your tablets.” She wrote: “Home now. All good.” Put the phone down. She stood up, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a folder she hadn’t opened in five years. Inside: a French course brochure, and a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the brochure, thinking. Her phone rang—Cathy. “Hi. Sorry for calling so soon. I just…wanted to.” “I’m glad you did. I really am.” “Listen, want to meet up again? When we’re stronger. Maybe in two weeks? A coffee? Walk in the park? If you want, of course.” Helen looked at the brochure. At her phone. Then back at the brochure. “I’d like that. Very much. You know what? Why not this Saturday? I’ve had enough of lying at home.” “Saturday? Really? Did the doctor say—?” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to think about myself.” “Deal. Saturday it is.” They hung up. Helen picked up the French course brochure—the new term started in a month. Enrolment still open. She reached for her laptop and began filling in the registration form—her hands were shaking, but she filled it all in. Rain tapped at the window, but sunlight started to break through the clouds—faint, autumnal, but sunlight nonetheless. And Helen realised, perhaps for the first time, that her life might just be beginning. She hit ‘submit’.

Convenient Grandmothers

Eleanor Smith wakes to laughter. Not to a quiet giggle or a restrained chuckle, but to peals of uproarious, inappropriate-to-a-hospital-ward laughterthe kind shes never had any patience for, not in all her years. Its coming from her bedmate, who clutches her phone to her ear and gestures wildly with her free hand, as if the person on the other end can actually see her.

Oh, Linda, youre too much! Did he really say that? In front of everyone?

Eleanor glances at her watch. A quarter to seven in the morning. Another fifteen minutes before the ward wakes up officiallyfifteen rare moments to gather her thoughts before her operation.

Last night, when they wheeled her in, her neighbour was already installed, swiftly tapping away at her phone. Theyd exchanged brief formalitiesGood evening, Helloand then retreated into their own heads. Eleanor had been grateful for the peace.

Now, a circus.

Excuse me, she says quietly but firmly. Would you mind keeping it down?

The other woman turns, round-faced, with cropped silver hair, defiantly left undyed, and a riotous red-and-white spotted pyjama setof all things, in hospital.

Oh, Linda, Ill call you back. Someones trying to teach me manners here, she says into her phone, then looks at Eleanor with a big smile. Sorry! Im Catherine Brown. Did you sleep at all? I never manage the night before surgery, so I just call everyone I know.

Eleanor Smith. I still like to rest, even if you cant sleep, Eleanor responds.

But youre not sleeping now, are you? Catherine winks. Alright, Ill whisper. Promise.

She does not whisper. By breakfast, Catherines made two more calls, her voice only getting louder each time. Eleanor turns theatrically to the wall, burying her head under the sheets; it does nothing.

Daughter just called, Catherine explains as they sit at their untouched breakfasts. Shes worriedits my op today. Poor thing. I have to reassure her, you know?

Eleanor says nothing. Her own son hasnt called, but then again, she didnt expect it. She knows he had an early meetingan important one. Thats how she raised him: work is serious business.

Catherine gets taken to surgery first. She strides down the corridor, waving grandly and calling something to the nurse, who laughs. Eleanor wishes shed be moved to another room after the procedure.

An hour later they take Eleanor herself. She doesnt cope well with anaesthetic. When she comes round, she feels sick and a dull ache bites in her side. A nurse reassures her: all is well, just hang in there. Eleanor does. Shes always been good at withstanding things.

By evening, when shes returned to their room, Catherines already back, lying flat with a grey face, eyes closed, drip in hand. Quiet. For the first time, utterly silent.

How are you? Eleanor finds herself asking, though she hadnt meant to.

Catherine opens her eyes, manages a weak smile. Still here, somehow. You?

Me too.

A hush falls. Outside, twilight gathers. The IVs clink softly.

Sorry about this morning, Catherine offers suddenly. When Im on edge, I cant stop chattering. I know its annoying, its just how I am.

Eleanor wants to reply tartly, but exhaustion wins. She ekes out: Its alright.

Neither of them sleeps that night. Both ache. Catherine doesnt phone anyone, just lies there, fidgeting, sighing. Once, Eleanors almost certain, she hears her quietly crying into the pillow.

The morning sees the doctors rounds: quick check of stitches and temperatures, a brisk, Well done, alls good. Catherine pounces on her phone.

Linda, hello! All fine here, Im still in one piece, stop worrying. And the kids? Lukes temp up again? Oh, its settled now? Told you its nothing.

Eleanor listens despite herself. The kidsCatherines grandchildren, then. Her daughter reporting in.

By contrast, Eleanors phone sits silent. Two texts from her son: Mum, how are you? and Let me know when you can reply. Both sent last night, while she was still in a post-anesthetic daze.

She types back: All fine. Adds a smiley. Hes always liked thosesaid texts without them come across cold.

Three hours later, his reply: Great! Love you.

Will yours be visiting? Catherine asks mid-afternoon.

My son works. Lives far. Im not a child, Ill manage.

Exactly, Catherine agrees. My daughter says the same. Mum, youre an adult, youll cope. Why visit if alls well, right?

Something in her voice makes Eleanor take a closer look. Catherine smiles, but her eyes are far from cheerful.

How many grandchildren?

Three. Lukes the eldest, hes eight. Then theres Daisy and Leo, three and fourjust a year apart. Catherine gets her phone out. Want to see some pictures?

For twenty minutes she shows family snaps: children in the garden, at the seaside, at a birthday with cake. In every picture, Catherine is there toohugging, kissing, making faces. Theres not a single one with her daughter.

Shes taking the photos, Catherine explains. Hates being in them.

Do you see them often? Eleanor asks.

I practically live with them. My daughter worksher husband tooso I help, you know? Collect from nursery, check homework, cook tea.

Eleanor nods. She used to be like that. The first few years after her grandson was born, she helped every day. Then he got older; now she visits once a month, on Sundays, if it suits everyones diaries.

And you?

One grandson. Nine. Hes brightthats what they say anyway. Always off to this club or that.

Often see him?

Sundays sometimes. Theyre very busy. I get it.

Hmm, Catherine turns to the window. Busy.

They lapse into silence. Out the window, rain traces down the glass.

That evening Catherine says, unexpectedly, I dont want to go home.

Eleanor looks up. Catherines perched on the bed, knees hugged, staring at the floor.

I really dont. Ive thought about it and I justdont.

Why not?

What for? Ill go home and Luke wont have done his homework, Daisyll have a runny nose again, Leo will have torn another pair of trousers. Daughters working till late, son-in-laws forever away on business. Ill be washing, cooking, cleaning, minding the kids and they wont even her voice falters. Not even a thank you. JustThats what grandmas do.

Eleanor stays silent, fighting tears herself.

Sorry, Catherine rubs her eyes. Getting a bit emotional.

Dont be, Eleanor says quietly. I retired five years ago. Thought finally Id have time for me. Theatre, exhibitions even signed up for French classes. Managed a fortnight.

And?

My daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, asked for help. Youre a grandma, youre free, its easy for you. Couldnt say no.

Did you cope?

Three years, day in, day out. Then nursery, so a bit less. Then schooljust once a week. Now Now they really dont need me. They have a nanny. I just wait at home. For them to call, if they remember.

Catherine nods.

My daughter was meant to visit in November, she says quietly. I scrubbed the house, baked pies. Then she rangSorry, Mum, Lukes got football, cant make it.

She didnt come?

No. Gave the pies to my neighbour.

They sit, listening to the rain patter.

You know whats really hard? Catherine says. Not that they dont visit. But that I still wait for themgripping the phone thinking maybe, just maybe, theyll call just to say they miss me. Not because they need something.

Eleanor feels her nose sting.

I wait too. Every time the phone rings, I hope its my son just wanting a chat. But its always something that needs sorting.

And we always help, Catherine laughs hollowly. Were their mums, after all.

Yes.

The next day the dressings come off. It hurts them both. Afterwards they lie silent, until Catherine says, I always thought I had a happy family. Beloved daughter, great son-in-law, lovely grandkids. That I was needed. That they couldnt manage without me.

And?

And here, Ive realisedthey do just fine. Daughter hasnt complained once about how hard it is, quite the opposite. Shes breezy, upbeat. So they can manage. Its just easier for them when Im there to do the babysitting for free.

Eleanor props herself up on her elbow.

You know, I see nowits my own fault. I taught my son that Mum always steps in, always helps, always waits. That my needs dont matter, but his do.

I was just the same. Daughter calls, I drop everything and run.

Weve trained them to see us as well, not people, Eleanor says softly. As if we dont have our own lives.

Catherine nods. So now what?

I dont know.

By the fifth day, Eleanors able to get out of bed unaided. On the sixth, she walks to the end of the corridor. Catherines a day behind, but determined. They pace the hallway together, slowly, steadying themselves on the wall.

After my husband died, I was lost, Catherine says. Thought life was over. But my daughter saidYouve got a new purposelook after the grandkids. So I did. Only its a very one-sided purpose. Im always there for thembut theyre there for me only when it suits them.

Eleanor tells her about her divorce, thirty years ago, when her son was five. How she raised him alone, studied at night, worked two jobs.

I thought, if Im the perfect mother, hell be the perfect son. That if I give everything, hell be grateful.

And he grew up and has his own life, Catherine finishes for her.

Yes. And I suppose thats normal. I just didnt think Id feel so lonely.

Me neither.

On the seventh day, Eleanors son shows upwithout warning. Shes reading on the bed when he appears in the doorway: tall, expensive coat, carrier bag of fruit in hand.

Mum, alright? he grins, kisses her head. How are you? Any better?

Much better.

Great! Doctor says youll be out soonthree days tops. Maybe youll come stay with us? Georgina says the guest rooms empty.

Thank you, but Id rather be in my own place.

As you wish. But call if you change your mind.

He stays twenty minutes. Shares news of work, her grandson, a new car. Asks if she needs any money. Promises to visit next week. Leaves quickly, relief in his step.

Catherine pretends to sleep on her bed. When hes gone, she opens her eyes.

That your son?

Yes.

Handsome.

Yes.

But cold as ice.

Eleanor doesnt answer. Her throats too tight.

You know, Catherine says softly, maybe its time we stopped expecting love from them. Let go a bit. Accept theyve grown up, have their own lives. And we need to find our own, too.

Easier said than done.

Hard to do, yes. But whats the alternative? Do we just sit here forever, waiting for them to remember us?

What did you tell your daughter? Eleanor asks suddenly, surprising herself by switching to you.

I told her, after Im discharged, I need a couple of weeks rest. Doctors orders. No lifting, cant look after the kids.

And?

She wasnt pleased. I said, Linda, youre grown up. Youll manage. I cant right now.

Did she sulk?

Oh, definitely, Catherine laughs. But you know what? I felt lighter. Like Id put down a heavy load at last.

Eleanor closes her eyes.

Im scared, though. If I say no, if I put myself first, theyll be upset. Might even stop ringing at all.

Do they ring you much now?

Silence.

Exactly. Cant get any worse. Might get better.

On the eighth day, theyre discharged at the same time. They pack in silenceit feels like a goodbye.

Lets swap numbers, Catherine suggests.

Eleanor nods. They add each other on their phones. Stand for a moment, looking at each other.

Thank you, Eleanor says. For being here.

And thank you. I havent spoken to anyone properlylike this, heart to heartin thirty years.

Me neither.

They hug, awkward and tender, careful of their stitches. The nurse hands out their papers, calls a taxi. Eleanor leaves first.

At home, all is quiet and empty. She unpacks, showers, sags onto the sofa. Checks her phone. Three messages from her son: Mum, out yet?, Call me when youre back, Dont forget your tablets.

She types, Home. All good. Puts the phone down.

She gets up, goes to the cupboard, pulls out a folder she hasnt opened in five years: theres a French course brochure, and a printout of the local theatre schedule. She stares at them.

The phone ringsCatherine.

Hi. Sorry to ring so soon, just felt like it.

Im glad you did. Really.

Fancy meeting up? When were a bit strongerin a fortnight? Coffee shop, or a walk, if you like.

Eleanor looks at the brochure, the phone, then back.

Id love to. Really would. And you know, why wait two weeks? How about this Saturday? Im tired of lying around.

Saturday? Are you sure? Doctors did say

They did. But for thirty years, I put everyone before myself. Time I thought about me.

Saturday it is, then.

They say their goodbyes. Eleanor puts the phone down, picks up the French course ad again. Lessons start in a monthenrolments still open.

She opens her laptop and begins the registration form. Her hands shake, but she keeps typing. Until the last line.

Rain taps at the window. But behind the clouds, a little sunlight breaks through. Not bright, autumn sunbut sunshine all the same.

And for the first time, Eleanor wonders if perhaps, her life is only just beginning. She clicks submit.