The Next Step Is Mine
“Mrs. Whitmore, have you completely lost your mind?” Headmistress Eleanor Caldwell’s sharp voice cut through the quiet of the staff room. “Resigning at fifty-eight? What on earth will you do with yourself?”
Margaret carefully stacked her teaching materials without raising her eyes. Her hands trembled, but she fought to keep it hidden.
“I’ll manage, Eleanor. Somehow.”
“Do you understand what you’re throwing away? Thirty-six years at this school! The children adore you, parents sing your praises… And your pension is just two years away! What will you do at home all day?”
Margaret finally looked up. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back.
“And what am I doing here? The same routine every day. Lessons, marking papers until midnight, preparing classes as if I don’t know the curriculum by heart after forty years. The children…” She trailed off, running a hand over her face. “They’re different now, Eleanor. They don’t hear me anymore.”
“Nonsense! Just yesterday Sarah Thompson said only you could make maths make sense to her son!”
“Make sense…” Margaret gave a bitter smile. “And what does he do at break? Stares at his phone like all the others. Ask him a question and he mumbles. Explain a problem and he gazes out the window. Then stays up until three gaming at home.”
Eleanor sighed heavily and moved to the window.
“Margaret, why torment yourself? Times change, children change… But we must teach them! Who else will?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said quietly. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”
Walking home through familiar streets, Margaret mechanically counted the steps to her flat. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Always twenty to the second floor. Everything in her life had been predictable, scheduled down to the minute.
“Mum, you’re home early!” Her daughter Emily peered from the kitchen. “Is something wrong?”
“I handed in my notice,” Margaret said shortly, heading to her room.
“What notice? Mum, where are you going?” Emily hurried after her.
“My resignation.”
Emily froze, then grabbed the doorframe.
“Are you ill? Do you have a fever?” She rushed to feel her mother’s forehead.
“Leave it, Em. I’m not ill. I’ve just decided.”
“Decided what? Mum, do you understand what you’re saying?” Emily sat on the bed’s edge. “You’ve got job security, a good staff, your salary… It’s not huge but reliable. What now? Sit at home? That’s a recipe for depression!”
Margaret took off her shoes, rubbing her tired feet.
“Is what I have now joy? Happiness?” She looked at her daughter with weary eyes. “Every morning I wake up dreading the day. I go to school like a prisoner to work. Stand at that whiteboard explaining the same things for the hundredth time, just thinking: when will this end?”
“Mum, everyone feels like that sometimes! It’s called burnout. You need a holiday…”
“A holiday?” Margaret laughed bitterly. “Forty years without a real break. Forty years of school every day, marking every night. Weekends preparing lessons. Holidays doing training courses or digging the garden. When was I meant to rest?”
Emily fidgeted with her jumper hem.
“What will Robert say?” she finally asked.
“What’s Robert got to do with it?”
“How? He’s your husband! You’re—”
“We what?” Margaret turned. “We meet once a week, on Sundays. Cinema or theatre. Then he walks me home, kisses my cheek and leaves. Three years of the same routine.”
“But you’re planning to—”
“Planning what?” Margaret stood before the mirror. “Emily, look at me. What do you see?”
Emily shrugged awkwardly.
“I see my mum.”
“I see an old woman. Grey roots touched up monthly at the same salon. Wrinkles multiplying yearly. Hands that know only chalk and exercise books. Eyes that forgot how to shine. And you know the worst? I can’t remember the last real laugh I had.”
Emily hugged her mother’s shoulders.
“Mum, don’t say that! You’re beautiful, clever…”
“Clever? If I were clever, I wouldn’t have lived my whole life by someone else’s script. School, university, teaching at my old school. Married the first man who asked. Had you, divorced, then work, work, work… Where was I in all this? Not the teacher, not the mum, not the ex-wife. Just Margaret. I lost her somewhere along the way.”
The front door slammed, followed by her grandson’s footsteps.
“Gran!” Ten-year-old Ben burst in. “What’s for tea?”
“In a minute, love,” Margaret called, wiping her eyes. “Emily, we’ll talk later.”
Ben charged in like a whirlwind, dumped his schoolbag and hugged her.
“Gran, can I go to Jake’s? He’s got a new game with mega monsters!”
“Homework done?”
“Mostly… Just maths left, but it’s easy. Please?”
Margaret studied his lively eyes, restless hands, a whole life ahead.
“Ben, tell me—what do you want most right now?”
He scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I want holidays to last forever. And Mum to stop nagging about grades. And Dad to visit for my birthday like he promised. And a dog, but Mum says no.” He looked at her seriously. “What do you want, Gran?”
Margaret sat on the bed, drawing him close.
“You know, I’m not sure. I stopped asking myself so long ago, I forgot how to want things for me.”
“How?” He frowned. “You always get what you want!”
“No, darling. I stopped wanting. Thought it was wrong—at my age—to dream.”
Ben considered this.
“Grandad Jim says it’s never too late. He moved to his cottage at seventy to grow tomatoes. Says he always dreamed of gardening but worked in a factory.”
“Grandad Jim’s a wise man,” Margaret smiled. “Do your homework, then you can visit Jake.”
After he rushed off, Margaret remained sitting. Her grandson’s words stuck like splinters. Never too late to dream. What had she dreamed of as a girl? Travel, the sea, becoming an artist… Ridiculous—remembering childhood dreams at fifty-eight.
At dawn, Margaret rose before her alarm. Outside, the city stirred reluctantly. Her phone rang.
“Margaret, it’s Eleanor. I’ve been thinking all night. Could we talk properly?”
“My decision’s made, Eleanor.”
“At least hear me out! I understand it’s hard. But what will you do? You’ll be bored stiff at home!”
“Perhaps. But it’ll be my boredom, not someone else’s.”
“What are you saying?”
“That my whole life I’ve done what was expected. Studied hard because I should. Became a teacher because Mother said it was noble. Married because friends were marrying. Had a child because it was the done thing. Worked without complaint to provide. Now I want to live for myself.”
“And what will that look like?”
Margaret watched the sunrise.
“I don’t know. Maybe art classes. Amateur theatre. Computer lessons. Or moving somewhere new—a seaside town… What matters is it’s my choice.”
“Margaret, you’re just tired. Rest and this will pass.”
“Eleanor—are you happy?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Simple. Do you wake joyful? Work with pleasure? Or are you just going through the motions?”
A long pause.
“Margaret—I’m forty-eight. Two kids, a mortgage, an ill mother. Happiness isn’t the point. I have to work.”
“Exactly. ‘Have to.’ But do you want to?” Margaret set down her mug. “I don’t want to live by ‘have to’ anymore. I want to try living by ‘want to.'”
After the call, Margaret watched the city awaken. For the first time in decades, her day held no plan. No school, no lessons to prepare…
She opened a long-neglected drawer. Beneath old photos lay a sketchbook—yellowed pages with childish pencil drawings. She remembered creating them, dreaming of being an artist. Mother had said, “Drawing isn’t a career, Margaret. A hobby. You need a proper profession.”
Flipping through, she paused at a sea sketch—clumsy but full of longing for the unknown…
“Mum? What’s that?” Emily entered.
“My old drawings. Just found them.”
Emily peered over her shoulder. “You were good! Is that the sea?”
“Yes. I desperately wanted to see it. Friends went to the coast, but we couldn’t afford it. I drew it, imagining waves on my feet…”
“Did you ever go?”
“Once. On honeymoon with your father. Three days in Brighton.” Margaret closed the book. “It rained the whole time.”
“Mum—let’s go!” Emily exclaimed suddenly. “I can take leave, bring Ben. We’ll go to the coast!”
“Em, you’ve got a mortgage. How?”
“So what? We always scrimp and save—while life passes! Mum, after last night I realised—I’m just like you. Stuck in a job I hate for the salary. Too scared to change because of Ben. Automatic living: work, home, work. And the worst? When Ben growsHer fingers hovered over the weathered sketchbook for just a moment longer before she snapped it shut with quiet determination and turned to her daughter with the first real smile either of them had seen in years—the kind that reached her tired eyes and hinted at waves yet to come.
