**The Next Step is Mine**
“Valerie, have you completely lost your mind?” The sharp voice of Margaret, the headmistress, cut through the quiet of the staff room. “At fifty-eight, you’re leaving the school? For heaven’s sake, where on earth will you go?”
Valerie neatly stacked her teaching materials without looking up. Her hands trembled, but she refused to let it show.
“I’ll manage, Margaret. Somehow.”
“Do you even realise what you’re doing? Thirty-six years at this school! A respected teacher—the children adore you, the parents sing your praises. And your pension is just two years away. What will you do at home all day?”
Valerie finally lifted her gaze. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she swallowed them down.
“What am I doing *here*? The same thing, day after day. Lessons, marking books till midnight, preparing like I didn’t know these programmes inside out forty years ago. The children…” She trailed off, rubbing her face. “They’re different now, Margaret. They don’t hear me.”
“Nonsense! Just yesterday, Sophie Bennett said her Oliver finally understands maths because of you!”
“Understands?” Valerie scoffed bitterly. “And what does he do at break? Stares at his phone, like all the others. Ask him a question, he mumbles. Explain a problem, he stares out the window. Then stays up till three in the morning on those blasted games.”
Margaret sighed heavily and walked to the window.
“Val, you’re overthinking this. Times change, children change—but they still need teaching! Who else will do it?”
“I don’t know,” Valerie whispered. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”
Valerie walked home through familiar streets, counting the steps to the third floor out of habit. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Always twenty. Everything in her life had been predictable, scheduled down to the minute.
“Mum, you’re home early!” Emily poked her head out from the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“I handed in my notice,” Valerie said shortly, heading to her room.
“Your *notice*? Mum, where are you going?” Emily hurried after her.
“Resigning.”
Emily froze, gripping the doorframe.
“Are you ill? Do you have a fever?” She pressed a hand to Valerie’s forehead.
“Stop fussing, love. I’m fine. I’ve just decided.”
“Decided *what*? Mum, do you even hear yourself? You’ve got a stable job, a good team, a steady salary—small, but reliable. And now what? Sit at home? You’ll be miserable!”
Valerie peeled off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet.
“And what am I now? Happy? Content?” She met Emily’s gaze with tired eyes. “Every morning, I wake up dreading the day. I drag myself to school like a prisoner. Stand at the board, teaching the same thing for the hundredth time, and all I can think is—*when will this end?*”
“Mum, everyone feels like that sometimes! It’s called burnout. You need a holiday, some rest—”
“Rest?” Valerie laughed sharply. “Emily, I haven’t rested in forty years. Forty years of early mornings, late-night marking, weekends swallowed by lesson plans. Every holiday was training courses or digging in the garden. When was I meant to *live*?”
Emily fidgeted with the hem of her jumper.
“What will David say?” she finally asked.
“What’s David got to do with it?”
“Well, he’s your… you know…”
“My what?” Valerie turned. “We see each other once a week. Cinema or theatre on Sundays. He walks me home, kisses my cheek, and leaves. For *three years*, that’s all it’s been.”
“But you’re planning—”
“Planning *what*?” Valerie stood, facing the mirror. “Emily, look at me. What do you see?”
Emily hesitated.
“I see my mum.”
“And I see an old woman. Grey roots dyed every month at the same salon. Wrinkles deepening every year. Hands that know nothing but chalk and textbooks. Eyes that forgot how to shine. And the worst part? I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Not a polite smile—a real, proper laugh.”
Emily wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Mum, don’t say that. You’re beautiful, brilliant—”
“Brilliant?” Valerie pulled away. “If I were brilliant, I wouldn’t have lived as if someone else was writing my life. School, university, teaching at the same place I studied. Married the first man who asked. Had you, divorced, then work, work, work… Where was *I* in all that? Not the teacher, not the mother, not the ex-wife. Just *Valerie*. I lost her somewhere along the way.”
The front door slammed, and ten-year-old Jamie bounded in.
“Gran! What’s for dinner?”
“In a minute, love,” Valerie called, wiping her eyes. “Emily, we’ll talk later.”
Jamie barrelled into the room, dropping his backpack and latching onto her.
“Gran, can I go to Max’s? He got a new game with *mental* monsters!”
“Homework done?”
“Mostly… Just maths left, but it’s easy. *Please?*”
Valerie studied him—bright eyes, restless energy, a lifetime ahead.
“Jamie, tell me—what do you want most right now?”
He scratched his head, thoughtful.
“Summer holidays to last forever. Mum to stop moaning about grades. Dad to come for my birthday like he promised. And a dog, but Mum says no.” He paused. “What do *you* want, Gran?”
Valerie sat, pulling him close.
“Truthfully, Jamie? I’ve forgotten how to want anything for myself.”
“Eh? You always got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“No, love. I just stopped wanting. Decided it wasn’t proper—a woman my age dreaming.”
Jamie frowned.
“Grandad Ted says it’s *never* too late. He moved to the countryside at seventy to grow tomatoes. Says he always wanted to work the land but was stuck in an office.”
“Grandad Ted’s a wise man,” Valerie smiled. “Go finish your homework. Then you can see Max.”
Jamie dashed off, leaving Valerie on the bed, his words prickling in her mind. *Never too late.* What *had* she dreamt of as a girl? Travel, the sea, becoming an artist… Ridiculous, at fifty-eight, to dust off childhood fantasies.
The next morning, Valerie woke before dawn. She brewed tea and sat by the window as the city stirred—commuters hurrying, cars crawling to traffic lights. Just another ordinary day.
Her phone rang.
“Val, it’s Margaret. I didn’t sleep, thinking about yesterday. Meet me. Please, let’s talk properly.”
“My decision’s made.”
“Val, just listen! I know you’re struggling. But what will you *do*? Where will you work? You’ll be bored stiff at home!”
“Maybe. But it’ll be *my* boredom. Not anyone else’s.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That my whole life, I’ve done what was expected. Studied hard because ‘that’s what you do’. Became a teacher because Mum said it was ‘respectable’. Married because no one stays single. Had a child because ‘that’s what women do’. Worked without complaint—because bills needed paying. Now? I want to try living for *me*.”
“And how will you do that?”
Valerie watched the sunrise.
“I don’t know. Maybe take art classes. Join a theatre group. Learn computers. Or just… leave. Go to the coast. The point is, *I’ll* choose.”
“Val, you’re exhausted. Rest, and this’ll pass.”
“Margaret—are *you* happy?”
“What kind of question—”
“A simple one. Do you wake up excited? Love your job? Or are you just… coasting?”
A long silence.
“Val, I’m forty-eight. Two kids, a mortgage, an ailing mother. Happiness doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Exactly. *Have to*—not *want to*.” Valerie set down her mug. “Margaret, I’m done living by ‘have to’. I want to try ‘want to’.”
After hanging up, Valerie opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. Beneath old photos lay a sketchbook—yellowed pages filled with childish pencil drawings. She remembered dreaming of being an artist. Mum had said, *”Val, art’s a hobby, not a career. You need something sensible.”*
She flipped to a page—a rough, unfinished sea. Clumsy lines, but pulsing with longing for something unknown…
“Mum? What’s that?” Emily peered over her shoulder.
“Just an old sketchbook.”
“You were good! Is that the sea?”
“Yeah. I always wanted to see it. School friends went to the coast, butValerie closed the sketchbook, looked at Emily, and said, “Pack your bags—we’re going to find that sea.”
