I woke up a minute before my alarm went off. The room was still a bit dark, but outside the curtains you could see that typical February grey light over the streets of Birmingham. My back ached from the nights sleep, my fingers a little swollen the usual morning stuff. I sat on the edge of the bed, waited for the spinny feeling to fade, then finally got up.
The kitchen was quiet. Mark had already left for his run, like hes done for the past couple of years since he got the cholesterol test and got a bit scared. I switched the kettle on, pulled two mugs from the cupboard, then put one back he only drinks water in the mornings anyway.
While the water heated, I checked my phone. Nothing new in the family WhatsApp group, just a photo my son sent of his little boy in nursery holding a cardboard rocket, taken the night before. I smiled automatically and felt that familiar warm rush its all for them that I put up with the traffic, the endless meetings, the paperwork.
Ive been at the same job for twentyeight years now the HR office at the local NHS clinic. I started as a junior inspector, worked my way up to senior officer. Doctors and nurses have come and gone, heads of the department have turned over, but I stayed. I know whos got kids, whos married, who needs a hand sorting out maternity leave, and who I have to nudge a bit so they remember to bring in their health certificates.
Lately its gotten tougher. Paper files turned into electronic systems, reports multiplied, and upstairs keeps demanding more numbers and charts. I grumble, but I learn the new software, jot passwords down in my little notebook, keep tidy folders on my desk. I like feeling useful without me the quiet chaos would just collapse completely.
I poured myself a mug of tea, dropped a slice of lemon in, and shuffled to the window. Outside the janitor was shovelling the last of the snow to the curb, a few cars inching out of the driveway. I imagined myself in ten or fifteen years looking at the same yard, only from the balcony, wrapped in a cosy cardigan. Maybe my older grandson would be sitting beside me, kicking his legs and asking why the snow looks so dull.
That picture has been stuck in my head for ages. In summer I picture the cottage with its peeling paint, the vegetable beds where I stubbornly try to grow dill, and evenings at the BBQ arguing with Mark about how much salt to toss on the kebabs. Growing old feels like an inevitable, if not wildly cheerful, stage its just mine.
The front door clicked, and the sound of sneakers rustled down the hallway. Mark drifted into the kitchen, taking a deep breath of the cold air.
Tea again, no sugar? he asked, wiping his neck with a towel.
The doctor said less sweet stuff, I reminded him.
He chuckled and filled a glass with filtered water. His temples were a shade greyer now, his face a bit more drawn than it used to be. I used to love his sharp cheekbones and confident stare; now I see more tiredness and a hidden irritation he tries not to show.
Ill be late today, he said, looking out the window. Dont expect dinner tonight.
Another meeting? I asked. Or your English lessons?
He winced a little.
Not lessons, a tutor session.
Right, right, I replied. With the tutor.
He gave me a brief glance and stayed quiet. My stomach tightened weve had a lot of those halfsaid things lately, words hanging in the air heavier than any chat.
I got dressed, checked that the bedroom window was shut, and in the hallway I grabbed my familiar bunch of keys. The metal always felt nice and cool in my palm. Those keys have been with me for as long as I can remember house, car, cottage, postbox a small bundle of reassurance.
The bus was packed. Folks stared at their phones, some yawned, others muttered under their breath about the stops. I clutched my bag and let my mind wander through the day ahead. At lunch Id have to ring my mum, ask how her blood pressures doing. Shes seventythree, lives in the neighbouring suburb and stubbornly refuses to move closer to us or even to my brother.
I know everyone around here, I thought aloud. The pharmacy, the shop, the clinic. Where am I going?
Each time I nodded, I felt a tiny spark of belonging. Familiar walls, known faces, the route to the bus stop I could walk with my eyes closed. Its that feeling that tells you youre still in the right place.
The clinic smelled of antiseptic and medicine. A security guard gave me a nod at the entrance. Patients were already crowding the corridors, some arguing with reception, others glancing at the clock. I slipped into my office, hung my coat, switched the computer on, and headed for the kettle.
The HR room was cramped: three desks, a filing cabinet for staff records, an ancient printer that chattered and chewed paper. My colleague, a thirtysomething woman named Claire, was sorting papers into folders.
Morning, she said. Heard the news?
What news? I set my mug down and sat.
The chief medical officer is calling all department heads to a meeting at ten. Something about optimisation.
The word hung in the air like a draft. Inside me, a knot tightened. Optimisation in recent years has only meant one thing: cuts.
Maybe its another report, I tried to brush it off.
Maybe, Claire replied uncertainly.
The day spun on. Doctors came in with leave requests, I signed off, entered data, and the word from that morning kept looping in my head.
At ten, they called me into the auditorium with the HR director. Around the table were heads of wards and senior nurses. The chief, a man in his sixties, adjusted his tie and took the podium.
He talked about reforms, new standards, the need to boost efficiency. It sounded like he was speaking through cotton. Then he mentioned a review of the staffing structure, merging some functions, and spotting redundant posts.
Concrete decisions will be taken within the month, the chief said. Heads of units will get lists of positions slated for cuts.
The word positions landed heavy. The HR directors eyes flicked to me, then quickly looked away.
After the meeting Claire was already buzzing. Do you think well be hit? she asked, tapping her pen.
Im not sure, I replied. Were already shortstaffed.
But if they merge us with finance or something she trailed off.
I remembered last year another nearby clinic let one HR officer go, leaving three of us to cover the workload of four. Theyll manage, they said then.
Before lunch I slipped into the HR directors office.
Can I have a minute? I asked, nudging the door open.
He nodded, eyes still glued to his screen.
Did you hear? I began.
Yes, he said shortly.
Our department I stumbled.
He finally looked up, weariness etched on his face.
We dont have any concrete news yet. Were waiting for instructions from above. As soon as we know, Ill let you know, he said.
I left, feeling a wave of heat despite my thin cardigan. My age flashed through my mind fifty, not forty, when you could still try something new. Not thirty, when you could take risks. Just fifty.
I got home later than usual, the bus stuck in a jam, the scenery a blur outside the window. My thoughts kept looping: if Im let go, what work will I find? Who would hire a fiftyyearold HR pro? A private practice? A college? Would I even want to start from scratch, learn new software, join a new team?
Mark came in around nine, looking sharp in the suit he saves for important meetings. He hung his blazer, then walked over to the kitchen.
Had dinner yet? he asked.
I was waiting for you, I replied. Want me to heat up the soup?
No need, Ive already eaten, he said, pouring himself tea. We had a meeting today.
We did too, I said. About the cuts.
He raised an eyebrow.
You?
I dont know yet. They said the staffing will be reviewed, I answered.
He fell silent, then sat opposite me.
Ive got news too, he said. They offered me a contract abroad.
I blinked.
Where?
In Germany. The companys new project needs someone with experience. Twothree years.
My stomach dropped.
Youre thinking of going? I asked.
I said Id think about it, he said. But honestly, its a solid opportunity money, experience.
The mention of money hit hard. The house, the renovation, helping my son with his mortgage, my mums meds all that hinged on a clear figure.
Two or three years, I repeated. And what would I be doing?
He looked away.
We could discuss options. You could come with me. They need HR people there too. I could find out more.
I imagined a foreign city, people speaking a language I barely remembered from school, trying to explain holiday leave. I pictured Mum alone, my son with his family, my grandson. And me, standing in a supermarket near Hamburg, hunting for sour cream with labels I couldnt read.
Or you could stay, he added. Be with the grandkid. Twothree years will fly by.
His confidence wavered a bit. He clenched his mug tighter.
What if it doesnt work out? What if you stay? I asked quietly.
He sighed.
Im not emigrating permanently. Its a work contract.
Even a work contract can be extended, I said. Thered be new chances, new contacts. And here, I gestured at the room, its all the same old routine queues at the clinic, endless road repairs, grocery prices going up. Im tired of watching nothing good happen.
We fell silent. The neighbours chair creaked in the next flat.
Not today, he finally said. Im tired too. Lets talk this weekend.
I nodded, feeling a wave of something rise inside fear, anger, exhaustion.
That night I tossed and turned, listening to Marks breathing and the occasional car passing outside. Thoughts bounced: the cuts, the contract, Mum, the grandson, my own body reminding me of aches in my knees, my back, the blood pressure.
In the morning I called my son.
Hey, mum, Im in a meeting, he whispered. All good?
Yeah, Ill call you back later, I said. I didnt want to spill the whole thing over the phone. Your dads moving abroad? I thought, but held back.
At the clinic the day was hectic. At lunch the HR director called me in.
Nat, he began, sliding a paper across the desk. Weve got the new staffing plan. One post in HR is set for redundancy.
My chest went hollow.
Which one? I asked, already knowing.
Formally the senior officer, he said, pointing at the title. Thats you.
Formally? I echoed.
I can offer you an inspector role a step down, but you wont lose the job. Pay would be lower.
I sank into the chair, my legs turning to mush.
How much lower? I asked.
He quoted a figure about two thousand pounds less a year. I did the math: that meant tighter budgeting for my sons mortgage, for Mums prescriptions, for any extra comforts.
He added, Or you can take the redundancy three months severance, then youll be on the Jobcentre register.
I nodded. The Jobcentre sounded like a world Id never lived in.
Think it over by the end of the week, he said. Let me know what you decide.
I left the office and stood in the corridor, looking out at the snowcovered yard. People came and went, an ambulance shrieked past, life went on as if my news were nothing.
That evening I dropped by Mums flat. She was at the kitchen table, newspaper spread, glasses perched on her nose.
You look pale, she said. Checked your pressure?
Everythings fine, I replied, hiding the weight of the day. I told her about the redundancy, left out the German contract. She frowned.
A pay cut isnt the end of the world, she said. Its worse not to have a job at your age. Itll be hard to find something new.
What if I try something else? I asked. Maybe theres something better?
She sighed. You decide for yourself. At my age I never ran off anywhere. Times are different now.
Her words felt odd, as if time itself had changed its tune.
On the way home I found myself looking at the houses along the road, mentally fitting my life into each. New flats with bright windows, old terraced houses with peeling paint, the same garden trees that had watched me grow up. Where would I end up if everything shifted?
The weekend finally arrived and Mark and I sat down for a proper talk.
I need an answer, he said. The company wants a reply within a month.
I need one by the end of the week, I replied. Either the downgrade or the redundancy.
We looked at each other, both of us a little unsettled.
If you stay on a lower grade, well still manage. Ill earn more, and we can get through those next couple of years, he said.
What if I quit and come with you? I asked. Could I work there? I dont even speak German fluently.
He paused. We could find language courses, maybe a junior role at first. Not necessarily the same senior position.
So Id be cleaning offices? Washing dishes in a café? I joked halfheartedly.
He frowned. Dont underestimate yourself. Youre experienced. Youll find a place.
And Mum? The grandson? I reminded him. Can I live in another city knowing theyre alone?
We could arrange a carer, or move her closer to you, he said. She barely agrees to anything but a homevisit nurse.
He fell silent. The room felt heavy.
Im scared too, he finally admitted. Im fiftytwo. Starting fresh in another country, new colleagues, a new language But staying here feels like watching my light dim. This is a chance. If I turn it down, there wont be another.
His eyes showed fear, not confidence, and a stubborn stubbornness that said he wasnt ready to accept that the best days were behind him.
Whats my chance then? I asked. He didnt have an answer.
We went round in circles for a while, each holding onto our own picture of the future, and those pictures just didnt line up.
That night Mums blood pressure spiked. A neighbour called me, saying she was having a headache and that an ambulance was on the way. I rushed to get Mark up, told him Mum was unwell.
I arrived at Mums flat, the air heavy. She lay on the sofa, pale, forehead damp. A young paramedic checked her pressure, asked questions. I stood there, feeling everything tighten.
The pressures high, but not critical, the paramedic said. Well give her tablets and watch. If it doesnt improve, well admit her.
While the nurse wrote notes, I looked at the familiar wallpaper, the old rug, the chair by the window where I used to do homework as a teenager. This place held my whole life the first time I introduced Mark to my parents, the nights we left the grandson with Mum while we went away.
I realised getting older isnt just about a cottage and grandkids. Its also midnight calls, pills, the fear that no one will be there when you need them.
The next morning, back home, I walked the familiar streets, the houses Id known forever. I pulled out my key ring, felt the cold metal, the familiar click of the house lock. My life was written into these streets.
Later that day I popped into the little café near the clinic. It was quiet, soft music playing. I ordered a coffee and pulled out my notebook.
I started listing options: stay on the lower grade, take the redundancy and look for a new job, go with Mark, stay and wait for him to return. Each line had pros and cons, arrows, question marks.
When the page filled up, I realised every option had someone else at its centre Mark, Mum, my son, my boss. I was only a supporting character, never the main one.
That realization felt uncomfortable, almost shameful, as if Id been selfish for finally admitting I have my own needs.
That evening I called my son and asked to meet. We sat on a park bench, the chill in the air, people bustling past.
My dad got a contract abroad, I said straight. For a few years.
He frowned. And youll go?
I dont know, I admitted. Theres also the cut at work. Theyre offering a downgrade or redundancy.
He looked at his shoes. I dont want you and Dad to give up opportunities because of me or Mum, but I also dont want you to split because of this.
Were not splitting, I said quickly, though a tremor ran through me.
Mum, he said, looking at me. You always help everyone me, Mum, Dad. What do you want? Not just being a good grandma or supporting yourЯ решила, что самое главное слушать своё сердце и позволить себе жить так, как я сама захочу.
