**The Phone Call**
Mira had finished lunch, washed the dishes, and settled down for a nap. Her husband, Paul, had driven to his friend’s countryside cottage to help mend a fence. He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening—Monday meant work for him. Mira had retired a year ago, while Paul still had two years left before his own retirement.
An unexpected ring jolted her awake. Disoriented, it took her a second to realise it was the phone.
“Yes…?” she answered hoarsely, still half-asleep, not even glancing at the screen.
Who else would call her but their daughter or Paul? Paul hated phone calls, so it must be their daughter—living in another city with her husband, soon expecting her first child.
“Mira? Were you asleep?” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” Mira asked warily.
A deliberately loud sigh crackled through the line.
“You don’t recognise me? How long has it been?”
“Lily? How did you get my number?” Mira’s surprise was edged with unease.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mum a few years back—she gave it to me.”
Mira vaguely remembered her mother mentioning something like that.
“Are you in town?” The moment she asked, she knew it was a silly question. Why call unless she wanted to meet? “Last I heard, you’d moved to America,” she added.
A laugh burst through the receiver, morphing abruptly into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Mira sat up.
“In hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? There’s something I need to say. And don’t bring anything—just yourself.”
“In hospital? Are you ill?” Mira was fully awake now.
“Hard to talk… I’ll text you the address.”
“But wait—” The line went dead.
A moment later, the message arrived with the hospital’s name. *God, does Lily have cancer?* She reread the words, shaken.
She checked the clock—half past five. By the time she got there, visiting hours would be over. She headed to the kitchen, pulling chicken from the freezer for broth. Lily said not to bring anything, but who visits the hospital empty-handed? Homemade broth wasn’t just food—it was comfort. She left the chicken defrosting in the sink and sat at the table. Their daughter was twenty-eight now, which meant she hadn’t seen Lily in just as long.
Lately, Mira met all news—good or bad—with caution. The call left her unsettled. And of course, Paul wasn’t home. Maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth, visit Lily, and learn the truth. But sleep wouldn’t come.
Lily had been raised by her paternal grandmother from age ten. There’d been little affection in that house, so she often stayed late at Mira’s, doing homework together. The grandmother brewed hooch, supplying the local drunkards, Lily’s parents included. The wives of those men threatened to burn the illegal still down. Maybe someone did—or maybe, as the police believed, Lily’s father fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Either way, her parents never made it out of the burning house. Granny vanished somewhere, and Lily, as always, was with Mira. They survived.
After the fire, the council moved Lily and her grandmother into a hostel. No more brewing hooch in shared kitchens. The old woman grew bitter, counting every penny, snapping at Lily for every bite she took. Lily ate at Mira’s.
Granny had despised Lily’s mother, calling her a witch who’d ensnared her son into ruin. The free-flowing hooch was never mentioned. Lily’s mother had been stunning—men of all ages turned to stare. Her father’s jealousy turned violent.
Lily grew up looking just like her: tall, slender, with wild auburn curls, dark eyes, full lips, and a face full of freckles that only made her glow brighter.
Right after school, Lily ran off with some travelling lad. *”Just like her mother,”* Granny sighed.
Mira’s mother never approved of their friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Lily left town, she’d been relieved, always fearing she’d lead Mira astray. What bound them together? Even Mira couldn’t say—but life was never dull with Lily.
Mira finished college, started working, met Paul, and married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Lily only existed in whispers after that.
When Mira was drowning in newborn exhaustion, Lily reappeared—more striking than ever, even more like her mother.
“Look at you,” Lily said without greeting. “Marriage and motherhood don’t suit you. Never having kids.”
“Famous last words,” Mira smirked.
Lily confessed she’d had too many abortions to ever carry a child. Yet, maternal instinct lingered. She happily babysat, taking the baby for walks so Mira could nap or cook.
Lily’s first lover—the one she’d run off with—was long gone. Then came an older man, who rented her a flat in central London, visiting twice a week.
“Living the high life,” Lily sighed later.
“Why *almost*?” Mira asked. She found Lily’s tales tedious but humoured her.
“He was ancient. Revolting. Not cheap, though—loads of cash, jewellery, furs.”
“What about his wife? His kids?”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Lily waved it off.
When he found out about her other men, he threw her out. More followed—even a foreigner. That’s where the America rumours came from, though he was Norwegian.
“Why am I talking about me? How’d you end up trapped like this? You call this happiness? Not for me.”
Paul was wary of Lily.
“Didn’t know you had a friend like *her*,” he said after their first meeting.
“Keep your voice down!” Mira hissed. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go—her gran’s dead. She’s kind, just rough around the edges. You should see her with our daughter.”
Then their baby spiked a fever that wouldn’t break. On the third day, they called an ambulance. The hospital kept her overnight. Mira chased after in her dressing gown and slippers.
Paul froze—but Lily brought fresh clothes, toiletries. A week later, they came home to a spotless flat, soup in the fridge, meatballs in a tub.
“Did you *cook*? And mop?” Mira blinked.
“Lily did,” Paul muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tart. Where is she?”
“Gone. Why d’you care? How’s the baby?”
That night, Mira curled into Paul, missing him. The stress had dried up her milk; no more pain when he held her. But he mumbled something and turned away. The next night, too.
“Paul, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? Even when I was half-dead tired, I never refused you,” she said, hurt.
He fumbled excuses. Things eventually smoothed over. Mira shed the baby weight—no need to eat for two anymore.
Their daughter grew up, married. She and Paul settled into quiet companionship, closer than in their youth.
And now, this call.
Mira couldn’t picture Lily dying. Some mistake. She tossed all night, rose at dawn, and started the broth.
She didn’t wait for visiting hours, pouring it into a flask and heading to the hospital. Maybe she could sweet-talk the guard—or bribe him.
The ward held two narrow beds. One held a thin woman in a headscarf, seeming decades older—until she opened her eyes.
Mira barely recognised Lily. Her face was gaunt, pale, the freckles vanished. Her hands lay like brittle twigs on the blanket. The vibrant Lily was gone; even her dark eyes had dimmed.
Mira’s shock must have shown.
“Didn’t recognise me,” Lily said.
Mira forced a smile, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Lily nodded at the bed’s edge.
Mira sat, fumbling with the flask.
“Don’t bother. Won’t eat it,” Lily said, watching her.
“I’ll leave it here. Fresh today. Maybe later.”
Silence.
“How are you feeling?” Mira asked, treading carefully.
“Like someone at the end.”
“Did they operate?”
“Too late. Let’s not waste time. I wanted to tell you…”
“What?”
“Don’t interrupt,” Lily snapped, coughing violently before catching her breath. “Always envied you. Nice flat, good husband, your daughter, parents alive. Even when you fell asleep mid-sentence, exhausted—I envied you.” She paused.
“So many men, so much money… Not one happy moment. Except… remember when your daughter was hospitalised?”
“Of course. You brought me clothes,” Mira smiled.
“Thought I’d take this to my grave… But now…” Lily’s voice faded, each word laboured. “You were inhospital, and I… I stayed with Paul.
