A Sharp Turn
Helen had never lived alone. First with her parents, then married—two years later, she and her husband had a daughter, Sophie. Even after he left, she and Sophie stayed together for a while. But now, she was completely alone. Wandering the empty flat, she didn’t know what to do, why she was living, or for whom. Life had crumbled, and ahead loomed lonely old age and emptiness.
She couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. They’d never argued seriously, just little things. She never nagged him, let him go out with his mates, kept the flat clean and cosy. The fridge always had soup, dinner was ready on the stove. She’d stayed slim after having Sophie—never been curvy. Her chest had gone up a size during pregnancy, much to her husband’s delight, but after she stopped breastfeeding, it went back. Still, people don’t divorce over that. Everyone said she and James were a perfect match.
Of course, Helen wasn’t blind—she’d noticed him changing. No, he wasn’t staying late at work, but he’d started caring more about his appearance. Matching ties to shirts, getting a trendy haircut.
*”Why don’t you wear dresses?”* he’d asked once.
*”I do, for special occasions,”* she’d answered, confused. He’d never cared before.
*”You look pale today. Feeling alright?”*
*”I always look like this. What’s with the nitpicking?”* she snapped.
One day, she put on blush and went to work like that.
*”Wash it off. It doesn’t suit you,”* James said that evening.
*”Everyone at work complimented me,”* she muttered, but wiped it off anyway.
*”Thought you’d be coming in all dolled up from now on,”* a colleague teased the next day.
*”James didn’t like it.”*
*”Probably realised he’d go mad with jealousy if you looked like that every day,”* the colleague said. Let them think that.
Then her old school friend, Emma—glamorous, loud, but they’d been close for years—rang her up for coffee.
*”How d’you stay so slim without dieting? I have to watch everything or I’ll balloon,”* Emma sighed.
*”Oh, stop. Men still turn their heads for you,”* Helen laughed.
*”They would for you too, but you never let them. Legs like yours? Criminal to hide them in trousers. A pencil skirt would suit you. And you need a proper haircut, maybe go ginger. Sort yourself out—you look like a pensioner.”*
Helen knew this wasn’t just friendly advice.
*”Em, what’s this about? You’ve never—”*
*”Doesn’t matter what I’ve said before,”* Emma cut in. *”Don’t look at me like that.”* She hesitated. *”Sorry. Saw James with some young blonde thing. Sweet little doll, barely twenty. The way he looked at her…”*
Helen shut her eyes, shaking her head.
*”Stop.”*
*”I didn’t want to hurt you. But you’ve been the same for years, never changing. Men have eyes, Helen. Your dullness is giving them toothache.”*
*”That’s not true!”* She stood and rushed out.
At home, she sat on the edge of the bath, staring at the tiles.
*”Mum, Dad’s here,”* Sophie called through the door.
Helen splashed her face and walked out. Sophie vanished into her room, while James sat at the kitchen table, hands folded like a schoolboy.
*”Sorry, didn’t have time to cook. Went out with Emma.”*
*”Not hungry. So you know,”* he said.
*”Know what?”* (She knew.)
*”I’m in love with someone else. Tried to fight it, but I can’t. She’s half my age, but I need her. Sorry. I’ll pack and go.”*
She didn’t stop him. Then Sophie betrayed her too—visiting James more, bringing back gifts from *her*: crop tops, short sparkly dresses, makeup, half-used perfume.
*”Look what Diana gave me! Isn’t it lush?”* Sophie would preen.
*”You shouldn’t take things from her,”* Helen said tightly.
*”Why not?”*
*”Because she took your father!”*
*”So? She’s fun. You’re just… boring. No wonder Dad left.”*
It got worse. Sophie picked up new slang, dyed her hair green and pink, caked on eyeliner. Teachers wrote notes: *disrespectful, skips class.*
But reasoning with her was like stopping a train. Every reply was *”Diana says… Diana thinks…”*
Helen’s hands shook at the name. When she tried banning visits, Sophie threatened to move in with them.
*”So I’m a bad mum? Diana’s better? Fine, go. Just wait till she has a baby—you’ll be out the door.”*
*”Wait, seriously? I can live with Dad?”* Sophie asked, cold.
*”Yes. But he has to call me first.”*
James rang the next day.
*”Sophie said you agreed to her moving in.”*
*”She forced my hand. I can’t handle her—rudeness, skipping school, dressing like God knows what. All thanks to your Diana.”*
*”They get on. You’re just bitter. She can live with us.”* Click.
And she was gone. Helen crawled the walls with rage and self-pity, barely eating. Sophie only called to twist the knife: *”Went to a gig with Diana…”*
When A-level results came, Sophie barely scraped by—no uni hopes, no interest either. Then James called: Sophie had moved in with some lad in a flat-share.
Helen froze.
*”And you just let her?!”*
*”She’s an adult. Your doing. Diana’s pregnant—I’ve got my own worries.”*
*”So your daughter’s disposable? You ruined her! Diana poisoned her mind, and now she’s tossed her aside—”*
Emma’s call was a relief.
*”You alright?”*
*”Hanging myself. James left. Sophie’s gone. Everyone’s abandoned me. I don’t want to live.”*
Emma arrived with whiskey. Helen was drunk by the first sip, sobbing into her fists while Emma muttered *”Wanker,”* *”Cow,”* *”Bloody nightmare…”* Dawn crept in before she finally said:
*”Enough. First, we fix you. Hair, nails, clothes. Then we find decent blokes.”*
*”Where?”* Helen slurred.
*”You’ll see.”*
After the makeover, Helen barely recognised herself—ten years younger. Emma dragged her to galleries, exhibitions. Helen knew nothing about art but loved it. She kept trying Sophie’s number—always switched off.
Then Sophie called.
*”Mum, can we stay a fortnight? Just till we find another flat.”*
Helen nearly cried with relief, didn’t ask questions.
*”Of course!”*
She cleaned, changed sheets in Sophie’s unused room, cooked a roast. She’d made peace with Sophie bringing company—just come home.
The doorbell rang. Helen smiled as she opened it.
Sophie stood there, hollow-eyed, clutching a bundle. Behind her—a lanky guy with shoulder-length hair.
Her smile died. Sophie shoved the baby into her arms, kicked off her trainers, and disappeared into her room. Helen stared at the lad.
*”’Ello,”* he mumbled.
*”Who?”*
*”Boy. His name’s Archie.”*
The lad—*Kieran*—wolfed down food like he’d been starved. Mouth full, he explained: they’d been kicked out because of the baby, no cash for rent, lost his job…
Baby Archie’s screaming saved Helen from hysterics. She rushed to him. Sophie didn’t even come out.
Now, she missed being alone. She raced from work to shops, to the stove. Sophie was always waiting to dump Archie on her.
One night, she came home to a drunk crowd, music blaring, Archie shrieking. It took hours to clear them out.
*”Soph, this can’t go on. You’ve a baby, and you’re bringing in randoms? Kieran eats everything, the neighbours complain—”*
*”Kicking us out? This flat’s half Dad’s—he gave it to me. I live here same as you.”*
Helen had no comeback. Next day, she rang Emma, sobbing.
*”Got an idea,”* Emma said over coffee.
*”What?”*
*”Remember that old film where the guy helps his teacher scare off nightmare neighbours? We hire actors—proper rough types—and you ‘rent out’ your roomHelen agreed, and after a week of staged chaos—brawling “tenants,” police visits—Sophie begged her to come back, humbled and clinging to her mother like she hadn’t since she was a little girl.