The kettle whistled softly on the stove as Eleanor sorted through boxes of tea. Chamomile, peppermint, Earl Grey Victoria had brought them back from her last business trip to Edinburgh. Eleanor smiled, remembering how her daughter had proudly gifted her this flat five years ago.
“Now youll have a proper home, Mum,” Victoria had said, handing over the keys. “No more cramped rentals.”
The modest kitchen had become her sanctuary. Everything here felt familiarthe worn oilcloth on the table, the geranium pots on the windowsill, even the crack in the tile near the cooker seemed like an old friend. She was about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell rang.
Victoria stood in the doorwaysharp in a tailored suit, hair perfectly styled, her expression unreadable.
“Mum, we need to talk.”
Eleanor stepped aside, her heart tightening at the tone.
“Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favouritethe one you brought back.”
“No, thanks.” Victoria remained in the middle of the kitchen. “This wont take long. Mum, I need you to vacate the flat. By tomorrow.”
Eleanor froze, the teapot still in her hand. Surely shed misheard.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The flat needs to be empty. Tomorrow. I cant delay this any longer.”
Hot tea spilled over her hand, but she barely felt it.
“Vicky, I dont understand This is my home. You gave it to”
“Its just a property, Mum,” Victoria checked her phone dismissively. “Youve stayed here, but I cant support you anymore.”
“Support me?” Eleanor gave a strained laugh. “Darling, I pay the bills, I clean”
“Lets not do this,” Victoria wrinkled her nose. “The decisions final. Leave the keys on the table.”
She turned to leave, but Eleanor caught her wrist.
“Wait! At least tell me why? Whats happened?”
“Nothings happened. Its business. The flat could fetch a higher rent.”
The door clicked shut. The silence rang in Eleanors ears. She sank onto a stool, staring at the puddle of spilled tea, the evening sun casting trembling reflections across its surface.
Dazed, she wandered to the bedroom. Photos lined the wallsVictoria beaming in her graduation gown, the two of them building sandcastles at Brighton beach. Back then, Eleanor had sold her cottage to fund Victorias education. Had it been a sacrifice? No. Just love.
“Darling,” she whispered, tracing the photo. “How could you?”
Night fell as she mechanically packed her old suitcase, pausing to memorise every detailthe chipped paint shed meant to fix, the warm glow of her bedside lamp, the geraniums shadow dancing on the wall. Each small thing suddenly priceless.
Somewhere deep down, she hoped morning would bring a phone callan apology, a terrible joke, anything. But the phone stayed silent as the clock ticked away her final hours in the place shed called home.
The night was stifling. Eleanor sat on a park bench, clutching her suitcase, watching the stars. Somewhere, people slept in warm beds, while sheGod, how had it come to this?
Shed left the keys polished on the table. Maybe Victoria would notice, remember how her mother always cared for little things.
“Evening,” came a gravelly voice. A bearded man in a threadbare jacket sat at the far end of the bench. “Dont mind me. Rough night?”
Eleanor stiffened. “Oh, no, Im just walking.”
He chuckled. “At 3 a.m.? With a suitcase?”
“Well, yes,” she attempted a smile. “I enjoy night strolls.”
“Right.” He pulled an apple from his pocket. “Want one? Just washed it in the fountain.”
She shook her head, but her stomach betrayed her with a growl. She hadnt eaten since yesterday.
“Names Samuel, by the way,” he took a bite. “Three months on the streets. Wife kicked me out. You?”
“My daughter,” Eleanor murmured, surprising herself.
“Ah.” Samuel sighed. “Kids these days Different breed. My sons in Canada. Two years, not a word.”
By dawn, the air turned crisp. Eleanor dozed against the bench. Samuel had gone, leaving a second apple and a shelter address. “Its warm there,” hed said. “They feed you sometimes.”
At first light, she stood, stiff-limbed. Where to go? Not the shelter, not yet. MaybeMargaret? Her neighbour had always been kind, often stopping by for tea
The knock on Margarets door took three attempts.
“Ellie?” Margaret gasped. “Good heavens, you look awful!”
“Margie” Eleanors voice cracked. “Might I stay a few days?”
Margarets tiny kitchen smelled of sugar. Shed been baking sconesa morning indulgence.
“I told you,” she tutted, listening to Eleanors faltering story. “You spoiled her rotten. Remember when she snapped at you on your birthday? You just brushed it off!”
“Please, Margie”
“No, Ellie!” Margaret slammed her cup down. “Enough delusions! Shes always been like this. Recall how you emptied your savings for her wedding? Not even a thank you!”
Eleanor gazed out the window. Somewhere, people rushed to jobs, to families, to certainty
“Youll land on your feet, Ellie,” Margaret squeezed her shoulder. “You always do.”
Three days blurred past. Eleanor cooked, cleaned, even fixed Margarets leaky tap. But with each passing hour, she felt more like a burden.
“William!” she suddenly recalled, flipping through an old address book. An old family friend, once her late husbands colleague. Hed offered help years ago
Dialling his number took courage. What if hed forgotten her? Or worseremembered, but refused?
“William? Its Eleanor Yes, Eleanor Hartley.”
An hour later, she sat in his cluttered office at the city shelter where he managed operations.
“So your daughter evicted you?” He tapped his pencil. “Right Well, our cook just quit. Temporary, but Can you cook?”
“Ive done it all my” She hesitated. “But where would I live?”
“Here.” William smiled. “Theres a staff roomsmall, but yours. Youre tougher than you think, Ellie. Youll manage.”
That evening, she entered the shelter not as a guest, but as staff. The scent of stew mixed with bleach. Chatter filled the dining hallan elderly man in a frayed blazer held court near a young mother. Samuel (of all people!) helped set tables.
“Eleanor!” A middle-aged woman beckoned. “Im TamaraIll show you the ropes. Dont worry, weve all been through something.”
Her tiny room was clean, unexpectedly cosy. Sitting on the narrow bed, she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Victorias number No. Not yet.
“Well then,” she told her reflection in the dark window, “life goes on?”
Three months passed in a blink. Eleanor thrived in the kitchencooking for a crowd was oddly joyful. The busyness left less room for grief.
“Eleanor?” Tamara peeked in. “New arrival, just a girl really. Fancy making her some tea?”
“Of course.” Eleanor grabbed a hidden packet of biscuits.
In the hall, a thin girl of twenty fidgeted with her sweater sleeves.
“Tea?” Eleanor set down a cup. “Earl Grey. From Edinburgh.”
The girl looked up, tear-streaked. “Thanks. Youve been here long?”
“Three months.” Eleanor sat beside her. “I thought it was the end. Turns out, it was a beginning.”
That night, she began to write. First just thoughts in a notebook, then clumsy, heartfelt poems. Tamara cried reading them.
“Keep writing,” she said. “Your soul sings.”
One evening, Eleanor unfolded fresh paper: *Dear Victoria*. The letter grew longthe park bench, Samuels apple, the fear, the loneliness. Then learning to live again.
*Youll always be my daughter, but I wont live only for you anymore. Ive started writing poetry. Remember when you laughed at my silly verses as a child? Now I write for myself. And live for myself. I hope one day youll understandthis is right.*
She never sent it, but the weight lifted. Like releasing something shed carried too long.
“Eleanor!” Tamara burst in, waving a paper. “News! Remember Martha from our book club? Shes renting a roomcheap! Says she likes yougood cook, poetry and all”
A week later, Eleanor moved her few belongings into a sunlit room in an old terrace. Martha, a sharp-eyed woman, helped hang curtains.
“You know,” she said, handing Eleanor nails, “my husband tossed me out after thirty years. Thought Id die. Then
