**Diary Entry 14th November**
My own daughter told me I had to be out of my flat by tomorrow.
The kettle hissed softly on the stove while Helen sorted through her tea tinschamomile, peppermint, Earl Grey. Emily had brought them back from her last business trip to Edinburgh. Helen smiled faintly, remembering how her daughter had proudly handed her the keys to this very flat five years ago.
*”Now youll have a proper home, Mum,”* Emily had said. *”No more rented rooms.”*
The old kitchen had become her sanctuary. Everything here was warm and familiarthe scuffed oilcloth on the table, the geraniums on the windowsill, even the crack in the tile near the hob. She was just about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell rang.
Emily stood on the thresholdsharp in a tailored suit, hair perfectly styled, face unreadable.
*”Mum, we need to talk.”*
Helen stepped aside, her chest tightening at the tone.
*”Come in, love. Ive just made your favouritethat Earl Grey you brought back.”*
*”No, thanks,”* Emily remained stiff in the middle of the kitchen. *”I wont stay. Mum, I need you to vacate the flat. By tomorrow.”*
The kettle slipped slightly in her hands. Surely shed misheard.
*”Sorrywhat?”*
*”I need the flat empty. Tomorrow. I cant keep delaying this.”*
Hot tea splashed onto her wrist, but she barely felt it.
*”Emily, I dont understandthis is my home. You gave it to”*
*”Its just a property, Mum,”* Emily checked something on her phone. *”Youve stayed here, but I cant support you anymore.”*
*”Support me?”* Helen let out a strained laugh. *”Love, I pay the utilities, I clean”*
*”Mum, lets not do this,”* Emily sighed. *”The decisions made. Leave the keys on the table.”*
She turned to leave, but Helen caught her arm.
*”Wait! At least tell me why!”*
*”Its business, Mum. The flat could fetch higher rent.”*
The door clicked shut. Silence rang in her ears. She sank onto a stool, staring at the spilled tea, the evening sun glinting in the puddle.
Like a sleepwalker, she wandered into the bedroom. Photos lined the wallsEmily in her graduation gown, glowing in white. Another of them at Brighton beach, Emily building a sandcastle while Helen laughed, shielding it from the tide. Shed sold her cottage to pay for Emilys university. Had it been a sacrifice? Nojust love.
*”Sweetheart,”* she whispered, tracing the photo. *”How did we get here?”*
Night fell. She packed mechanically, pausing now and then to memorise the flatthe chipped paint shed meant to touch up, the glow of her favourite lamp, the geraniums shadow on the wall. Every detail suddenly precious.
Some stubborn hope whispered that by morning, Emily would call, say it was a mistake. A stupid joke. But the phone stayed silent, the clock ticking down her last hours in what shed thought was home.
The first night was stifling. She sat on a park bench, clutching her worn suitcase, staring at the stars. Somewhere, people slept in warm beds. And shehow had it come to this?
Shed left the keys polished on the table. Maybe Emily would notice, remember how Mum always cared for the little things.
*”Evening,”* rasped a voice. A scruffy man in a threadbare coat sat at the far end of the bench. *”Mind if I join you? You staying out too?”*
She hugged the suitcase closer. *”No, Im just walking.”*
He chuckled. *”Three a.m. with a suitcase?”*
*”Yes, well,”* she tried to smile. *”I like night walks.”*
*”Right.”* He pulled an apple from his pocket. *”Want one? Washed it in the fountain.”*
She shook her head, but her stomach betrayed her. She hadnt eaten since yesterday.
*”Names Simon,”* he said between bites. *”Three months on the streets. Wife kicked me out. You?”*
*”My daughter,”* she murmured, surprising herself.
*”Huh,”* Simon sighed. *”Kids these days. Mines in Canadabeen waiting two years for a call.”*
By dawn, the chill bit deep. She dozed against the bench. Simon had gone, leaving a second apple and an address for a shelter. *”Its warm there,”* hed said. *”They feed you sometimes.”*
At first light, she stood stiffly. Where to go? Not the shelternot yet. Maybe Anna? The neighbour whod sometimes popped round for tea?
Knocking was harder than shed thought. Her hand hovered before she finally rapped.
*”Helen?”* Anna gaped in a floral dressing gown. *”Good lord, whats happened?”*
*”Anna”* Her voice cracked. *”Could I stay a few days?”*
Annas tiny kitchen smelled of sugar. Shed been bakingstill did, every Sunday.
*”Bloody hell,”* Anna muttered, listening. *”I told youspoiled her rotten. Remember when she snapped at you on your birthday? And you just took it?”*
*”Please, Anna”*
*”No, Helen!”* Anna slammed a cup down. *”Whens enough enough? Shes always been like this! You gave her your savings for that weddingdid she even thank you?”*
Helen stared out the window. Somewhere, people were starting their dayshomes, families, certainty.
*”Youll land on your feet, love,”* Anna squeezed her shoulder. *”You always do.”*
Three days blurred. Helen cooked, cleaned, even fixed Annas leaky tap. But with each day, she felt more like a burden.
Then she rememberedWilliam. An old friend of her late husbands. Hed offered help once.
Dialling was terrifying. What if hed forgotten her?
*”William? Its Helen Helen Carter.”*
An hour later, she sat in his cramped office at the shelter where he managed things.
*”So your daughter kicked you out?”* He tapped a pencil. *”Right. Well, our cook just left. Temporary, but You can cook?”*
*”All my life,”* she faltered. *”But where would I”*
*”Youll stay here,”* he said gently. *”Theres a roomsmall, but yours. Youre tougher than you think, Helen.”*
That evening, she stepped into the shelter as staff. The smell of stew mingled with bleach. Voices hummed in the dining hallan old man in a frayed blazer chatting earnestly, a young mother with a toddler. And Simonof all peoplesetting tables.
*”Helen!”* A woman called. *”Im TamaraIll show you the ropes. Dont worryweve all been through something.”*
Her tiny room was clean, unexpectedly cosy. She sat on the bed, thumbing her phone. Emilys number hovered. No. Not yet.
*”Well,”* she told her reflection. *”Life goes on, doesnt it?”*
Three months flew. Cooking for a crowd was oddly joyfulbusyness left less room for grief.
*”Helen?”* Tamara peered in. *”New girls herejust a kid. Maybe make her some tea?”*
In the hall, a thin girl of twenty twisted her sweater sleeve.
*”Tea?”* Helen set down a cup. *”Earl Grey. From Edinburgh.”*
The girl looked up, tearful. *”Thank you. How long have you been here?”*
*”Three months,”* Helen sat beside her. *”I thought it was the end. Turns out its a beginning.”*
That night, she started writing. First just thoughts in an old notebook, then clumsy, honest poems. Tamara cried reading them.
*”Keep writing,”* she said. *”Your soul sings.”*
One evening, Helen took out fresh paper. *”Dear Emily,”* she wrote. The letter was longthe park, Simons apple, the fear. And how shed learned to live anew.
*”Youll always be my daughter,”* she wrote. *”But I wont live just for you anymore. Ive started writing poems. Remember when you laughed at my silly verses as a girl? Now I write for me. Maybe one day youll understand.”*
She didnt send it. But the weight lifted.
*”Helen!”* Tamara burst in. *”Mrs. Whitmorefrom our book clubhas a room to
