My daughter tells me I must vacate my flat by tomorrow.
The kettle whistles softly on the hob while Eleanor sorts through tea bagschamomile, peppermint, black with bergamot. Victoria brought them back from her latest business trip to London. Eleanor smiles, remembering how her daughter ceremonially handed her this flat five years ago.
Now, Mum, youll finally have your own home, Victoria said then, thrusting the keys into Eleanors hand. No more rented rooms.
The old kitchen has long been Eleanors favourite spot. It radiates cosy comfort: a worn tablecloth, geranium pots on the windowsill, even the tiny crack in the tiles by the stove feels familiar. Eleanor reaches for a cup just as theres a knock at the door.
Standing there is Victoria, dressed in a sharp business suit, hair immaculate, expression utterly cold.
Mum, we need to talk.
Eleanor steps aside, letting her daughter in. Something in Victorias voice makes Eleanors heart tighten.
Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favourite tea, the one you brought back.
No, thank you, Victoria remains rooted in the middle of the kitchen. Im only here briefly. Mum, you have to empty the flat. By tomorrow.
Eleanor freezes, kettle still in her hand, as if she hadnt heard.
What excuse me?
The flat has to be empty. Tomorrow. I cant let this drag on any longer.
Hot tea spills onto her hand, but Eleanor feels no pain.
Victoria, I dont understand this is my home. You yourself
Its just a flat, Mum, Victoria pulls out her phone and checks something quickly. Youve lived here, but I cant keep you any longer.
Keep me? Eleanor forces a nervous laugh. Darling, I pay the utilities, I clean
Mum, lets skip that, Victoria frowns. The decision is made. Leave the keys on the table.
She turns to leave, but Eleanor grabs her wrist.
Wait! At least tell me why. What happened?
Nothing, just business, Mum. The flat can fetch a higher rent.
The door shuts, leaving Eleanor alone. The kettles whistle rings in her ears. She slowly lowers herself onto a stool, staring at the puddle of spilled tea, the evening sun reflecting off its surface.
As if in a dream, she rises and walks into the next room. Photographs line the wall: Victoria in her graduation dress, beaming in white; a seaside shot of the two of them, Victoria building a sandcastle while Eleanor laughs, trying to shield it from the waves. She had just sold the cottage to fund Victorias studies. Was that a sacrifice? Nojust love.
Darling, Eleanor whispers, tracing a finger over the picture. How did it come to this?
Evening turns slowly into night. Eleanor mechanically packs her few belongings into an old suitcase, pausing now and then to stare at familiar details of the flat: peeling paint in the corner she always meant to touch up, the warm glow of her favourite desk lamp, the geraniums shadow on the wall. Each small thing suddenly feels unbearably precious.
Deep down she clings to the hope that a call will ring in the morning, that Victoria will say it was a mistakea cruel joke, anythingbut the phone stays silent, and the clocks hands mercilessly count down the final hours in the place she has called home.
The first night feels stifling. Eleanor sits on a park bench, clutching the battered suitcase, gazing at the stars. Somewhere, in warm flats, people sleep in their beds, while she wonders, Good heavens, how did it come to this?
She leaves the keys on the kitchen table, polishing them with a napkin until they shineperhaps Victoria will notice and remember how her mother always tended to the little things.
A hoarse voice calls out, Good evening. Eleanor flinches. A bearded man in a threadbare coat sits at the other end of the bench. Dont worry, Im just taking a seat. Staying over too?
Eleanor pulls the suitcase tighter.
No, I Im just out for a walk, she mutters.
He chuckles. At threeoclock in the morning? With a suitcase?
Exactly, Eleanor tries to smile, her lips trembling. I enjoy night walks.
He pulls an apple from his pocket and offers it. Want one? Fresh, just washed in the fountain.
She shakes her head, but her stomach growls; she hasnt eaten since breakfast.
By the way, Im George, the man says, biting the apple. Been on the streets for three months now. My wife threw me out. And you?
My daughter, Eleanor whispers, surprised by her own bluntness.
Hmm, George nods. Kids these days My sons in America, waiting for a call for the second year now.
By dawn its chilly. Eleanor dozes off against the back of the bench. George has gone, leaving another apple and the address of a shelter. Its warm there, he had said, and they sometimes feed you.
When daylight breaks, she rises, rubbing her sore feet. Where to go? A shelter feels too much, but maybe Emily? The neighbour downstairs has always been friendly, sometimes stopping for tea.
She hesitates at the fifthfloor landing, hand hovering before she finally knocks.
Lena? Emily appears in a colourful cardigan, eyes wide. Lord help you, what happened? You look halfgone!
Emily could I stay with you for a few days? Eleanors voice trembles.
Emilys small kitchen smells of powdered sugar. Shes just taken fresh scones out of the oven.
Of course, Emily says, shaking her head as Eleanor spills the tale. Remember how youd coddle her on her birthdays? Darling, darling
Enough, Emily
No, you must! How long can you keep fooling yourself? She always was like that. Remember when you gave her all your savings for her wedding and she never said thank you?
Eleanor watches the city wake outside the windowpeople hurrying to work, homes, families, confidence in tomorrow.
Youll get through this, Lena, Emily places a hand on her shoulder. You always have.
Three days pass in a blur. Eleanor helps with meals, cleans, even repairs Emilys broken tap. Yet each day the weight feels heavier.
Tom! she suddenly recalls, flipping through an old address book. Tom Whitaker, a longtime family friend who once worked with her husband, had offered help years ago.
Dialling his number feels daunting. What if he forgets? Or worse, declines?
Hello, Tom? Its Lena Lena Peters, she says.
An hour later she sits in his cramped office at the community centre, papers piled high around him.
So the daughter kicked you out, huh? he taps his pen. We actually have a kitchen assistant vacancy at the canteen. Temporary, of course, but you can cook?
Ive been cooking all my life Lena stammers. But where would I live?
You could stay here, in a staff room. Small, but its yours. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening she crosses the threshold of the shelter as a staff member for the first time. The scent of borscht mingles with disinfectant. Voices buzz in the dining hallan elderly gentleman in a worn blazer animatedly tells a young mother a story, while a man resembling George sets tables.
Lena Peters! calls a middleaged woman. Im Tamara, Ill show you the ropes. Dont worry, weve all been through worse.
In a tiny staff bedroom, clean and oddly cozy, Lena sits on the bed, pulls out her phone, and sees Victorias number flashing. She doesnt answer. Well, she says to her reflection in the window, life goes on.
Three months fly by like a single day. Lena slips into the work effortlesslycooking for large events proves more fun than for just two people. Constant activity leaves less room for dark thoughts.
Lena, a new girl just arrived, a teenager, Tamara mentions one morning. Could you make her a cup of tea?
Just a sec, Lena wipes her hands and retrieves a hidden packet of biscuits from the top shelf.
The girl, about twenty, fidgets with the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
Tea? Lena places a cup before her. Bergamot, from London.
The girls eyes well up. Thank you. Have you been here long?
Three months, Lena replies, sitting beside her. I thought it was the end of the world, but it turned out to be the start of something new.
In the evenings she begins to write. At first she scrawls thoughts in an old notebook, then poems emergeclumsy, naïve, but earnest. Tamara reads them and is moved to tears.
Write, Lena, she says. Your soul sings.
One night Lena pulls a fresh sheet of paper and writes: Hello, Victoria. The letter stretches long, recounting the night in the park, the apple from the tramp, the fear and solitude, and how she has learned to live for herself again.
Youll always be my daughter, she writes, but I wont live only for you any more. Remember how you laughed at my early poems and called me a modernday Shakespeare? Now I write for me. I hope youll understand one day that this is right.
She never sends the letter, but the act eases her heart, as if she finally releases the weight that has pressed her for months.
Lena Peters! Tamara bursts into the kitchen, waving a flyer. Good news! Remember Mrs. Margaret Clarke, who runs the literary evenings? Shes renting a room cheap. She says youre a wonderful cook and poet.
A week later Lena carries her modest belongings up to a bright room on the second floor of an old building. Margaret, a thin woman with sharp eyes, helps hang curtains.
You know, she says, handing Lena a nail, Ive been through something similar. My husband left after thirty years. I thought Id never survive. Then I started painting. Can you imagine?
That night Lena stands by the window, watching the first snow drift down. Fluffy flakes whirl under streetlights, blanketing the city in white. Somewhere, perhaps, Victoria watches the same scene from her flat.
On the table lies an open notebook. I bear no grudges, Lena writes, and for the first time in a long while its a genuine truth. Life indeed goes onand now she knows she will live for herself, not for anyone else.
