Helen Walker was the unpaid housekeeper for her family, until her silverjubilee prompted a business trip abroad.
Helen stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, when Simon Clarke slipped into the kitchen and dropped a glossy invitation on the counter.
Your school reunion, he said without looking up from his phone. Saturday.
She stared at the cardthirty years since graduation, goldlettered and elegant.
Are you going? she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Of course. Just pull yourself together, love, or youll look like a ragtag mess. Dont embarrass the family.
His words hit her like a slap. Helen froze, ladle in hand, as Simon headed for the door. At that moment their sons, Maxwell and Daniel, breezed in.
Mum, whats that? Max asked, snatching the invitation.
Its a reunion, she whispered.
Cool! And youll go in that eternal bathrobe? Daniel laughed.
Dont mock Mum, interjected Margaret Whitaker, their motherinlaw, entering with the air of someone ready to dispense sage advice. She needs to spruce herself updye the hair, buy a decent dress. Appear respectable.
Helen nodded silently and returned to the stove. Pain clenched her chest, but she swallowed it. Twentysix years of marriage had taught her to hide resentment deep inside.
Dinners ready, she announced half an hour later.
The family gathered around a table laden with perfect borschtsharp, tender beef, fragrant herbsaccompanied by fresh bread and cabbage pastries.
Tastes great, Simon muttered between spoonfuls.
As always, Margaret added. You do know how to cook.
Helen ate a few spoonfuls, then slipped away to wash the dishes. In the mirror above the sink, a tired fortyfiveyearold woman stared back: grey roots, crowsfeet, a dimmed gaze. When had she become so old?
On Saturday, Helen rose at five a.m. She had to prepare dishes for the reunioneach guest was to bring something. She decided on a spread: solyanka, herring under a fur coat, meat and cabbage pies, and for dessert, a delicate custard known as birds milk.
Her hands moved on instinctchop, stir, bake, garnish. In the kitchen she found peace; here she was the master, free from criticism.
Wow, youve made a lot, Max said, descending at eleven.
Its for the reunion, Helen replied briefly.
Did you buy anything new for yourself?
She looked at the only respectable black dress hanging on a chair.
Itll do.
By two oclock everything was ready. Helen changed, applied makeup, and even wore the earrings Simon had given her on their tenth anniversary.
You look decent, Simon commented. Lets go.
Sarah Jennings country house loomed in the distanceher former classmate had married a businessman and now hosted guests in a manor with a pool and tennis courts.
Lena! Sarah cried, embracing her. You look just the same! What did you bring?
A few dishes, Helen said, setting the containers on the buffet.
Some had become rich, some had grown old, but everyone recognized each other. Helen lingered at the edge, watching classmates brag about their successes.
Who made this solyanka? shouted Victor, the old class president. Its a masterpiece!
Its Helen, Sarah pointed.
A short man with kind eyes approached. Helen! Do you remember me? Paul Miller, we sat together at the back of the class.
Paul! Of course, she beamed.
You made that solyanka? Im amazed! And the pies Ive never tasted anything better.
Thank you, Helen blushed.
No jokeIve lived in Dublin for ten years, they love Russian food, but Ive never seen this level. Are you a professional chef?
Just a housewife.
Just? You have real talent.
All evening people flocked to Helen, asking for recipes, praising her cooking. For the first time in years she felt important, needed.
Simon, meanwhile, talked about his garage business, stealing glances at his wife, baffled by her sudden popularity.
Monday began like any otherbreakfast, cleaning, laundry. Helen was ironing the boys shirts when the phone rang.
Hello?
Helen? Its Paul. We met on Saturday.
Paul, hi, she said.
Ive got a business proposal. Can we meet? Talk?
What about?
Its a job in Serbia. Im opening a Russian restaurant and need a coordinatorsomeone with good taste, who can train chefs and design the menu. Salarys generous, plus a share.
Helen sank onto a chair, heart pounding.
Paul, I I dont know what to say.
Think it over. Call tomorrow, okay?
The day passed in a haze. A restaurant in Serbia? She, a simple housewife?
At dinner she tried to explain to her family.
Guess what, they offered me a job
What job? Daniel sneered. You only know how to cook.
They want me to run a kitchen in Dublin.
Dublin? Thats nonsense, Simon retorted.
Mother, how old are you? Fortyeight? Max asked, setting down his fork.
Besides, Margaret interjected, who will run the house? Cook, clean?
Maybe someones joking, Simon waved off.
Helen fell silent. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was a joke.
The next morning the tension repeated at breakfast.
Youve changed, you need exercise, Simon observed.
Mom, dont come to my graduation, Daniel said, spreading butter on his toast.
Why not? Helen asked.
Because all the parents are stylish, and youre oldfashioned.
Daniels right, Max agreed. Dont be offended, we just dont want the kids talking about you.
Margaret nodded. Women should look after themselves. In our day, we stayed beautiful even in old age.
Helen rose, went to her room, and with trembling hands dialed Paul.
Paul? Its Helen. Im in.
Seriously? Pauls voice rang with joy. Helen, thats wonderful! But warn youhard work, big responsibility, long hours. Ready?
Ready, she said firmly. When do I start?
In a month. Well sort paperwork, the visa. Ill help.
A month flew by. Helen handled documents, brushed up on Serbian, drafted a menu. The family remained skeptical, treating her plan as a fleeting fancy.
Shell be back soon, realising home is best, Simon told friends.
As long as she doesnt lose money, Margaret added.
The boys never took her seriously. To them she was part of the décorcooking, washing, cleaning. What could she do abroad?
On the day of departure Helen rose early, prepared a weeks worth of meals, left instructions for laundry and cleaning, and drove alone to the airporteveryone else was occupied.
Keep in touch, Simon growled as she left.
Dublin greeted her with rain and new scents. Paul waited at arrivals with a bouquet and a broad smile.
Welcome to your new life, he said, embracing her.
The months that followed blurred. Helen hired staff, crafted menus, discovered she could lead as well as she could stir.
Three months later the restaurant opened, packed, people lining up for borscht, solyanka, pelmeni, and crêpes.
You have golden hands and a sharp mind, Paul declared. Weve created something special.
Helen watched satisfied guests, heard compliments, and finally understood she had found herself. At fortyeight she was starting over.
Six months later Simon called.
Lena, how are you? When are you coming home?
Fine. Working.
When will you return? Were barely managing.
Hire a housekeeper.
For how much?
Same as I earned for twentysix years.
What do you mean?
Nothing special. I was the free housekeeper for my family until my jubilee sent me abroad for business.
Silence hung on the line.
Lena, can we talk normally? No hard feelings?
Im not angry, Simon. Im just living. For the first time, Im living.
Her sons tried to understand the change.
Mum, stop playing business lady, Max begged. The house falls apart without you.
Learn to live on your own, Helen replied. Youre already twentyfive.
Simon didnt object to a divorce; it was merely the legal acknowledgment of what had already happened.
A year later, the restaurant Moscow became one of Dublins most popular eateries. Investors knocked on her door, TV chefs invited her onto shows, critics praised her.
British woman who conquered Dublin with Russian cuisine, read the headline.
On the restaurants anniversary, Paul proposed. Helen thought it over long before saying yesnot because she doubted him, but because she cherished her independence.
I wont cook for you every day or wash your shirts, she warned.
The next day Simon and the boys arrived. Seeing Helen in a sharp business suit, accepting congratulations from local celebrities, they were speechless.
Mum, you youve changed, Daniel stammered.
Shes beautiful now, Max added.
Im finally me, Helen corrected.
Simon spent the evening silent, eyes flickering with surprise. When the guests left, he approached.
Forgive me, Helen. I never saw you as a person with dreams, only as part of the home.
Exactly, she said, no anger, only sorrow for lost years.
Can we start over? he asked.
No, Simon. My life is different now.
Today Helen is fifty. She runs a chain of restaurants, hosts a culinary TV program, and her recipe book tops bestseller lists. Shes married to a man who values her as a partner, not as unpaid help.
Sometimes her sons call, proud and apologetic, wanting to visit. She smiles, grateful, but no longer feels guilty for living for herself.
When she stands in the kitchen of her flagship restaurant, watching chefs recreate her dishes, she thinks: What if I hadnt taken that step? What if Id stayed in that bathrobe? She quickly shoves the thought away. Not everyone gets a second chance; she was lucky, and she used it.
Starting over at fortyeight was terrifying, but it was the only way to discover who she truly is.
