25October
The kettle gave a quiet whistle on the hob while I sorted through the tea sachetschamomile, peppermint, black with bergamot. Victoria had brought them back from her last business trip to London. I smiled, remembering how my daughter had proudly handed me this flat five years ago.
Now, Mum, this will be your own home, Victoria had said then, extending the set of keys. No more renting rooms.
The modest kitchen has long become my favourite spot. It feels cosy: the worn lacecloth on the table, geranium pots on the sill, even the small crack by the cooker that looks as familiar as an old friend. I was just about to pour myself a cup when the doorbell rang.
There stood Victoria, dressed in a crisp business suit, hair immaculate, face as cold as the morning air.
Mum, we need to talk.
I stepped aside to let her in. Something in her tone tightened my chest.
Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favourite tea, the one you brought back.
No thanks, Victoria said, remaining in the centre of the kitchen. Ill be brief. Mum, you must vacate the flat. By tomorrow.
I froze, kettle still in my hand. I thought I hadnt heard properly.
What?
The flat has to be empty tomorrow. I cant put this off any longer.
The hot tea slipped onto my wrist, but the pain didnt register.
Victoria, I dont understand This is my home. You yourself
Its just a flat, Mum, she replied, pulling out her phone and tapping quickly. Youve lived here, but I cant keep supporting you any more.
Support? I pay the bills, I clean
Lets not get into that, Mum, she said, furrowing her brow. The decisions final. Leave the keys on the table.
She turned to leave, but I caught her hand.
Wait! Explain why. Whats happened?
Nothing, really. Its just business, Mum. The flat can be let for a higher rent.
The door shut behind her and the house fell silent. I lowered myself onto a stool, staring at the puddle of tea spreading across the countertop. The evening sun threw shimmering reflections on the surface.
Later, in a daze, I drifted into my bedroom. On the wall hung photographs: Victoria at her graduation, radiant in a white dress; us together on a seaside holiday, her building a sandcastle while I tried, laughing, to protect it from the tide. I had sold the cottage to fund her studies. Was that a sacrifice? Nojust love.
Darling, I whispered, tracing a finger over a picture. How did it come to this?
Night turned into darkness. I mechanically packed my few belongings into an old suitcase, pausing now and then to stare at familiar details: the peeling paint in the corner Id always meant to touch up, the warm glow of my favourite desk lamp, the shadow of the geranium on the wall. Every little thing suddenly seemed priceless.
A tiny hope fluttered inside me that somewhere in the morning Victoria would call, saying it was a mistakea cruel joke perhaps. The phone stayed silent, while the clocks hands mercilessly counted down the final hours in the place I had called home.
The first night felt suffocating. I sat on a park bench, clutching the scuffed suitcase, eyes fixed on the stars. Somewhere warm in their own flats, people were tucked into bed, while I thought, Lord, how did it come to this?
I left the keys on the kitchen table, wiping them clean with a napkin, wanting them to shine. Perhaps Victoria would notice and remember how I always tended to the little things.
A hoarse voice called out, Good evening. A bearded man in a threadbare coat took a seat on the opposite end of the bench. Dont worry, Ill just sit. You staying out tonight?
I pulled the suitcase closer, No, Im just taking a walk.
He chuckled, At three in the morning, with a suitcase?
Yes, imagine that, I tried to smile, though my lips trembled. I fancy night walks.
He produced an apple from his pocket and offered it. Would you like one? Fresh, just washed in the fountain.
I shook my head, yet my stomach growled. I hadnt eaten since yesterdays breakfast.
Im Sam, he said, biting into the fruit. Been on the streets three months now. My wife threw me out. And you?
Daughter, I replied quietly, surprised at my own candour.
He sighed, Kids these days My sons in America, Ive been waiting for his call for two years.
The night grew colder. I drifted off leaning against the benchs back. Sam had long since left, leaving a second apple and the address of a shelter. Its warm there, they sometimes feed you, he had said.
When dawn broke, I rose, rubbing my sore feet. Where to go? A shelter felt too final, but perhaps Mrs. Harris, the neighbour who always invited me over for tea?
I hesitated at the fifthfloor flats door, my hand trembling. Lena? she appeared, wrapped in a colourful housecoat. Good heavens, whats happened? You look pale!
Hannah can I stay with you for a few days? My voice cracked.
Mrs. Harriss kitchen was scented with sugar dust. Fresh scones sat cooling on the counter.
Of course, she said, listening to my rambling tale. You always spoiled her, didnt you? Remember how she begged for a birthday present and you kept calling her darling, darling?
Please, Hannah
Enough, Lena! she thumped a mug onto the table. Stop fooling yourself. Shes always been like that. Remember the wedding money you gave her? She never even thanked you!
I stared out the window as the city slowly awoke. Somewhere, people hurried to work, certain of a roof and a family.
Youll get through this, Lena, Mrs. Harris placed a hand on my shoulder. You always have.
Three days passed in a blur. I helped where I couldcooking, cleaning, even fixing a broken tap for Mrs. Harris. Each day the weight grew heavier.
Then a name surfaced: Victor! I recalled from an old address booka former colleague of my late husband who had once offered help.
Dialling his number felt daunting. What if he didnt remember? What if he refused?
Hello, Victor? Its Lena Peterson
An hour later I found myself in his modest office at the town councils community centre, surrounded by stacks of paperwork.
So, your daughter kicked you out? he asked, tapping a pen against his desk. Weve just had a kitchen porter leave the canteen. Its temporary, but we need someone who can cook.
Ive spent my whole life where would I live?
You could stay in the staff quarters. Small, but its yours, he said with a smile. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening, for the first time, I crossed the threshold of the shelter not as a resident but as an employee. The smell of stew mingled with disinfectant. In the dining hall, voices rosean elderly gentleman in a faded blazer animatedly recounted a story to a young mother with a baby. Sam, the streetwalker, helped set the tables.
Mrs. Eleanor! called a woman in her forties. Im Tamara, Ill show you around. Dont worry, weve all been here.
The staff room was surprisingly tidy and oddly comforting. I sat on the narrow bed, pulled out my phone, and stared at Victorias number. I didnt press call. Not yet.
Life goes on, I whispered to my reflection in the window.
Three months slipped by like a single day. The kitchen work became lively; cooking for a large group proved more fun than the solitary meals Id made before. The constant activity left little room for bitter thoughts.
Eleanor, theres a new girl, just arrived. Could you make her a cup of tea? Tamara asked.
Just a moment, I said, retrieving a tin of biscuits from the top shelf.
A thin young woman, about twenty, fidgeted with the sleeve of her oversized jumper.
Tea? I placed a cup before her, steeped with bergamot from London.
She lifted her tearful eyes. Thank you. Have you been here long?
Three months, I replied, sitting beside her. I thought it was the end of the world, but it turned out to be a beginning.
In the evenings I began jotting thoughts in an old notebook, then verses. Simple, naïve, but heartfelt. When I showed them to Tamara, she was moved to tears.
Write, Eleanor, she urged. Your soul is singing.
One night I opened a fresh sheet and wrote, Hello, Victoria. The letter grew long, recounting the park night, the apple from Sam, the fear and solitude, and how Id started writing for myself. I reminded her of the afternoons when I read my early poems to her, and she laughed, calling me the familys own poet. I ended with, You will always be my daughter, but I will no longer live only for you. Ive begun writing for me, living for me. I hope youll understand someday.
I never mailed it, but a weight lifted. It felt as if Id finally let go of the chain that had bound me.
Eleanor! Tamara burst into the kitchen, waving a flyer. Mrs. Margaret Steele, who runs the literary evenings, is offering a cheap room. She says youre a brilliant cook and a poet.
Within a week I moved my modest belongings into a bright room on the second floor of the old council block. Margaret, a slight woman with sharp eyes, helped hang curtains.
Ive been there too, she said handing me a nail. My husband left after thirty years. I thought Id never survive, then I started painting. Can you imagine?
That night I stood by the window, watching the first snow drift down. Fluffy flakes danced beneath the street lamps, blanketing the city in white. Somewhere, perhaps, Victoria was also looking out her window.
On the table lay my open notebook. I hold no grudges, I wrote, and for the first time in a long while it was a genuine truth. Life truly goes on, and now I know I will live for myselfnot for anyone else.
