The kettle sang softly on the stove while Eleanor sorted through the tea bagschamomile, peppermint, black tea with bergamot. Poppy had brought them back from her last business trip to London. Eleanor smiled, recalling the day her daughter had solemnly handed her the keys to this flat five years earlier.
Now, Mum, youll have a place of your own, Poppy had said then, extending the keys. No more rented rooms.
The old kitchen had long become Eleanors favourite spot. Everything there breathed comfort: a worn tablecloth, geranium pots on the windowsill, even the hairline crack in the tiled floor felt familiar. She was just about to pour herself a cup when a knock sounded at the door.
Standing there was Poppy, dressed in a sharp business suit, hair perfectly in place, her expression as cold as ice.
Mum, we need to talk.
Eleanor stepped aside to let her daughter in. Something in Poppys voice tightened Eleanors chest.
Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favourite tea, the one you brought back.
No, thank you, Poppy said, planting herself in the centre of the kitchen. Im only here briefly. Mum, you have to vacate the flat. By tomorrow.
Eleanor froze, kettle in hand, as if she hadnt heard.
What did you say?
The flat has to be cleared. Tomorrow. I cant put this off any longer.
The hot tea spilled onto her hand, yet Eleanor felt no pain.
Poppy, I dont understand This is my home. You yourself
Its just a flat, Mum, Poppy replied, pulling out her phone and scrolling quickly. Youve lived here, but I cant keep you any longer.
Keep me?! Eleanor laughed nervously. Dear, I pay the utilities, I clean
Mum, lets not argue, Poppy snapped. The decisions made. The keys stay on the table.
She turned to leave, but Eleanor grabbed her wrist.
Wait! At least tell me why. What happened?
Nothing, just business, Mum. The flat can be let out for a higher price.
The door shut, leaving Eleanor alone with a ringing in her ears. She sank slowly onto a stool, staring at the puddle of tea. The surface reflected the fading evening sun.
In a dreamlike haze she found herself back in a bedroom, walls lined with photographs: Poppy in her graduation dress, radiant in white; a seaside shot of the two of themPoppy building a sandcastle while Eleanor tried to shield it from the waves. She had sold the family cottage to fund Poppys studies. Was it sacrifice? No, simply love.
Darling, Eleanor whispered, tracing a finger over the photo. Why this?
Night slipped into dawn. Eleanor mechanically packed a battered suitcase, pausing now and then to stare at familiar details of the flat: the peeling paint in the corner shed always meant to touch up, the warm glow of her favourite desk lamp, the shadow of geranium leaves on the wall. Every little thing suddenly seemed priceless.
A thin thread of hope lingered in her heart that Poppy would call in the morning, saying it was a mistakea cruel joke, anything. The phone remained silent while the clocks hands mercilessly marked the final hours in the place shed called home.
The first night felt suffocating. Eleanor perched on a park bench, hugging the worn suitcase, eyes fixed on the stars. Somewhere, in cosy flats, people slept soundly, while she asked herself how shed ended up here.
She left the keys on the kitchen table, polishing them with a napkin until they shone. Perhaps Poppy would notice the gleam and remember how her mother always tended to the smallest details.
A hoarse voice broke the quiet. Good evening, a bearded man in a threadbare coat called from the other end of the bench. Dont be shy, Ill sit down too. You staying out tonight?
Eleanor pressed the suitcase closer.
No, Im just walking, she replied.
He chuckled. At three in the morning? With a suitcase?
Yes, imagine that, Eleanor tried to smile, her lips trembling. I enjoy night walks.
He produced an apple from his pocket and held it out. Want one? Fresh, just washed in the fountain.
She shook her head, but her stomach growled; she hadnt eaten since the previous morning.
By the way, Im Sam, he said, taking a bite. Been on the streets for three months. My wife threw me out. And you?
Just my daughter, Eleanor whispered, surprised by her own bluntness.
Sam shook his head. Kids these days My sons in America, Ive been waiting for his call for two years.
Morning brought a chill. Eleanor dozed against the benchs backrest while Sam disappeared, leaving another apple and the address of a shelter. Its warm there, he said, and they sometimes serve food.
When daylight broke, she rose, rubbing sore feet. Where to go? A shelter felt too final, yet perhaps Hannah? The neighbour who always offered tea.
She knocked on the fifthfloor flats door several times before mustering the courage.
Lena? Hannah appeared, wrapped in a colourful housecoat. Good heavens, whats happened? You look pale!
Hannah could I stay with you a few days? Eleanors voice trembled.
Hannahs kitchen smelled of powdered sugar; fresh rolls rested on a cooling rack.
Of course, Hannah said, listening to Eleanors fragmented tale. I always said you were a bit spoiled. Remember how you swore at me on your birthday? And you kept calling me darling, darling
Dont, Eleanor began.
Enough, Lena! Hannah barked, slamming a mug onto the table. How long will you keep fooling yourself? You were always like this. Remember giving all your savings at my wedding? You never even said thank you!
Eleanor stared out the window at a city stirring awake. People hurried to work, homes, families, confidence for tomorrow.
Youll get through this, Lena, Hannah said, placing a hand on her shoulder. You always do.
Three days passed in a blur. Eleanor helped where she couldcooking, cleaning, even fixing Hannahs leaky tapbut each day the weight grew heavier.
Victor! she recalled, flipping through an old address book. An old family friend whod once worked with her husband. Years ago hed offered help.
Dialling his number felt daunting. What if he forgot? Or worse, refused?
Hello, Victor? Its Lena Lena Turner, she said.
An hour later she sat in his cramped office at the city shelter, papers stacked high around him.
So the daughter kicked you out, eh? he tapped his pen on the desk. We actually have a temporary kitchen spot open. You can cook, if youre willing.
Ive cooked all my life Eleanor stammered. Where would I live?
Right here, Victor smiled. A small staff room, but its yours. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening she crossed the shelters threshold not as a resident but as a worker. The scent of stew mingled with disinfectant. Voices swirled in the mess hallan elderly gentleman in a threadbare coat animatedly told stories to a young mother with a child. Sam, the man from the park, helped set the tables.
Mrs Turner! called a middleaged woman. Im Maggie, Ill show you the ropes. Dont worry, weve all been through something.
The staff room was surprisingly tidy and cosy. Eleanor perched on a narrow bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Poppys number. Not now.
Well, she said to her reflection in the window, life goes on.
Three months slipped by like a single day. Eleanor fell into the rhythm of workcooking for large events proved more joyful than cooking for just two. Constant activity left little room for bitterness.
Mrs Turner, Maggie said one lunchtime, a new girl just arrived, a teenager. Want to make her a cup of tea?
Just a moment, Eleanor replied, wiping her hands before fetching a hidden pack of biscuits from the top shelf.
The teenager, thin and nervous, clutched the sleeve of an oversized sweater.
Tea? Eleanor placed a cup before her. With bergamot, from London.
The girls eyes welled up. Thank you. Have you been here long?
Three months, Eleanor sat 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 began writing. At first, scattered thoughts in an old notebook, then versessimple, naïve, but sincere. Maggie, who read them, was moved to tears.
Write on, Mrs Turner, she urged. Your soul sings.
One night Eleanor unfolded a clean sheet and penned a letter to Poppy. She recounted the park night, the apple from Sam, the fear and loneliness, and how she had learned to live again.
You will always be my daughter, I wrote, but I will no longer live solely for you. Ive started writing poems again. Remember how you laughed at my first attempts as a child and called me a little Pushkin? Now I write for myself. I hope youll understand one day that this is right.
She never mailed the letter, but the act lifted a weight she hadnt known she carried.
Mrs Turner! Maggie burst into the kitchen, waving a flyer. Mrs. Hartley, who runs our literary evenings, has a spare room to rent cheap. She says youre a wonderful cook and a poet.
A week later Eleanor moved her few belongings into a bright room on the second floor of the old building. Mrs. Hartley, a slender woman with keen eyes, helped hang curtains.
You know, she said, handing Eleanor a nail, I went through something similar. My husband left after thirty years. I thought Id never survive. Then I started painting. Can you imagine?
That evening Eleanor stood by the window, watching the first snow drift down. Fluffy flakes spun in the streetlamps glow, blanketing the city in white. Somewhere, perhaps, Poppy was also watching from her flat.
On the table lay an open notebook. I hold no grudges, Eleanor wrote, and for the first time in a long while it was the pure truth. Life indeed went onand now she knew she would live it for herself, not for anyone else.
The lesson settled like fresh snow: love may bind us, but true freedom comes from caring for ones own heart.
