The kettle whistled softly on the stove as Eleanor sorted through the boxes of teachamomile, peppermint, Earl Grey. Violet had brought them back from her last business trip to London. Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering how her daughter had proudly handed her the keys to this flat five years ago.
*”Now, Mum, youll have a place of your own,”* Violet had said. *”No more rented rooms.”*
The old kitchen had become her sanctuary. Everything here breathed comfort: the worn oilcloth on the table, the geraniums on the windowsill, even the crack in the tile near the stove felt like part of her. She was just about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell rang.
Violet stood on the thresholdsharp in a tailored suit, her hair immaculate, her expression unreadable.
*”Mum, we need to talk.”*
Eleanor stepped aside, her chest tightening at the chill in her daughters voice.
*”Come in, love. Ive just made your favouritethe Earl Grey you brought last time.”*
*”No, thanks.”* Violet remained in the middle of the kitchen. *”I wont be long. Mum, you need to leave the flat. By tomorrow.”*
The teapot trembled in Eleanors hands. She must have misheard.
*”Iwhat?”*
*”The flat needs to be vacated. Tomorrow. I cant delay this any longer.”*
Hot tea splashed onto her skin, but she barely felt it.
*”Violet, I dont understand This is my home. You gave it to me”*
*”Its just a property, Mum,”* Violet said, glancing at her phone. *”Youve stayed long enough. I cant keep supporting you.”*
*”Supporting me?”* Eleanor laughed, nerves fraying. *”Love, I pay the bills, I clean”*
*”Lets not do this,”* Violet cut in. *”The decisions made. Leave the keys on the table.”*
She turned to leave, but Eleanor caught her wrist.
*”Wait! At least tell me why. Whats happened?”*
*”Nothings happened. Its just business. The place could fetch a higher rent.”*
The door clicked shut. Silence roared in Eleanors ears. She sank onto a stool, staring at the spilled tea, the sunlight dancing on its surface.
Like a sleepwalker, she drifted to the bedroom. Photos lined the wallsViolet in her graduation gown, radiant in white. Another of them at the seaside, Violet building sandcastles while Eleanor laughed, shielding them from the waves. Shed sold her cottage to pay for Violets tuition. Had it been a sacrifice? No. Just love.
*”Darling,”* she whispered, tracing the photo. *”How could you?”*
Night crept in. Eleanor packed mechanically, pausing to memorize every detailthe chipped paint shed meant to fix, the warm glow of her bedside lamp, the shadow of geranium leaves on the wall. Each suddenly precious.
Somewhere inside, hope flickeredthat morning would bring a call, Violet saying it was a mistake, a cruel joke. But the phone stayed silent, the clock ticking relentlessly toward the end of her life here.
The first night was stifling. Eleanor sat on a park bench, clutching her battered suitcase, staring at the stars. People slept in warm beds while she
*”Evening.”* A rough voice startled her. A bearded man in a threadbare jacket sat at the other end of the bench. *”Dont mind me. You staying out tonight too?”*
She pulled the suitcase closer. *”No, Im just walking.”*
He chuckled. *”Three a.m. with a suitcase?”*
*”I like night strolls,”* she said, lips trembling.
*”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 Samuel,”* he said between bites. *”Three months on the streets. Wife kicked me out. You?”*
*”Daughter,”* she murmured, surprising herself.
*”Kids these days,”* Samuel sighed. *”Mines in Australia. Havent heard in two years.”*
By dawn, the chill bit deep. Eleanor dozed against the bench. Samuel had left her a second apple and an addressa shelter. *”Its warm,”* hed said. *”They feed you sometimes.”*
As light broke, she stood stiffly. Where to go? Not the shelter, not yet. MaybeMargaret? The neighbour who always brought over scones
Knocking was harder than she expected. Her hand hovered before she finally rapped.
*”Ellie?”* Margaret appeared in a floral dressing gown. *”Good Lord, you look awful!”*
*”Maggie”* Her voice cracked. *”Could I stay a few days?”*
Margarets tiny kitchen smelled of vanilla. Shed been bakinga morning ritual.
*”I told you,”* she muttered, listening to Eleanors broken explanation. *”You spoiled her. Remember when she shouted at your birthday? And you just”*
*”Please, Maggie.”*
*”No, Ellie!”* Margaret slammed a cup down. *”How long will you lie to yourself? Shes always been like this. Remember her wedding? You emptied your savings, and she didnt even thank you!”*
Eleanor watched the city wake. Somewhere, people rushed to jobs, homes, certainty.
*”Youll bounce back,”* Margaret said softly. *”You always do.”*
Three days blurred. Eleanor cooked, cleaned, even fixed Margarets leaky tap. But with each hour, she felt more like a burden.
*”William!”* She suddenly rememberedan old family friend, her late husbands colleague. Hed offered help years ago
Dialling was terrifying. What if hed forgotten her?
*”Hello, Will? Its Ellie Ellie Dawson.”*
An hour later, she sat in his cluttered office at the shelter where he managed operations.
*”So your daughter threw you out?”* He tapped a pencil. *”Weve a temp opening in the kitchen. Can you cook?”*
*”All my life,”* she whispered. *”But where would I?”*
*”Live here,”* he said. *”Theres a staff room. Small, but yours.”*
That evening, she entered the shelter not as a guest but as staff. The smell of stew mixed with bleach. Chatter filled the dining hallan elderly man in a frayed blazer held a young mother spellbound. Samuel (of all people!) helped set tables.
*”Eleanor!”* A middle-aged woman beckoned. *”Im Tamara. Ill show you the ropes.”*
The staff room was sparse but clean. Eleanor sat on the narrow bed, phone in hand. Her thumb hovered over Violets number. No. Not yet.
*”Well,”* she said to her reflection in the window, *”life goes on.”*
Three months flew by. Eleanor thrived in the kitchencooking for crowds was oddly joyful. Busyness left less room for grief.
*”Eleanor,”* Tamara peeked in, *”a new girl just arrived. Maybe make her some tea?”*
In the dining hall, a thin girl of twenty fretted with her sweater sleeves.
*”Tea?”* Eleanor set down a cup. *”Earl Grey. From London.”*
The girl looked up, eyes red. *”Thank you. Have you been here long?”*
*”Three months,”* Eleanor sat beside her. *”I thought it was the end. Turns out, its a beginning.”*
That night, she began to write. First scribbled thoughts, then clumsy, honest poems. Tamara wept reading them.
*”Keep writing,”* she said. *”Your soul sings.”*
One evening, Eleanor took fresh paper and wrote: *”Dear Violet.”* The letter poured outthe park bench, Samuels apple, the fear. And how shed learned to live again.
*”Youll always be my daughter,”* she wrote, *”but I wont live only for you anymore. I write poems now. Remember my silly rhymes when you were little? You laughed and said I was like Wordsworth. Now I write for me. And live for me. Maybe one day youll understand.”*
She didnt send it. But the weight lifted.
*”Eleanor!”* Tamara burst in waving a paper. *”Remember Martha? The lady who comes to poetry nights? Shes renting a roomcheap! Says she likes you. And your cooking!”*
A week later, Eleanor moved into a sunlit room in an old house. Martha, sharp-eyed and kind, helped hang curtains.
*”My husband left after thirty years,”* she confessed. *”I
