Weve already talked about the move without you, the boxes are in the hallway, my son announced as he turned around.
Lydia, how long are we going to be fussing over those jars! Vera Illy tossed her hands, staring at the kitchen table piled high with jam jars, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Who are you going to give them to? Andrew and Katie never see your cucumbers; they just buy everything from the supermarket.
Its for me, Lydia Peterson waved a hand, rubbing the rim of a threeliter jar until it shone. Ill open it in winter and itll smell of dill and redcurrant leaves. Its memory, Vera.
Memory Vera shook her head. Your pantry is full of memories. Some of that stuff has been there since before last year.
Lydia smiled faintly but said nothing. Vera was right the jars had been stacking up, and she rarely opened them. Yet the process mattered: picking the berries, sterilising the lids, sealing the jars, listening to the click as they cooled. It soothed her, filled her days.
Vera left, promising to drop by later with a recipe for courgette mousse, and Lydia stayed alone at the kitchen sink. She slipped into the window seat and watched the back garden. Children chased a ball, a young mother pushed a pram. An ordinary August evening, warm and quiet.
The front door slammed. Lydia flinched and turned. Andrew walked straight into the living room, not even glancing at the kitchen. That was odd; he always said hello and asked what was for dinner.
She wiped her hands on her apron and followed him. Their son stood by the window, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, shoulders tense, back straight. Lydia knew that pose the one he struck when he was about to say something important.
Want a cup of tea? she asked, pausing at the doorway.
Mom, we need to talk, he said without turning.
Her heart lurched. The tone was formal, detached, the way people speak before an uncomfortable conversation.
Go on, Lydia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
My move was discussed without you, and the things are already in the hallway, Andrew finally said, turning to face her. His face was pale, lips pressed together. Katie insisted. We we found a decent flat for you a onebedroom on the ground floor, no lift to bother with.
Lydia was silent. The words came in a slow, cottonlike drizzle. Move. Discussed. Without you.
What? she managed to exhale.
Mom, you understand, Andrew ran a hand through his hair and looked away. Its cramped here. Katies pregnant, the baby needs its own room. This flat will be ours, mine and Katies. Well live there, and youll have a place just three bus stops away. You can visit, well still see each other.
The things are in the hallway, Lydia repeated, her voice oddly flat. My things.
Yes. Katie has already packed the essentials. Well bring the rest later.
She turned toward the hallway. By the door sat three cardboard boxes, an old suitcase with a busted wheel, and two bags. That was it. Sixtytwo years of life, thirty in this house, and now three boxes.
Lydia crouched, opened one. Inside lay a framed photograph of her and her late husband Nicholas on a seaside holiday, a beloved shawl, a few books, a porcelain ballerina that Andrew had given her when she was eight, and beneath the books her slippers, dressing gown and a small cosmetics case.
Mom, dont be so sad, Andrew said, shifting his weight. Its not forever. Youll just have your own place. Lots of people do that. Its normal.
Its normal, she echoed, standing up, a crack in her lower back announcing itself. So it is normal then.
Katherine, tall and sleek, with immaculate makeup and a tight dress that showed her baby bump, stepped into the room. She gave Lydia a scrutinising look, pursed her lips.
Lydia Peterson, please dont take offense, she began in the tone one uses when explaining something to a child. But you understand we need space. The baby needs a nursery. And youre always in the kitchen with those jars, your things drying in the bathroom, your bed in the living room. We simply have nowhere to spread out.
This flat Lydia started.
This flat is under Andrews name, Katherine cut in. After his fathers death. Legally its all clear. Were not breaking any rules. We just want to live as a family. Youre not opposed, are you?
Lydia looked at her son. He lowered his eyes, turned to the window, saying nothing.
When? she asked quietly.
Tomorrow morning, Katherine replied cheerfully. Weve already booked a van. Youll move, settle in. The renovation is fresh, youll like it.
Lydia nodded, turned and walked back to her own bedroom the room shed shared with Nicholas for twentyfive years, where shed imagined futures, tended to Andrews fevers, held Nicholass hand as he died of a heart attack three years shy of his pension.
She sat on the bed, ran a hand over a faded quilt, the one shed inherited from Nicholass mother, sturdy despite its age. Tears didnt come, but a hollow, cold echo filled her, like an abandoned house.
She remembered the day Andrew introduced Katherine. Mum, meet my fiancée, hed said, beaming. Shed baked pies, set the table, smiled. Katherine seemed sweet, a bit shy, never really helped in the kitchen, but Lydia blamed it on good upbringing a welltodo family where everything was done for them.
Their wedding was modest. Katherine insisted the young couple stay with Andrews mother. Why rent a flat when you have such a big house? shed reasoned. Lydia agreed, delighted at the thought of fresh laughter filling the home.
But the life turned onesided. Lydia cooked, cleaned, washed. Katherine worked, came home late, exhausted. Andrew disappeared into his job. Weekends the couple visited Katherines parents or roamed the city, never inviting Lydia along.
Why am I here, old thing? Lydia would mutter while polishing mirrors and dusting photos that Katherine had scattered around the flat.
Now theyd decided on a move without her sayso, boxed up her belongings as if she were just another piece of furniture.
The evening grew dark, streetlamps lit the courtyard in a yellow glow. Empty swings, vacant benches. Only Mrs. Zena from the third block walked her plump cat, Marlon.
Mom, are you going to sleep? Andrew peeked in, his voice guilty.
Ill lie down, she replied without turning.
Dont worry too much. Everything will be fine. Youll see.
She said nothing. Andrew lingered a moment longer, then closed the door softly.
Lydia lay on the bed, wrapped in her shawl, stared at the ceiling. Memories tossed up pictures: Nicholas carrying her in, laughing; them putting up wallpaper together; baby Andrews first steps across the living room; Nicholas teaching him to ride a bike in the back garden while she watched anxiously; Andrews first Agrade and the celebratory coffee; graduation, university, first job.
Then Nicholas was gone. She was left with a twentyfiveyearold son living his own life, staying over occasionally but more often with friends. She didnt mind; he was an adult, needed freedom.
When he brought Katherine home, Lydia had felt a spark of hope. A real family would mean she could be a proper granny, bake treats, tell stories. Instead she was being gently edged out.
Morning came. Lydia rose early, washed, dressed, did her hair, examined herself in the mirror grey hair, laugh lines, weary face. When had she aged so fast?
The kitchen smelled of coffee. Katherine sat at the table scrolling on her phone. She looked up and nodded.
Morning. The van will be here at ten.
Alright, Lydia poured herself tea and sat down.
Here are the keys to the new flat, Katherine handed over a bunch of keys. Remember? Garden Street, number twelve, flat three.
I remember, Lydia said.
Weve helped with the first months rent, after that youll manage on your pension, Katherine added.
Rent. So they werent buying, just letting her stay temporarily, until she got used to it.
Ill manage, Lydia replied.
Andrew emerged from the bathroom, gave her a quick glance, sat beside Katherine. She passed him a plate of toast. They ate in silence while Lydia sipped tea.
At ten the van arrived. Movers hustled boxes, the suitcase, the bags out of the hallway. Lydia stood at the door, watching her life being taken away.
Mum, Ill drive you, Andrew said, grabbing the car keys.
No, Ill get there myself, Lydia stopped him. I can manage on my own.
Come on, its no trouble!
Ill do it, she insisted.
Andrew tried to argue, but Katherine placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. Dont argue.
Lydia left the flat without looking back, descended the stairs, passed the entrance shed known for decades, and sat on a bench by the childrens playground.
The van pulled away, and the courtyard fell silent again.
Lydia, where are you off to? Vera Illy asked, holding a shopping bag. Where have you taken those boxes?
To a new place, Lydia smiled. Im moving.
How? Where? Why?
Andrew and Katie are staying here, Im moving out. Its better.
Better? Vera flailed her arms. Theyve thrown you out! Those bastards! God forgive them!
Vera, calm down. Theyre right. They need their space.
Space! Theyve got a threebed flat! What space? Katies been after you from day one, I told you!
Alright, Vera. Ill go. Heres the address, write it down. You can visit.
Vera scribbled the details, still frowning, then hugged Lydia, promising to drop by.
Lydia boarded a bus to Garden Street. The building at number twelve was an ageing fivestorey block with peeling plaster, a hallway smelling of damp and urine. The groundfloor flat faced a courtyard that looked like a well. Inside, the room was tiny about fifteen square metres, a cramped kitchen, a combined bathroom, old furniture: a sagging sofa, a table, two chairs, a wardrobe. Faded curtains hung over the window, the floor creaked with each step.
She walked to the centre of the room, where movers had piled her boxes against the wall. That was it her new home.
She sank onto the sofa; the springs complained. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. No tears, just a quiet resolve.
She began unpacking: hanging clothes in the wardrobe, arranging books on the shelf, placing a photograph of Nicholas on the bedside table, setting the porcelain ballerina on the windowsill, putting her cosmetics in the bathroom, hanging a towel.
Night fell. Lydia switched on the dim light; the bulb flickered. Shed need a new one soon.
The phone rang Andrew.
Mum, hows the drive? All good?
Fine, she replied evenly.
Great. If you need anything, call. Well help.
Thanks, but Im okay.
Alright, love. Take care.
She hung up, looked out the window at the grey courtyard, the rubbish bins, a sagging fence. She thought of the garden shed tended back home flowerbeds shed planted each spring, the bench where neighbours gathered for evening tea. Here everything was foreign.
She lay on the sofa, pulled her shawl around her, and finally let herself weep, softly, so the neighbours wouldnt hear.
Morning brought noise shouting, clattering dishes. She rose, her neck stiff from the uncomfortable sofa, washed with cold water, dressed. The fridge was empty, so she walked two streets to a corner shop, bought bread, milk, eggs, a few veggies, and made herself a simple fried egg and a cup of tea.
She sat at the table, glancing at the silent phone. Andrew hadnt called. Days slipped by. She went to the shop, cooked, cleaned, read old books. Vera promised to visit but kept postponing.
On the third day she finally called her son.
Andy, hows it going?
Fine, Mum. Works busy.
Hows Katie? Is the pregnancy alright?
Good, all right. Ive got a meeting now, will call back later, okay?
He never called back.
Lydia realised she was no longer needed. Shed been removed like unwanted luggage. She remembered how, after Nicholas died, she lived for Andrew soups, ironed shirts, anxiously awaited his news. When Katherine arrived, Lydia gave up her own room, moved to the hallway sofa, cooked what the daughterinlaw liked, not what she wanted, trying not to be a burden.
Now three boxes and a onebed flat on the edge of town.
She sat by the window, watching an elderly lady walk a small poodle, two men smoking outside the block. Life went on, indifferent and distant.
Then a thought struck her perhaps this was a chance, not an end.
All her life shed lived for others: parents, husband, son. Never for herself. Maybe it was time to change that.
She stood, squared her shoulders, fetched an old notebook from the cupboard the one shed kept before marriage, filled with dreams: Learn to paint. Visit the sea. Get a cat. Take dance lessons. Years had passed, those wishes never realized, always postponed for lack of time or money.
Now she had both. Her pension was modest but enough, the flat was hers, albeit rented, but it was hers.
She dialled a number, signed up for beginner painting classes twice a week. She scrolled through a petadoption site and wrote that she wanted a cat.
The next day she drove to the shelter. An elderly ginger cat with a torn ear and sad eyes sat in a corner, silent, not meowing.
This one wont get adopted easily, the worker sighed. Hes old, a bit sick, but hes gentle.
Ill take him, Lydia said.
She named him Rusty. He settled on the sofa quickly, purring contentedly. Stroking him warmed her heart; she finally had a living creature that needed her.
Her painting class began a week later. She walked in, nervous, surrounded by young faces, but the instructor, a woman in her fifties, smiled warmly and ushered her to a easel.
Pencil, paper, lines. At first they were clumsy, awkward. Gradually she found rhythm, enjoyment in creating something of her own.
She met Tamara, another student of her age, widowed, children moved away. They became friends, sharing tea after class, chatting about life.
Lydia, Tamara said one day, I used to think my life was over. Kids gone, grandchildren rare. Then I realised I didnt need them. I started painting, thought about going to the theatre, maybe even ballroom dancing.
Can I do that too? Lydia asked.
Absolutely! Youve earned it.
Lydia returned home, fed Rusty, sat by the window with her sketchbook, drawing the courtyard, the houses, the sky. The phone stayed silent; Andrew hadnt called in two weeks, and she didnt call either. She didnt need to.
One evening the doorbell rang. Andrew stood there, eyes taking in the drawings on the walls, Rusty curled on the sofa, a vase of fresh flowers on the table.
Wow, he whistled. Youve settled in.
Indeed, Lydia replied. Want some tea?
Id like that. Also, I wanted to apologise. I pushed you out without asking. Katie was insistent, and I was too cowardly to stand up. Im sorry.
Its alright, Andy, she said, smiling. You did me a favour, in a way. Ive discovered I have my own life now.
Really? he asked. Whats new?
Ive taken painting lessons, adopted a cat, even thought about dancing. Im not just a mother or a widow any more.
Youve got a boy now, right? We named him Cole, after granddad.
Congratulations, Lydia beamed. Both of you healthy?
Yes. Well be coming over soon, you should meet him.
Ill be here, but I wont move in. This is my place now.
Andrew hugged her, and she returned the embrace, feeling the familiar bond but also a new independence.
After he left, Lydia poured herself tea, settled Rusty on her lap, and gazed out the window. The courtyard no longer felt foreign. She knew the neighbours, exchanged greetings, chatted occasionally. This was her new life, one shed chosen herself.
And that felt perfectly right.
