At sixty-five, I realised the most dreadful thing wasnt being aloneit was begging your own children to call, knowing you were nothing but a burden to them.
“Mum, hi, I need your help urgently.”
My sons voice on the phone carried the tone of someone addressing a tiresome subordinate, not his mother.
Margaret Evans froze, the TV remote still in her hand, the evening news forgotten.
“Oliver, hello. Whats happened?”
“Nothing, everythings fine,” Oliver exhaled impatiently. “But Emily and I snagged a last-minute holiday. Flights tomorrow morning. Weve got no one to look after Duke. Can you take him?”
Duke. A massive, slobbering Great Dane who would occupy more space in her tiny two-bedroom flat than her old china cabinet.
“How long?” Margaret asked carefully, already knowing the answer.
“A week. Maybe two. Depends how it goes. Mum, come onwho else can I ask? Boarding him would be cruel. You know how sensitive he is.”
Margaret glanced at her sofa, freshly reupholstered in pale fabric. Shed scrimped for months to afford it, denying herself little luxuries. Duke would ruin it in days.
“Oliver, Ive just had the flat done up. Its not really convenient…”
“Mum, what done up?” His voice dripped with irritation. “Changed the curtains?”
“Dukes trained, just dont forget his walks. Look, Emilys got the suitcases out. Well drop him off in an hour.”
The line went dead.
He hadnt even asked how she was. No mention of her birthday last week. Sixty-five.
Shed waited all day for their call, made her famous potato salad, put on a new dress. Theyd promised to visit. Never showed.
Oliver had sent a text: “Happy bday Mum. Swamped at work.” Her daughter, Sarah, hadnt bothered at all.
And today? “Urgent help needed.”
Margaret sank onto the sofa. It wasnt about the dog or the ruined upholstery.
It was the humiliating knowledge of her function. She was free pet-sitting. Emergency backup. Last resort. A woman reduced to utility.
She remembered, years ago, dreaming of the day her children would grow independent. Now she understood something worse than solitude: waiting by the phone, heart clenched, knowing theyd only call when they wanted something.
Begging for their attention, bargaining with her own comfort and dignity.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. Oliver stood there, gripping the leash of a panting Duke, who barrelled inside, muddy paws stamping across her clean floors.
“Mum, heres his food, his toys. Three walks a dayyou remember. Weve got to dash or well miss our flight!” He thrust the leash into her hands, pecked her cheek, and vanished.
Margaret stood in the hallway. Duke was already sniffing the chair legs.
From the living room came the sound of tearing fabric.
She picked up her phone. Maybe call Sarah? Perhaps shed understand. But her finger hovered.
Sarah hadnt rung in a month. Too busy. Her own life, her own family.
For the first time, Margaret didnt feel the usual sting of hurt. Instead, something colder, clearer. A realisation. Enough.
Morning dawned with Duke springing onto her bed, leaving two grimy paw prints on her white duvet. The new sofa was already scratched in three places. Her prized ficus, nurtured for five years, lay uprooted, leaves chewed.
Margaret took a swig of valerian straight from the bottle and dialled Oliver. He answered after several rings.
Waves crashed in the background. Emilys laughter.
“Mum, what? Were greatthe seas brilliant!”
“Oliver, about Duke. Hes wrecking the flat. Shredded the sofa. I cant manage him.”
“What dyou mean?” He sounded genuinely baffled. “Hes never scratched anything. Maybe youre locking him up? He needs freedom. Mum, dont start, alright? We just got here. Take him for longer walks, hell settle.”
“I walked him two hours this morning! He nearly yanked me over. Oliver, please, take him back. Find someone else.”
A pause. Then his voice turned hard.
“Mum, seriously? Were on the other side of the world. How? You agreed to this. Want us to drop everything because youre being difficult? Thats selfish.”
Selfish. The word struck like a slap. She, whod lived for themselfish.
“Im not”
“Look, Emilys got cocktails. Entertain Duke. Youll bond. Love you.”
Click.
Her hands shook. She sat at the kitchen table, away from the wreckage. The helplessness was physical now. She called Sarah. Her daughter had always been the sensible one.
“Sarah, hi.”
“Hi Mum. Urgent?”
“Yes. Oliver left Duke with me and flew off. The dogs uncontrollable. Destroying the furniture. Im afraid hell bite me next.”
Sarah sighed.
“Mum, Oliver asked you. Mustve been desperate. Cant you help your own son? Were family. So the sofas tornbuy a new one. Hell pay you back. Maybe.”
“Its not the sofa! Its the disrespect! He just dumped this on me!”
“How else? Beg on his knees? Mum, stop. Youre retired, youve got time. Enjoy the dog. Whats the fuss? Boss is glaringgot to go.”
Click.
Margaret set the phone down.
Family. A strange word.
For her, it meant a group who remembered you only when they needed something, then called you selfish if you hesitated.
That evening, her downstairs neighbour banged on the door, furious.
“Margaret! That dogs been howling for three hours! My baby cant sleep! If you dont shut him up, Im calling the police!”
Duke, behind her, wagged his tail and barked cheerfully.
Margaret closed the door. She looked at the dog, at the ruined sofa, at her phone. A slow, heavy anger swelled inside.
Shed always tried to be kind. To explain, to understand.
But her logic, her feelings, her wordsnone of it mattered. They bounced off a wall of patronising indifference.
She grabbed the leash.
“Come on, Duke. Walk.”
In the park, tension knotted her shoulders. Duke strained ahead, nearly wrenching the leash from her frail grip. Each tug echoed Olivers and Sarahs words: “Selfish.” “Plenty of time.” “Cant you help?”
Then, strolling towards her, light as a wispJanet, her old colleague. Bright scarf, chic haircut, smile.
“Margaret, hello! Didnt recognise you! Buried in troubles? Grandkids again?” She nodded at Duke.
“My sons dog,” Margaret muttered.
“Oh!” Janet laughed. “Youre always the fixer, arent you? Im off to Spain next week! Signed up for flamencoimagine? At my age! Girls from class are going. My husband grumbled, then said, Go, youve earned it. When did you last have a break?”
The question hung. Margaret couldnt remember. Her breaks were tied to the kids, their needs.
“You look exhausted,” Janet said gently. “Cant carry everyone forever. Theyre grown. Let them cope. Or youll be minding their dogs while life passes you by. Anyway, must dashrehearsal!”
She flitted off, leaving perfume and emptiness.
“While life passes you by.”
The phrase detonated. Margaret stopped so abruptly Duke stumbled.
She looked at the dog, at her leash-clenched hands, at the grey buildings.
Enough. Not one more day.
She pulled out her phone, searched: “Best luxury dog hotel.”
The first link showed glossy photos: spacious suites, pools, grooming salons, private trainers. Prices that made her gasp.
Margaret dialled.
“Hello. Id like to book a suite. Yes, for a Great Dane. Two weeks. Full board and spa treatments.”
The taxi came to the park. In the car, Duke sat oddly calm, as if sensing change.
The hotel smelled of lavender, not dog. A smiling attendant handed her a form.
Without blinking, Margaret wrote Olivers name and number under “Owner.”
Under “Payment,” his details again. She paid the deposit with her new coat fund. Best investment ever.
“Well send daily photos to the owner,” the girl beamed. “Dont worry, hell love it here.”
Back in her quiet, slightly wrecked flat, Margaret feltnot loneliness, but peace.
She poured tea, sat on the intact edge of the sofa, and sent two identical texts.
“Dukes safe. At the hotel. Any questions
