Andrews told you weve already talked about the move and the boxes are in the hallway, the son announces, leaning against the doorway.
Emily, how many times must we fuss over those jars! Vera Ilyich exclaims, gesturing at the kitchen table piled with jam jars, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Who are you going to give them to? Andrew and Emma cant even see your cucumbers; they buy everything from the supermarket!
Im doing it for myself, it makes me happy, Emily Parker replies, polishing another threelitre jar until it shines. Ill open it in winter and itll smell like summerdill, gooseberry leaf. Its a memory, Vera.
Memory Vera shakes her head. Your pantry is stuffed with memories. Some of them have been there since last year.
Emily smiles faintly but says nothing. Vera is right; the jars have been stacking up, opened only rarely. Yet the process itself matterspicking the berries, sterilising the lids, sealing them, hearing the snap as they cool. It soothes her and fills the hours.
Vera leaves, promising to drop by later for a recipe for courgette spread, and Emily stays alone at the kitchen window, watching the children chase a ball in the back garden while a young mother pushes a stroller. Its a typical August evening, warm and quiet.
The front door bangs shut. Emily flinches and turns. Andrew walks in without even glancing at the kitchen, which is oddhe usually greets us and asks whats for dinner.
She wipes her hands on her apron and follows him. Andrew stands at the window, hands in his jeans pockets, shoulders tense, back straight. Emily knows that pose; its the one he takes when hes about to say something serious.
Would you like a cup of tea? she asks, pausing in the doorway.
Mom, we need to talk, he says without turning.
Her heart skips. The tone is formal, the kind used for uncomfortable conversations.
Go ahead, Emily says, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed.
The move was discussed without you, the boxes are already in the hallway, Andrew finally says, turning pale, lips pressed. Emma insisted. Weve found a good flat for youa onebedroom on the ground floor, no lift needed.
Emily stays silent. The words come slowly, as if through cotton. Move. Discussed. Without you.
What? she manages to gasp.
Mom, you understandit’s cramped. Emmas pregnant, the baby needs its own room. This flat will be ours now, with Emma. Well live here, and youll have a place just three bus stops away. Youll still be able to visit.
The boxes are in the hallway, Emily repeats, her voice oddly hollow. My things.
Yes. Emma has already packed the essentials. The rest well bring later.
She turns and walks toward the hallway. By the door sit three cardboard boxes, an old suitcase with a missing wheel, and two plastic bags. Sixtytwo years of life, thirty years in this house, reduced to three boxes.
Emily crouches, opens the first box. On top lies a framed photograph of her with her late husband Nicholas on a seaside holiday. Below that are her favourite shawl, a few books, a porcelain ballerina statue that Andrew gave her when he was eight, and beneath the books her slippers, robe and makeup bag.
Mom, dont be so dramatic, Andrew says, shifting his weight. Its not permanent. Youll just be living elsewhere. Lots of people do it.
Normal, she echoes, rising. Her knees crack, a sharp pain shoots through her lower back. So its normal.
Emma, tall and sleek, with immaculate makeup and a snug dress, steps into the room. She gives Emily a assessing glance, purses her lips.
Lydia Parker, please dont take offense, she says in that patronising tone used when explaining things to someone naïve. But you understand we need space. The baby needs a nursery, and youre always in the kitchen with those jars, your laundry drying in the bathroom, your bed in the living room. We simply have nowhere to spread out.
This flat Emily begins.
Its registered in Andrews namehis fathers, actuallyso legally its all clear. Were not breaking any rules. We just want to live as a family. Youre not opposed, are you?
Emily looks at her son, who averts his eyes and turns toward the window, saying nothing.
When? she asks quietly.
Tomorrow morning, Emma replies cheerfully. Weve already booked the van. Youll love the fresh renovation.
Emily nods, turns and heads back to her old bedroom, the one where shed shared twentyfive years with Nicholas, dreamed of futures, tended to Andrew when he was ill, and where Nicholas died in her arms three years before his pension. She sits on the bed, runs her hand over the faded quiltonce hers, then his mothers, now worn but sturdy.
No tears fall. Inside there is a hollow, cold echo, like an abandoned house.
She had once been thrilled when Andrew introduced Emma. Mum, meet my fiancée, he had beamed. She baked pies, set the table, smiled. Emma seemed sweet but never helped in the kitchen; Emily chalked it up to upbringingEmma came from a welloff family where everything was done for her.
Their wedding was modest. Emma pushed for the young couple to stay with Andrews mother. Why rent a flat when you have a big house? she reasoned. Emily agreed, enjoying the thought of laughter and conversation filling the home again.
But life turned onesided. Emily cooked, cleaned, washed. Emma worked late, came home exhausted. Andrew disappeared into his job. Weekends they visited Emmas parents or roamed the town, never inviting Emily. What am I to you, old woman? she thought, dusting mirrors and wiping strangers photos that Emma scattered around.
Now the move is decided without her, her opinions ignored, as if she were furniture that could be rearranged.
Emily rises, walks to the window. Night falls, streetlamps flicker, casting a yellow glow over the courtyard. The swings sit empty, the benches silent, only Mrs. Zina from the third block walks her fat cat Marlon.
Mom, are you going to bed? Andrew peeks in, voice guilty.
Ill lie down, she answers without turning.
Dont worry too much. Everything will be fine, he says, then quietly closes the door.
She lies on the sofa, blankets herself with her shawl, stares at the ceiling, and finally lets herself weepquietly, so the neighbours wont hear.
Morning comes with the clatter of arguments from the flat next door. Emily stands, neck stiff from the uncomfortable sofa, washes her face with cold water, dresses. The fridge is empty, so she walks two blocks to a corner shop, buys bread, milk, eggs and a few veg, returns and makes a simple fried egg and tea.
She checks her phone; Andrew hasnt called. The day passes with grocery trips, cleaning, reading old books. Vera promises to visit but keeps postponing.
On the third day she finally calls her son.
Andrew, hows it going? she asks.
Busy, mum. Works a lot, he replies. Hows Emma? Pregnancy okay?
Fine. Im in a meeting, Ill call back later, he says, then hangs up.
She realises shes become an unwanted extra, a burden theyve shed. She had lived for othersparents, husband, sonnever for herself.
She sits by the window, watches a pensioner walking a small dog, two men smoking outside the block. Life goes on, indifferent and foreign.
A thought strikes her: maybe this is a chance, not an end.
She pulls an old notebook from the wardrobe, the one she kept before marriage, and flips to a page: Learn to draw. Go to the sea. Get a cat. Take dance lessons. Dreams that have lain dormant for decades.
Her modest pension, about £800 a month, will cover basics. The flat is old but now hersrented, but hers. She finds online a beginner drawing class twice a week and signs up. She also spots an animal shelter advertisement and writes asking to adopt a cat.
The next day she visits the shelter. A scruffy orange tomcat with a torn ear and sad eyes catches her attention.
Hardly anyone will want him, the volunteer sighs. Hes old, a bit ill, but gentle.
Ill take him, Emily decides.
She names him Rusty. He settles on the sofa, purrs, and warms her hands. The presence of a living creature she needs feels like a small miracle.
The drawing class starts a week later. She walks in, nervous, surrounded by younger faces, but the instructor, a kindly woman in her fifties, smiles and guides her to a easel. Pencil strokes feel clumsy at first, then gradually smoother. She meets Tara, a woman her age whose husband died and whose children live far away. They become friends, sharing coffee after class, swapping stories.
Lydia, I used to think life was over, Tara confides. Kids are grown, grandchildren visit rarely. I thought I was just a leftover. Then I realised I still have a life to live. I go to the theatre, Im thinking about ballroom dancing now.
Really? Emily asks. Can you actually do that?
Absolutely! Its never too late, Tara replies, eyes twinkling.
Emily returns home, feeds Rusty, sits by the window with her sketchbook, and begins to draw the courtyard, the houses, the sky. The lines improve.
Andrews calls are sparse; he checks in briefly, says everythings fine. She doesnt chase after him; she has her own schedule now.
One evening the phone rings. Mum, hello. How are you?
Good, she says evenly.
Why havent you called? Were worried.
Worried? Emily laughs softly. I havent heard from you in weeks. Whats there to worry about?
Well, Emmas had a rough pregnancy, and we could use some help.
Thanks, but I have my own thingscourses, cat, friends. Im finally living for myself, she replies.
Cat? Courses? What are you talking about? Andrew asks, baffled.
Im fine, Andrew. Ive got my own life now. You wanted me out of the way, so Ive moved out, she says, feeling a lightness she hasnt felt in years.
Dont be like that, come over, well talk, he pleads.
Not now. When the baby is born, Ill visit and congratulate. But Im staying here, she says, hanging up. Rusty rubs against her leg, purring.
Months pass. Emily keeps attending classes, drawing, strolling with Tara, even joining a beginners ballroom workshop. She laughs at the waltz steps, something she hasnt done in decades.
Andrew calls occasionally, short and polite. He apologises for how he handled the move.
Andrew, you did me a favour, she says when he visits unexpectedly, eyes on the sketches on the wall and Rusty stretched on the sofa. You pushed me into this new life.
He looks humbled. I was ashamed. Emma insisted, I didnt stand up. Im sorry.
Its alright, Emily replies, offering tea. Ive found my own rhythm.
He tells her Emma just gave birth to a boy, named Cole after his grandfather. Come meet him, he says.
Ill come, but not to stay, she answers, smiling.
He hugs her, and for a moment the old bond feels renewed, not dependent.
Later, seated by the window with a cup of tea, Rusty curled on her lap, Emily watches the courtyard. The neighbours wave, a chatty lady stops to ask about her cat, a teenage boy offers to carry groceries. The place no longer feels foreign; its her new home, the one she chose.
She flips open the old notebook, reads her longforgotten wishes, and realizes theyre no longer fantasies but plans she can actually follow. The future, once a dull hallway of boxes, now stretches ahead, bright and hers.
