The kettle whistled softly on the stove as Evelyn sifted through packets of tea. Chamomile, peppermint, Earl Grey Victoria had brought them back from her last business trip to Edinburgh. Evelyn smiled, remembering how her daughter had proudly handed her the keys to this flat five years ago.
“Now youll have a proper home, Mum,” Victoria had said, her voice bright with pride. “No more rented rooms.”
The old kitchen had become her sanctuary. Everything here felt familiarthe worn oilcloth on the table, the geraniums on the windowsill, even the crack in the tile near the stove. Just as she poured herself a cup, the doorbell rang.
Victoria stood there in a sharp business suit, her hair impeccably styled, her expression unreadable.
“Mum, we need to talk.”
Evelyn stepped aside, her heart tightening at the tone.
“Come in, love. Ive just made your favouritethe Earl Grey you brought back.”
“No, thanks,” Victoria remained in the middle of the kitchen. “I wont stay long. Mum, you need to vacate the flat. By tomorrow.”
Evelyn froze, the teapot in her hand. Had she heard right?
“Sorry?”
“The flat needs to be empty. Tomorrow. I cant delay this any longer.”
Hot tea spilled over her fingers, but she barely felt it.
“Victoria, I dont understand This is my home. You gave it to me.”
“Its just a flat, Mum.” Victoria checked her phone absently. “Youve had your time here, but I cant support you anymore.”
“Support me?” Evelyn let out a shaky laugh. “I pay the bills, I clean”
“Lets not do this,” Victoria sighed. “The decisions made. Leave the keys on the table.”
She turned to leave, but Evelyn caught her wrist.
“Wait! At least tell me why. Whats happened?”
“Nothings happened. Its just business, Mum. The flat could fetch a higher rent.”
The door clicked shut. Silence pressed in. Evelyn sank onto a stool, staring at the spilled tea. The evening sun glimmered in the puddle, fractured and fleeting.
Dreamlike, she wandered to her room. Photos lined the wallsVictoria at graduation, radiant in white; the two of them at the seaside, building sandcastles before the tide. Shed sold her cottage to pay for Victorias education. Had it been a sacrifice? No. Just love.
“Darling,” she whispered, tracing the photograph. “How did it come to this?”
Night fell. Evelyn packed mechanically, pausing to memorise every detailthe peeling paint shed meant to fix, the glow of her favourite lamp, the shadow of geranium leaves on the wall. Each suddenly precious.
Somewhere inside, hope flickeredmaybe Victoria would call, say it was a mistake. A cruel joke. But the phone stayed silent as the clock ticked toward morning.
The first night was stifling. She sat on a park bench, clutching her battered suitcase, watching the stars. People slept in warm beds while shegood Lord, how had it come to this?
Shed left the keys polished on the table. Maybe Victoria would notice. Maybe shed remember how her mother cared for small things.
“Evening,” rasped a voice beside her. A bearded man in a threadbare coat settled on the far end of the bench. “Dont mind me. You staying out too?”
Evelyn pulled the suitcase closer.
“No, IIm just walking.”
He chuckled. “At three in the morning? With a suitcase?”
“Yes, imagine,” she tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “I like night walks.”
“Right.” He fished an apple from his pocket. “Want one? Just washed it in the fountain.”
She shook her head, but her stomach betrayed her. She hadnt eaten since yesterday.
“Names Simon,” he said between bites. “Three months on the streets. Wife kicked me out. You?”
“My daughter,” Evelyn murmured, surprising herself.
Simon exhaled. “Kids these days Different breed. My boys in Canada. Two years without a call.”
By dawn, the air grew cold. Simon had gone, leaving her another apple and a shelter address. “Place is warm,” hed said. “Sometimes they feed you.”
As light broke, she stood stiffly. Where to go? Not the shelter. Not yet. MaybeMargaret? Her neighbour had always been kind, often dropping by for tea
The knock felt heavier than it should. Evelyn raised her hand twice before finally rapping.
“Evelyn?” Margaret appeared in a floral robe. “Good heavens, you look dreadful!”
“Margaret” Her voice wavered. “Could I stay with you? Just a few days?”
Margarets tiny kitchen smelled of sugar. Shed been baking sconesa morning indulgence.
“Well, I never” she tutted as Evelyns story tumbled out. “I always said you spoiled her. Remember when she snapped at you on your birthday? And you just took itdarling this, darling that”
“Please, Margaret.”
“I wont stop, Evie!” Margaret slammed her 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!”
Evelyn watched the waking city. Somewhere, people hurried to jobs, to homes, to certainty
“Youll bounce back, love,” Margaret squeezed her shoulder. “You always do.”
Three days blurred past. Evelyn cooked, cleaned, even fixed Margarets leaky tap. But with each hour, she felt more like a burden.
“William!” she suddenly remembered, flipping through an old address book. An old family friend, once her late husbands colleague. Hed offered help years ago
Dialling took courage. What if hed forgotten her? Worseremembered, but refused?
“William? Its Evelyn. Evelyn Harris”
Within an hour, she sat in his cluttered office at the homeless shelter where he managed operations.
“So your daughter threw you out?” He tapped his pencil. “Right Well, our cook just quit. Temporary, mind you, but still Can you cook?”
“All my life,” she hesitated. “But where would I live?”
“Weve a staff room. Small, mind But yours.” William smiled. “Youre tougher than you think, Evie. Youll manage.”
That evening, she stepped into the shelter not as a guest, but as staff. The smell of stew mixed with bleach. Voices hummed in the dining hallan elderly man in a frayed blazer chatted animatedly with a young mother. Simon (of all people!) helped set tables.
“Evelyn!” A middle-aged woman beckoned. “Im TamaraIll show you the ropes. Dont worry, love, weve all been through something.”
The staff room was sparse but unexpectedly cosy. Evelyn sat on the narrow bed, phone in hand. Her thumb hovered over Victorias number No. Not yet.
“Well then,” she said to her reflection in the window, “life goes on?”
Three months passed in a blink. Cooking for crowds proved oddly joyful. Busyness left less room for bitter thoughts.
“Evelyn,” Tamara peeked into the kitchen, “weve a new girl. Barely twenty. Fancy making her some tea?”
In the hall sat a thin girl, twisting the sleeve of her oversized jumper.
“Tea?” Evelyn set down a cup. “Earl Grey. From Edinburgh.”
The girl looked up, eyes red. “Thanks. Youyouve been here long?”
“Three months,” Evelyn sat beside her. “Thought it was the end of the world. Turns out, it was a beginning.”
That night, she began to write. At first just thoughts in an old notebook, then clumsy, honest poems. Tamara cried when she read them.
“Keep writing,” she said. “Your soul sings.”
One evening, Evelyn took out fresh paper. “Dear Victoria,” she wrote. The letter grew longthe park bench, Simons apple, the fear, the loneliness. Then learning to live anew.
“Youll always be my daughter,” she wrote, “but I wont live just for you anymore. I write poems now. Remember my silly verses when you were small? You laughed, said I was like Wordsworth. Now I write for myself. Live for myself. Maybe one day youll understand.”
She never sent it. But the weight lifted.
“Evelyn!” Tamara burst in waving a slip of paper. “Marjorie Stevensthe lady who comes to our poetry eveningsshes got a room to let. Cheap. Says she likes yougood cook, poet”
A week later, Evelyn moved her few belongings to a sunlit room in an old house. Marjorie, sharp-eyed and kind, helped hang curtains.
“You know,” she said, passing nails, “my husband left after thirty years. Thought Id die. Then I started painting. Imagine?”
That
