The move was decided without you, the boxes are already in the hallway, my brother said as he slipped past the kitchen doorway.
Emily, how long are we going to fuss over those jars? shouted Maggie Thompson, waving her hands at the kitchen table piled high with jam jars, pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. Who are you going to give them to? Andrew and Emily dont even see your cucumbers they buy everything in the supermarket!
Im doing it for myself, Emily replied, rubbing a threeliter jar until it shone. Ill open it in winter and think of summer. The smell of dill, the scent of redcurrant leaves its memory, Maggie.
Memory Maggie muttered, shaking her head. Your pantry is full of it. Some of its been there since before last year.
Emily smiled faintly but said nothing. Maggie was right; the jars had been collecting for ages, opened only on rare occasions. Yet the process itself mattered picking the berries, sterilising the lids, sealing the jars, listening to the pop as they cooled. It soothed her, filled the quiet hours.
Maggie left, promising to swing by later with a recipe for zucchini pâté, and Emily was left alone in the kitchen. She settled by the window and watched the backyard: children chased a ball, a young mother pushed a pram. An ordinary August evening, warm and still.
The front door slammed. Emily flinched and turned. Andrew walked into the hallway without even looking into the kitchen odd, she thought. He usually greeted us and asked what was for dinner.
She wiped her hands on her apron and followed him. Their son, Tom, stood by the window, hands shoved deep into his denim pockets, shoulders tight, back straight. Emily knew that posture; it was the one he took when he was about to deliver some serious news.
Would you like a cup of tea? she asked, pausing at the doorway.
Mom, we need to talk, Andrew said without turning.
Her heart lurched. The tone was formal, distant the kind you use when youre about to have an uncomfortable conversation.
Go ahead, Emily said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest.
The move was discussed without you, the boxes are already in the hallway, Andrew finally said, turning finally, his face pale, lips pressed. Emily insisted. We weve found a decent flat for you. Onebedroom, on the ground floor, so you wont have to struggle with the lift.
Emily stayed silent. The words seemed to come through thick, as if filtered through cotton. Move. Discussed. Without you.
What? she managed to gasp.
Mom, you understand, Andrew ran a hand through his hair, looking away. Its cramped here. Emilys pregnant, she needs her own room. This flat will be ours mine and Emilys. Well live there. Weve found a place for you just three bus stops away. You can visit, well still see each other.
The boxes are in the hallway, Emily repeated, her voice oddly hollow. My things.
Right. Emily has already packed the essentials. The rest well bring later.
She turned and headed toward the hallway. By the door sat three cardboard boxes, an old suitcase missing a wheel, and two plastic bags. That was it sixtytwo years of life, three decades in this flat, reduced to three boxes.
Emily crouched, opened the first box. Inside lay a framed photograph of her with her late husband Nicholas on a seaside holiday, her favourite shawl, a few books, a porcelain ballerina figurine that Andrew had given her when she was eight, her slippers, a robe, a makeup bag.
Mom, you dont have to do this, Andrew said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Its not permanent. Youll just be living separately. Lots of people do that. Its normal.
Its normal, she echoed, standing up. Her knees cracked, a sharp pain flared in her lower back. So it is normal.
Emilys sisterinlaw, Emily, stepped in. Tall, slender, perfect makeup, a neat baby bump under a sleek dress, she gave Margaret a appraising glance and pursed her lips.
Margaret, please dont take offense, she began, the tone one uses when explaining something to someone who cant quite grasp it. But you understand we need space. The baby needs a nursery. And you youre always in the kitchen with those jars, your laundry dries in the bathroom, your bed is in the sitting room. We simply have nowhere to spread out.
This flat Margaret started.
Its registered in Andrews name, Emily cut in. After his fathers. Legally its all clear. Were not breaking any rules. We just want to live as a family. Youre not against that, are you?
Margaret looked at her son. He lowered his eyes, turned toward the window, said nothing.
When? she asked softly.
Tomorrow morning, Emily replied cheerfully. Weve already booked a van. Youll move, settle in. By the way, the renovation is brand new youll love it.
Margaret nodded, turned and walked back to her own room the very room where shed spent twentyfive years with Nicholas, where shed imagined futures, where shed sat up late nursing a sick Andrew. Where Nicholas had died in her arms from a heart attack three years before his pension kicked in.
She sat on the bed, ran a hand over the faded coverlet that had once belonged to Nicholass mother old, but sturdy.
Tears didnt come. Inside there was a hollow, cold echo, like an abandoned house.
She had once been thrilled when Andrew introduced Emily. Mum, meet my fiancée, hed beamed. Margaret baked pies, set the table, smiled. Emily seemed sweet, a little shy. She never helped in the kitchen, but Margaret chalked that up to upbringing a girl from a welloff family, accustomed to being catered for.
The wedding was modest. Emily insisted the young couple stay with Andrews mother. Why rent a flat when you have so much space? shed argued. Margaret agreed. She liked the idea of the house buzzing with life again.
But the life turned onesided. Margaret cooked, cleaned, washed. Emily worked, came home late, exhausted. Andrew was often away on business. Weekends they visited Emilys parents or roamed the city, never inviting Margaret along.
Why am I even here, old thing? Margaret would think, dusting mirrors, cleaning photos that Emily had strewn around the flat.
Now, the move was decided without her, her belongings gathered as if her opinion meant nothing. She was treated like furniture to be rearranged.
Margaret rose, walked to the window. Night fell. Streetlights flickered, casting a yellow glow over the courtyard. The swings stood empty, the benches too. Only Mrs. Brown from the third block walked her hefty cat, Marmalade.
Mom, are you going to bed? Andrew peeked into the room, his voice apologetic, uncertain.
Ill lie down, she replied without turning.
Dont worry too much. Everything will be fine. Youll see.
She stayed silent. Andrew lingered a moment longer, then closed the door quietly.
She lay on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Memories tossed up images: Nicholas carrying her over the threshold of this flat, young and laughing; them hanging wallpaper together, cheerful; baby Andrew taking his first steps, holding onto the sofa; Nicholas teaching his son to ride a bike in the yard while she watched anxiously; Andrew bringing home his first fivepoint test and celebrating at a café; graduation, first job.
Then Nicholas was gone, and Margaret was left with a twentyfiveyearold son who lived his own life, occasionally staying over, but more often with friends. She didnt mind; he was an adult, he needed freedom.
When he brought Emily home, Margaret had been delighted. A full family under one roof. She imagined babysitting grandkids, baking pies, telling stories, being the beloved granny.
Instead, she was being gently, persistently pushed out.
The next morning Margaret got up early, washed, dressed, did her hair, and looked at herself in the mirror grey hair, wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, a tired face. When had she grown so old?
The kitchen smelled of coffee. Emily sat at the table scrolling on her phone. She nodded when she saw her mother.
Good morning. The van will be here at ten, she said.
Right, Margaret poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.
Here are the keys to the new flat, Emily handed her a bundle. I gave you the address last time Garden Street, number twelve, flat three.
I remember.
We helped with the first months rent, after that youll manage on your pension, Emily added.
Rent. So they hadnt bought a place, just let her rent a modest flat for the time being.
Ill manage, Margaret replied.
Andrew emerged from the bathroom, gave her a quick glance, sat beside his wife. Emily passed him a plate of sandwiches. They ate in silence while Margaret sipped her tea.
At ten, the van arrived. Movers whisked out the boxes, the suitcase, the bags. Margaret stood in the hallway watching her life being taken out.
Mom, Ill drive you, Andrew said, holding the car keys.
No, Ill get there myself, Margaret stopped him. I can manage.
Come on, its no trouble! he protested.
No, she said firmly.
He wanted to argue, but Emily placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. Dont argue.
Margaret left the flat without looking back, went down the stairs, passed the entrance shed lived in for years, sat on a bench by the childrens playground.
The van pulled away, and the courtyard fell quiet again.
Liddy, what are you doing here? Maggie asked, carrying a shopping bag. Where have you taken those boxes?
To a new place, Margaret smiled. Im moving.
How? Where? Why?
Andrew and Emily are staying here, Ill be elsewhere. Its better.
Better? Maggie flapped her hands. Theyve kicked you out! You cant be serious! Goodness, Lord, this is cruel!
Dont, Maggie. Theyre right. They need their own space.
Space! Maggie snorted. Theyre a threeperson family! Thats all the space they need! Its Emilys doing, Ive seen it from day one. She never liked you, I told you!
Okay, Maggie. Ill go. Heres the new address, write it down. Youll visit.
Maggie noted it down, visibly upset, gave Margaret a hug, promised to drop by, muttering about ungrateful youngsters.
Margaret boarded the bus and traveled to Garden Street. Number twelve turned out to be a rundown fivestorey block with peeling plaster. The hallway reeked of damp and mildew. The groundfloor flat faced an inner courtyard that resembled a dark well. The room was tiny, about fifteen square metres. The kitchen was a cramped nook attached to a bathroom. The furniture was old a sofa, a table, two chairs, a wardrobe. The curtains on the window were faded, the floor creaked underfoot.
She stepped into the centre of the room, looked around. The movers had already piled her boxes against the wall. That was it the new home.
She sank onto the sofa; the springs groaned. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes. No tears now, just a quiet resolve.
She began to unpack: hanging clothes in the wardrobe, arranging books on the shelf, placing the photograph of Nicholas on the table, the porcelain ballerina on the windowsill, sorting her toiletries in the bathroom, hanging a towel.
When the sun set, she switched on the lamp. The bulb was dim and flickered. Shed need a new one.
The phone rang it was Andrew.
Hows the journey? he asked.
Fine, she replied evenly.
Great. If you need anything, call.
Thanks, but Im okay.
Alright, then. Take care, Mum.
He hung up. She stared at the screen, then tucked the phone away, walked to the window. Outside, the courtyard was grey, rubbish bins lined the perimeter, the fence leaned.
She thought of her old courtyard: the playground, the flowerbeds shed planted each spring, the bench where neighbours gathered in the evenings. Here everything was foreign.
She lay on the sofa, wrapped herself in her shawl, closed her eyes, and finally allowed herself to sob quietly, making sure the neighbours couldnt hear.
The next morning she woke to clatter from the next flat someone arguing, dishes crashing. She sat up, her back ached from the uncomfortable sofa. She washed her face with cold water, dressed.
Her fridge was empty, so she walked two streets to a small corner shop, bought bread, milk, eggs, a few vegetables, returned, made scrambled eggs and tea.
She sat down, glanced at the silent phone. Andrew hadnt called. The day slipped by, then another, then another. She kept the flat tidy, read old books, waited for Maggie, who kept postponing her visit.
On the third day, she could no longer hold back and dialed her son.
Andy, how are you?
Fine, Mum. Works busy.
Hows Emily? Is the pregnancy going well?
Its fine. Ive got a meeting, Ill call you later.
He never called back.
Margaret realised she was no longer needed. She was a burden they had finally shed. She had spent her whole life for others first her parents, then her husband, then her son. Shed never lived for herself.
It was time to change that.
She rose, straightened her shoulders, retrieved an old notebook from the wardrobe the one shed kept before marriage, full of halfwritten dreams. She opened it: Learn to paint. Go to the sea. Get a cat. Take dance lessons. Years had passed, and the wishes remained unfulfilled, always pushed aside for lack of time, money, or convenience.
Now she had both time and a modest pension. The flat was small, but it was hers even if she was renting it.
She checked her phone, found an advertisement for beginner painting courses twice a week. She signed up. Then she saw a notice from the local animal shelter, offering adoption. She wrote that she wanted a cat.
The following day she visited the shelter. Several cats were in cages; one orange cat with a torn ear and sad eyes caught her attention. He sat in the corner, barely meowing.
Hardly anyone will take him, the caretaker sighed. Hes old, a bit ill, but hes gentle.
Ill take him, Margaret said.
The cat, named Ginger, settled quickly on the sofa, purring contentedly. Margaret stroked him, feeling warmth spread through her.
Her painting class began a week later. She arrived nervous everyone else looked young, full of energy. The instructor, a woman in her fifties, welcomed her with a smile and helped her set up at an easel.
She started with shaky lines, clumsy shapes, but gradually the strokes became smoother, the images clearer. She enjoyed creating something of her own, watching a picture emerge from the blank canvas.
At the studio she met Tara, a woman of a similar age. Tara had also lost her husband, her children lived far away. They became friends, sharing tea after class, strolling to the local café, chatting about life.
Liddy, Tara said one afternoon, I used to think my life was over. Kids moved away, grandkids rarely called. I sat at home, feeling empty. Then I asked myself, why should I keep living for them? I have my own life now.
Is it possible to live for yourself? Margaret asked.
Absolutely! I now go to the theatre, exhibitions, Im even thinking of taking ballroom dance lessons, Tara replied, eyes sparkling.
Why not? Margaret thought, smiling.
She returned home, fed Ginger, sat by the window with her sketchbook, began to draw the courtyard, the houses, the sky. Her pictures improved each day.
Andrews calls stopped. She didnt call him either. She no longer felt the need to intrude.
One evening, the phone rang. It was her son.
Mum, hi. How are you?
Good, she answered calmly.
Weve been worried, you know. Why havent you called?
Worried? she laughed. I havent heard from you in weeks. Whats there to worry about?
Its just Emilys been ill, the morning sickness, and we thought you might help, he said.
I have my own life now, Andy. Ive got a cat, painting classes, friends. Im finally living for me, Margaret replied.
Okay, Mum I just wanted you to know were sorry. We didnt mean to push you out, Andrew said, his voice softer.
Its fine, she said. You needed space, I needed mine. Its all right.
He hesitated, then said, When the baby arrives, wed love you to meet him.
Ill be there, but only as a guest who finally chose to live for herself.
