14October
My daughter announced today that I must vacate my flat by tomorrow.
The kettle was humming softly on the stove as Eleanor sorted through the tea bagschamomile, mint, black with bergamot. Beatrice had brought them back from her latest business trip to London. A smile crossed Eleanors face as she recalled the day, five years ago, when Beatrice solemnly handed her the keys to this place.
Now, Mum, youll finally have a home of your own, Beatrice had said then, extending the small brass keyring. No more rented rooms.
The old kitchen has always been my sanctuary. The worn tablecloth, the geranium pots on the windowsill, even the cracked tile by the stove felt like old friends. I was just about to pour myself a cup when the front doorbell rang.
Standing there in a sharp business suit, hair perfectly coiffed, Beatrices expression was as cold as the winter wind.
Mum, we need to talk.
I stepped aside, letting her in. There was something in her voice that tightened my chest.
Come in, love. I just brewed the tea you love, the one you brought back.
No, thank you, Beatrice said, planting herself in the middle of the kitchen. Im only staying briefly. Mum, you have to clear the flat. By tomorrow.
The kettle clattered in my hands. I thought I hadnt heard correctly.
Whatexcuse me?
The flat needs to be emptied. Tomorrow. I cant keep delaying this.
Hot tea splashed onto my hand, but the pain didnt register.
Bea, I dont understand this is my home. You yourself
Its just a flat, Mum, she said, flicking her phone open and scrolling. Youve lived here, but I cant keep supporting you any longer.
Support? I laughed nervously. Darling, I pay the bills, I clean
Mum, lets not fight, Beatrices brow furrowed. The decision is final. The keys stay on the table.
She turned to leave, but I grabbed her wrist.
Wait! At least explainwhy? What happened?
Nothing happened. Its just business, Mum. The flat can be let out for a higher rent.
The door shut behind her, leaving me alone with the echo of the ringing kettle. I sank onto a stool, watching the puddle of tea glint in the fading light. In the reflection I saw the last rays of the sun dancing on the surface.
In my mind I drifted to the photographs on the wall: Beatrice in her graduation gown, radiant in white; the two of us at the seaside, her building a sandcastle while I laughed, trying to shield it from the waves. I remembered selling the cottage to fund her studies. Was that a sacrifice? No, it was love.
Dear, I whispered, tracing a finger over the picture. How did it come to this?
Evening slipped into night. I mechanically packed my few belongings into an old suitcase, pausing now and then to stare at familiar details: the peeling paint in the corner Id always meant to touch up, the warm glow of my favourite desk lamp, the shadow of the geranium on the wall. Each tiny thing suddenly seemed priceless.
A faint hope kept me waiting for a phone call in the morning, for Beatrice to say it was a mistake, a cruel joke, anything. The line stayed dead, while the clocks hands mercilessly counted down the final hours in the place I had called home.
The first night felt suffocating. I perched on a park bench, clutching my battered suitcase, staring at the stars. Somewhere, in warm flats, people were drifting off to sleep in their own beds, while I Lord, how did it come to this?
I had left the keys on the kitchen table, polishing them with a napkin until they shone, hoping Beatrice might notice the care.
A hoarse voice called out, Good evening. A bearded man in a threadbare coat sat on the opposite end of the bench. Dont be afraid, Im just taking a seat. Staying out tonight as well?
I pressed the suitcase tighter.
No, Im just out for a walk.
He chuckled. At three in the morning? With a suitcase?
Yes, imagine that, I forced a smile, my lips trembling. I love night walks.
He produced an apple from his pocket. Want one? Fresh, just washed in the fountain.
I shook my head, yet my stomach growled; I hadnt eaten since yesterday morning.
By the way, Im Sam, he said, biting the apple. Been on the streets three months now. My wife threw me out. And you?
My daughter, I whispered, surprised by my own candour.
He sighed. Kids these days My sons in America, Ive been waiting for his call for two years.
By dawn it had grown cold. I dozed against the back of the bench, Sam already gone, leaving another apple and the address of a shelter. Its warm there, hed written, and they sometimes feed you.
When daylight broke, I rose, rubbing my sore feet. Where to go? A shelter felt too final, yet perhaps Agnes? My neighbour had always been kind, often stopping by for tea.
The knock on the familiar fifthfloor door was hesitant. I raised my hand several times before finally daring to knock.
Lena? a voice called. Agnes appeared in a colourful cardigan, her face creased with concern. Heavens, what happened? You look like youve been through a storm!
Agnes may I stay with you a few days?
Her kitchen smelled of powdered sugar; fresh scones were cooling on the counter.
Oh dear, she said, listening to my rambling tale. I always said youd get a bit spoiled. Remember how you sang Happy Birthday and I kept calling you sweetheart? And you always called me darling
I dont need that, Agnes
Need it, Lena! How long can you keep fooling yourself? You were always like that. Remember when you gave all your savings for the wedding? And she never even said thank you!
I stared out the window at a city waking slowly. Somewhere people were hurrying to work, with homes, families, confidence in tomorrow.
Youll get through this, Lena, Agnes placed a hand on my shoulder. You always have.
Three days passed in a blur. I helped wherever I couldcooking, cleaning, even fixing a broken tap for Agnes. Yet each day the weight of my situation pressed harder.
Victor! I recalled, leafing through an old notebook. An old family friend, once a colleague of my late husband, had offered help years ago.
Dialling his number felt daunting. What if he didnt remember? Or worse, turned me down?
Hello, Victor? Its Lena Lena Peterson.
Within an hour I was in his modest office at the city shelter, papers piled high around us.
So the daughter threw you out, eh? he mused, tapping a pen on the desk. We actually have a vacancy for a kitchen assistant at the canteen. Temporary, of course, but you can cook?
Ive spent my whole life where would I live?
Youll live here, Victor smiled. A small staff room, but its yours. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening I crossed the shelters threshold not as a resident but as a worker. The scent of stew mingled with disinfectant. In the dining hall voices rosean elderly gentleman in a frayed coat animatedly telling a story to a young mother with a baby, while Sam, the man from the park, helped set the tables.
Lena Peterson! called a middleaged woman. Im Mary, Ill show you the ropes. Dont worry, weve all been through something.
In the small staff room, surprisingly tidy and warm, I sat on the narrow bed, pulled out my phone, and stared at Beatrices contact. My finger hovered over her name. Not now.
What now? I whispered to my reflection in the window. Life goes on.
Three months flew by like a single day. I fell into the rhythm of workcooking for large orders, laughing with colleagues, finding a strange comfort in the bustle. The constant activity left little room for the bitterness that had lingered.
Lena, could you bring a cup of tea for the new girl? Mary asked later, pointing to a slender twentyyearold who was nervously fidgeting with the cuff of her sweater.
Of course, I replied, handing her a mug of bergamot tea. From London.
She lifted her eyes, wet with unshed tears.
Thank you. Are you new here?
For three months now, I said, settling beside her. I thought it was the end of the world, but it turned out to be the start of something else.
In the evenings I began to write again, first in a battered notebook, then in verses that were clumsy yet sincere. When I showed them to Mary, she was moved to tears.
Write, Lena, she said. Your soul sings.
One night I pulled a clean sheet of paper and penned, Hello, Beatrice. The letter stretched long, spilling out the night in the park, the apple from Sam, the fear and loneliness, and how I had begun to write poems again. I reminded her of the days when I read my early attempts to her, and shed laughed, calling me a modernday poet.
I will always be your daughter, I wrote, but I can no longer live only for you. Ive started to write for myself. I live for myself now. I hope youll understand somedaythat this is right.
I never mailed the letter, but the act of writing lifted a weight I hadnt known I was carrying.
Lena Peterson! Mary burst into the kitchen, waving a flyer. Theres a room for rent, cheap, in a nice flat. The landlord thinks youd be perfectgood cook, good heart.
A week later I moved my few possessions to a bright room on the second floor of an old townhouse. Mrs. Hughes, a slender woman with keen eyes, helped me hang curtains.
You know, she said, handing me a nail, Ive been through something similar. My husband left after thirty years. I thought Id never survive. Then I started painting. Can you imagine?
That evening I stood by the window, watching the first snow drift down, the flakes twirling under the streetlamps, blanketing the city in white. Somewhere, perhaps, Beatrice was looking out her own window.
On the table lay my open notebook. I hold no grudges, I wrote, and for the first time in a long while it was the pure truth. Life indeed goes on, and now I knew I would live for myself, not for anyone else.
