28October2025
My daughter Poppy announced this morning that I must leave my flat by tomorrow. The kettle sang softly on the hob while I sorted the tea bagsa mix of chamomile, peppermint and EarlGrey with bergamot. Poppy had brought them back from her recent business trip to London. I smiled, remembering the day five years ago when Poppy solemnly handed me the keys to this little council flat.
Now, Mum, youll have a place of your own, she had said, extending the set of brass keys. No more renting rooms.
The old kitchen has long been my sanctuary. The chipped linoleum, the geranium pots on the windowsill, even the crack in the tiles by the stove feel intimate. I was just about to pour myself a cup when there was a knock at the door.
Standing there was Poppy, dressed in a sharp business suit, hair immaculate, expression as cold as a winter morning.
Mum, we need to talk, she said.
I stepped aside to let her in. Something in her tone tightened my chest.
Come in, love. Ive just brewed your favourite tea, the one you brought back, I offered.
No, thank you, Poppy stayed rooted in the centre of the kitchen. Im only here briefly. Mum, you must vacate the flat. By tomorrow.
The kettle clattered in my hand. I thought I hadnt heard her properly.
What?
The flat has to be cleared. Tomorrow. I cant delay any longer.
Hot tea splashed onto my wrist, but the pain was a distant echo.
Poppy, I dont understand This is my home. You yourself?
Its just a flat, Mum, she said, pulling out her phone and scrolling quickly. Youve lived here, but I cant keep you any longer.
Keep you?! I laughed nervously. I pay the bills, I tidy up
Mum, lets not argue, Poppys brow furrowed. The decisions final. The keys stay on the table.
She turned to leave, but I grabbed her arm.
Wait! Just tell me why. What happened?
Nothing. Its business, Mum. The flat could be let for a higher rent.
The door slammed shut and I was left alone, the kettles whistle ringing in my ears. I sank onto the stool, watching the puddle of tea reflect the waning evening light.
In a dreamlike haze I drifted back to the hallway where framed photographs hung: Poppy in her graduation gown, radiant in white; the two of us on a seaside holiday, her building a sandcastle while I tried to shield it from the waves. I had sold the cottage to fund her tuition. Was that sacrifice? Nojust love.
Poppy, I whispered, tracing the glass with my fingertip. How did it come to this?
Night slipped into darkness. 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 meant to touch up, the warm glow of my favourite desk lamp, the geraniums shadow on the wall. Each small thing suddenly seemed priceless.
A tiny hope fluttered in the back of my mind that Poppy would call in the morning, say it was a mistake, a cruel joke. The phone stayed silent while the clock hands mercilessly counted down the final hours in the place Id called home.
The first night felt oppressive. I perched on a park bench, clutching my battered suitcase, eyes fixed on the stars. Somewhere in cosy flats, people were drifting to sleep in their beds, while I God, how did it come to this?
I placed the keys neatly on the kitchen table, polishing them with a napkin as if they needed to shine for her to notice. Perhaps Poppy would remember how I always tended to the little things.
A hoarse voice called out from the opposite end of the bench. Good evening. A bearded man in a threadbare coat took a seat beside me. Dont be frightened, Im just sitting down. Staying the night too?
I pulled the suitcase closer.
No, I Im just out for a walk, I stammered.
He chuckled. At three in the morning? With a suitcase?
Yes, imagine, I forced a smile, my lips trembling. I love night walks.
He produced an apple from his pocket, polished it in the lamplight, and offered it. Want one? Fresh, just rinsed in the fountain.
I shook my head, but my stomach growled. I hadnt eaten since sunrise.
By the way, Im Sam, he said, biting into the fruit. Been on the streets three months now. My wife kicked me out. And you?
My daughter, I whispered, surprised at my own candour.
Hmm, Sam mused. Kids these days My sons in America; Ive been waiting for his call for two years.
The night grew colder. I dozed against the benchs backrest. When I awoke, Sam was gone, leaving another apple and a note with the address of a local shelter. Warm there, it read, and they sometimes serve food.
Dawn broke, and I rose, rubbing my sore feet. Where to go? A shelter felt too final. Perhaps I could stay with Miss Agnes, the neighbour who always welcomed me for tea.
I rang the doorbell of the flat on the fifth floor. My hand hovered, then finally I knocked.
Lena? Agnes appeared, wrapped in a colourful housecoat. Good heavens, whats happened? You look pale!
Agnes my voice trembled. May I stay with you for a few days?
Her tiny kitchen smelled of sugar and fresh scones. She was pulling a tray of buttery rolls from the oven.
Its all right, love, she said, listening to my shaky tale. You always spoiled me, didnt you? Remember how you begged for a cake on your birthday? And you kept calling me dear.
Please, Agnes
Dont be shy, Lena! How long can you keep fooling yourself? Youve always been like this. Remember when you gave all your savings for a wedding? He never even thanked you!
I stared out the window as the city slowly woke. Workers hurried to their offices, houses filled with families, certainty in their routines.
Youll get through this, Lena, Agnes placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. You always have.
Three days passed in a blur. I helped Agnes cook, cleaned, even fixed her leaky tap. Yet each day the weight of my situation pressed harder.
Victor! I recalled, flipping through an old address book. An old family friend, a former colleague of my late husband, had once offered help.
Dialling his number terrified me. What if he forgot? What if he refused?
Hello, Victor? Its Lena Lena Petrov
An hour later I sat in his modest office at the town hall, papers piled around us.
So the daughter kicked you out, huh? he tapped his pen. Well we happen to have a vacancy for a kitchen assistant in the community centre. Temporary, but you could start right away.
Ive spent my whole life where would I live?
Thats what this is for, Victor smiled. A small staff room, modest but yours. Youre stronger than you think, Lena. Youll manage.
That evening I crossed the threshold of the centre not as a resident but as an employee. The scent of borscht mingled with disinfectant. Voices rose from the dining hallan elderly gentleman in a worn coat animatedly narrated a story to a young mother with a baby. Sam, the man from the park, was there, setting tables.
MrsPetrov! called a middleaged woman. Im Tamara, Ill show you around. Dont worry, we all have our own stories here.
The staff room was surprisingly tidy and oddly comforting. I sat on the narrow bed, fingers hovering over Poppys number on my phone. No. Not yet.
Life goes on, I whispered to my reflection in the window.
Three months slipped by like a single day. Cooking for large events turned out to be more enjoyable than Id imagined, and the constant activity left little room for gloom.
MrsPetrov, Tamara peered into the kitchen, a new girl just arrivedjust a teenager. Could you make her a cup of tea?
Of course, I replied, reaching for the hidden pack of biscuits on the top shelf.
The girl, pale and nervous, clutched the hem of her oversized sweater.
Tea? I offered, placing a cup with bergamot beside her. From London.
She lifted her teary eyes. Thank you. Have you been here long?
Three months, I said, sitting beside her. I thought this was the end of the world, but it turned out to be the start of something new.
That night I began to write again. At first it was just jotting thoughts in an old notebook, then verses formedsimple, naive, but earnest. Tamara read them and her eyes welled up.
Write, MrsPetrov, she urged. Your soul sings.
One evening I took a fresh sheet of paper and wrote, Hello, Poppy. The letter grew long. I told her about the night in the park, the apple from Sam, the fear and loneliness, and how Id learned to live for myself again.
You will always be my daughter, I wrote, but I will no longer live solely for you. Ive started writing poems again. Remember how you used to laugh at my early attempts, calling me a modernday Pushkin? Now I write for me. I hope youll understand somedaythat this is right.
I never sent the letter, but the act of writing lifted a weight I hadnt known I was carrying.
MrsPetrov! Tamara burst into the kitchen, waving a flyer. MrsStewart, who runs the literary evenings, has a room to rent cheap. She says youre a wonderful cook and poet.
A week later I moved my modest belongings to a bright room on the second floor of the old building. MrsStewart, a slender woman with sharp eyes, helped me hang curtains.
You know, she said, handing me a nail, I went 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. Fluffy flakes swirled in the streetlamps glow, blanketing the city in a white coat. Somewhere, perhaps, Poppy was looking out of her own window too.
On the table lay an open notebook. I hold no grudges, I wrote, and for the first time in a long while it felt true. Life indeed goes onand now I know I will live for myself, not for anyone else.
