Bloody hell, this was all I needed…
Mary lived alone. She and her husband hadn’t been able to have children. At first, they’d hoped, tried, then considered adoption. She’d been the one pushing for it—he hadn’t cared much either way. Probably, she’d taken too long preparing, overthinking it, and by the time she hit forty, she’d dropped the idea. Scared, if she was honest.
Her husband was mad about hiking—backpacks, tents, campfire songs. Had to admit, he played guitar well. Charming bloke, loved a good gathering, always in the thick of it.
When she was younger, Mary had enjoyed it too. But as the years passed, she grew tired. Sick of trudging through mud every weekend, coming home Sunday evening exhausted, washing up only to drag herself to work Monday morning—bug bites, wind-chapped face, nails chipped to hell. She wanted lazy lie-ins, hot showers, a proper loo—not freezing river dips or squatting in some grimy thicket.
Too many adventures wear you out. Her back ached, her joints creaked, and eventually, she stopped going with him.
He stayed home a few times out of solidarity. But she saw he was restless, miserable. So she told him to go without her. He brightened instantly.
“Why’d you let him swan off alone? Mark my words, some woman’ll snap him up. He’d have settled down eventually,” her friend scolded.
“Didn’t happen when we were young, doubt it will now.”
“Men aren’t like us. They’re still in demand, no matter the age,” her friend said, shaking her head.
“And what, trek through the wilderness in agony just to keep him faithful? If he wants to cheat, he’ll do it at home. Besides, it’s always the same lot on these trips.”
Her friend just hummed.
After that, he never asked her along again. They drifted—fewer shared laughs, fewer memories. But nothing seemed off.
Then one day, he came home distracted, miles away.
“How was the hike?” she asked, reheating soup.
“Same route as usual. Few new faces.”
“Pictures?” she prodded.
“Like I said, same old trail.” He stared at his plate.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew. Exactly what her friend had warned about.
He kept quiet for three days before speaking.
“Sorry. I’ve fallen hard. Didn’t think it’d happen,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“Just like that?”
“She came instead of you. Been on a few trips. Can’t imagine life without her.”
“She young?”
He stayed silent.
“Right. So what now? Moving in with her?” Mary kept her voice steady, refusing to scream or beg.
“She’s divorcing too. Got a son. Nowhere to live—can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat.” Finally, he looked at her.
“Why doesn’t she sell hers?”
“Her husband’s place. If you won’t agree, then… I dunno.” He paced, agitated.
The flat was theirs, bought together. Everything in her rebelled—but after days of stewing, she agreed, on the condition she picked her own place. Hurt how his face lit up.
“Christ, knew you were daft, but not this daft,” her friend said, tapping her temple.
“Kid’s innocent. Not like I need a big flat alone.”
Luckily, the one-bed she found was bright, same neighbourhood, freshly done up. Didn’t ask about his place—why bother?
Then she was alone. No husband, no kids. She’d get used to it.
Late one night, her phone rang. Her brother. Only ever called once before—when their dad died.
Mary had moved to London from some backwater village, married, built a life. To her family, she was ‘rich’—city job, her own flat. At first, she visited often, but their envy grated. How to explain a flat wasn’t luxury, just necessity?
Her parents doted on her younger brother. He’d look after them in old age. She was the afterthought. So she stopped visiting. Then hiking took over.
Dad died a decade back. Last time she’d been home.
Nothing good ever came from her brother’s calls.
“Nick? What’s wrong?” she braced herself. “Mum?”
“Nah, she’s alive. Just poorly. Barely leaves the house. Could you come?”
“Not now. Maybe next month.” Relief—Mum was okay.
“Thing is…” He hesitated. “Sarah left me. Said she’s sick of caring for Mum. You get it. Took the kids. I’m a bloke—can’t run a house. Got work. Mum’s no help.”
“Right. So?”
“Not alone now. Got a new bird. She’s expecting. Can’t dump Mum on her. Take her, yeah?”
“Who?”
“Mum, not my missus.”
“Your missus—?”
“Not official yet.”
She heard his grin.
“Where’s she gonna live? I’ve got a one-bed!”
“Perfect. Keep each other company. Pension’s extra. Mum hates my girl. Come get her.”
Despite arguing, she caved. Took unpaid leave, went back. Mum had worshipped Nick—now he was palming her off. Still, family’s family.
Mum recognised her, though hardly thrilled. Shrunk, frail. But agreed to come. Nick? Reeked of booze. No wonder his wife bolted.
Left most belongings behind—ancient, worn. Nick hadn’t bothered much. Bought clothes, gave hand-me-downs. Put them on the train, waved. Never called again.
Once home, Mary realised her mistake. Should’ve bought a sofa beforehand. Hers was a pricey orthopaedic one—bad back, couldn’t skimp. That night, they’d manage. Next day, she paid extra for speedy delivery. Shoved hers aside, put Mum’s by the window—she liked to look out.
Mum could shuffle about, but shouldn’t have. Spilled soup, left taps running, couldn’t work the stove. Mary came home to mop floors, scrub loos, pick shards from the carpet. Had to work remotely. Last six months, Mum was bedridden.
Nick didn’t come to the funeral. ‘Too busy.’
Back at the office, she couldn’t bring herself to bin Mum’s urine-stained sofa.
Just settling back into routine when Nick called again. Saturday, too early. She tensed—only rang when he wanted something.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?”
“You? Never. What now?”
He laughed. “How you holding up?”
“Back’s shot. Joints ache. Blood pressure’s wild.”
“Brilliant!”
“Eh?”
“Someone’ll look after you, sis. Remember my Tom? Aced his A-levels. Teachers reckon he’s uni material. But our village’s got nowt. Thinks he’s Einstein—wants to study in London. So he’s moving in. Just a year, till halls free up.”
She gaped. Another burden shoved at her.
“One-bed, remember? How’s that work?”
“We grew up four to a room! Worried about your rep? He’s quiet.” Another laugh.
“Share your soup, no hassle. Company if you croak.”
“What?”
“Call an ambulance if you keel over.”
No matter how she argued, he steamrolled. Glanced at Mum’s sofa. Thank God she’d kept it.
Tom arrived days later. Sullen, silent. Parked on the sofa, laptop out.
“At least he won’t piss on the floor,” she thought. But having a lad around felt odd. Once, she came home early—blood pressure spiking—and found him with some girl. On her sofa.
The girl dressed wordlessly, left. Mary tore into Tom.
“You smoke?” She spotted a fag butt.
“That was Jen,” he muttered.
“Not Katie, not Emily—Jen. Not in my house. I’ll march to your uni tomorrow—sort halls.”
“Don’t. I’ll go.”
Two days later, he left. No relief—just guilt. Why did Nick dump his problems on her without a second thought, while she stewed? Kicked her own nephew out.
Waited for Nick’s angry call. It never came. So she rang him.
“Busy,” he grunted.
“Funny. So was I, but you kept calling to offload someone.” She let loose. Turns out, halls were easy—Tom sorted it himself. No orgies in her flat. Better prep for his wedding—Tom said Nick had sold Mum’s house. Why no split? Dumped Mum just for cash? Her home too, born there. Next kid needing uni? Not her problem. Got cash? Rent a flat.
She hung up. He never called again. MeantShe switched off her phone, stared at the silent walls, and wondered if this was how it would always be—just her, waiting for the next call that would upend everything.
