**From Meeting to Parting**
Five years ago, Helen was left alone. Her husband had passed after a long battle with cancer. Even before that, her only daughter had married and moved awayfirst to Liverpool, then to Manchesterwhere she had a son, Oliver, and three years later, a daughter, Emily. When her husband was still well, Helen used to visit them. But once he fell ill, she couldnt leave his side.
Her daughter came by occasionally, leaving the children with her husband. She insisted they shouldnt see their dying grandfather. She came alone to the funeral, too, and hurried back home right after.
“Sorry, Mum, but the kids and my husbandthey need me. Why dont you come stay with us? Whats left for you here?”
And she was gone. Helen was alone. She ached for her husbandsick as he was, shed have given anything for him to still be here. Now what? No one needed her.
After nine days, she decided to visit her daughter. But her daughter and son-in-law worked all day, and the grandchildren barely recognised her, keeping their distance. Helen felt like an intruder. After a week, she packed her bags.
“Mum, why not stay another week?” her daughter offered, but when Helen refused, she didnt press further.
Helen never visited again. Last year, they stopped by on their way back from Cornwall. Oliver, nearly fourteen, wore headphones constantly, glued to his tablet. Emily, with pink streaks in her hair, texted all day and chewed gum.
Helen tried to talk to her daughter. “This isnt healthy for them. Do you even know what theyre watching or who theyre talking to?”
“Mum, all kids are like that now. Banning things only makes it worse,” her daughter dismissed.
Before they left, Helen tried again. “Its hard being alone. Visit more often. The children dont know me. Im still strongmaybe they could stay with me during holidays?”
“Mum, why give yourself the trouble?”
“Theyre my grandchildren. What trouble?”
“Well see,” her daughter said. But a whole year passed, and no one came, save for occasional calls.
So Helen went to them. Why not? She was retired, free. The parents worked all day, while Oliver and Emily lived on takeaways. What kind of food was that? Helen took over the cooking. At first, everyone loved her soups, pancakes, and piesuntil the children went back to ordering pizza. Once, her son-in-law saw her washing dishes by hand and frowned. “Weve got a dishwasher. No need to slave over the sink.”
Her daughter sighed and rearranged the drying rack. Oliver complained shed “messed up” his wardrobe. “I cant find anything!” Helen tried to explain shed only tidied.
“Mum, dont interfere,” her daughter advised.
“Gran, stop baking piesIve put on weight,” Emily said.
“And pizza doesnt make you fat?” Helen countered.
In the end, she realised she was in the wayeverything she did was wrong. Time to go. Her daughter didnt argue, and her son-in-law promptly drove her to the station.
Helen missed her husband. If only John were still here Why had he left her so soon? No one to talk to. Whod care for her ifGod forbidshe fell ill?
She used to knit and embroider, but her eyesight had worsenednow it just gave her headaches. What else was there in retirement? Baking pies? Whod eat them?
One friend had died right after her husband. The other was too busy with her own grandchildren.
***
It was the last warm spell of Indian summer. The day was sunny but crisp, golden leaves rustling underfoot. Helen packed some stale bread and walked to the park.
Sitting on a bench, she fed the pigeons. Soon a whole flock gathered, even sparrows darting in.
Helen watched them, brooding. Youth was fleeting, life fragileold age creeping in. Shed hoped to grow old with John, watching over each other. But he was gone, and her daughter and grandchildren didnt need her
“Quite the gathering,” a voice said.
A man sat at the other end of the benchwell-kept, around her age or older. She hadnt noticed him arrive.
“Ive seen you here often,” he said.
Helen didnt recognise him. She never paid attention on her walks, lost in thought.
“Im alone too. My wife died eight years ago. Still cant get used to it,” he sighed.
*As if hed read her mind.* She studied himneatly dressed, trousers pressed, clean-shaven.
“Love autumn. These last warm days Once the rains come, all this beauty will be gone,” he said, tilting his face to the sun.
“Who helps you? Youre so well put together.”
“Had to learn after my wife passed. Its not so hard. My sons busy with his family. Think men cant manage?” He smiled. “Im Bernard. Look at those sparrowsbold as brass. Stealing crumbs right under the pigeons. And you are?”
“Helen.”
“Lovely name. My wife was Gertrudefamily name. Fancy the cinema? Its getting chilly.”
The sun had vanished behind clouds, the air turning sharp. Helen meant to refuse, but the empty flat loomed.
“Whats showing?”
“Does it matter?” he chuckled.
True. When had she last been? She couldnt recall. She agreed. The cinema was unrecognisableplush seats, a vast screen, thunderous sound. But she enjoyed the film.
Outside, darkness had fallen, the cold biting.
“How about tea? Warm up?” Bernard asked.
Helen declined.
“Another time?” he pressed.
She imagined the silent flat.
“Come to mine. I live nearby. Ill make tea and pancakes.”
“Is that proper?”
“Why not? Youre in no rush, are you? I baked too manyno one to eat them.”
At her building, she fretted about neighbours spotting them. But the courtyard was empty.
“Cosy place. Your husband?” Bernard nodded at the framed photo.
“Yes. Cancer.” She almost complained about her daughter but stopped. Her solitude was plain enough.
She brewed fresh tea, warmed the pancakes, set out jam. Bernard praised them.
“Lots of booksmedical ones too. Are you a doctor?”
“No. Biology teacher. Wanted to be a doctor, but my mother died youngI had to work. Evening classes, then marriage, a child. Dreams stayed dreams.”
“I was in the army. Mind?” He browsed her shelves, recognising many titles.
“Thank you. Youre a rare woman. Inviting a stranger in like this.”
“You werent planning to rob me, were you?”
“God forbid. I should go. Walk tomorrow? Same place?”
After that, they walked often. Just two lonely souls, starved for company.
One evening, her daughter called.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine. Walking, even went to the cinema.”
“Alone?”
“No. Who goes alone? With a friend.”
“Mum, are you *seeing* someone?” Her daughter sounded alarmed.
“Dont be silly. We just walk in the park.”
“Be careful. Con artists everywhere. Why not visit us?”
“Why? I wont intrude. You come to me.”
“Dont you dare get involved! Is this friend a widower? Drove his wife to the grave and now wants a free housekeeper? Or after your flat? Hell make you sign it over, then”
“How can you say such things? Next youll say Ive gone senile!”
“What else should I think? Remember Mrs. Lightfoot?”
“Youve never even met him! I never interfered in your lifewhy do you butt into mine? Send the children for the holidays…”
They nearly argued, parting in mutual annoyance.
Autumn tightened its grip. The park grew too cold, so Bernard invited Helen to his cottagerake leaves, check on the place.
“Big house, fireplace. Lovely countryside. Ive barely been since my wife died.”
She agreed. The house was charming, the fireplace cosy. Bernard raked leaves while Helen cooked. Then an SUV pulled up.
Bernard brightenedhis son, she guessed.
She put the kettle on, set the table. Glancing out, she saw their talk turn heated. Shouting, gestures. She stepped outside.
“Hello. Why not come in?”
“Shes *in* our house now? Dad, have you lost your mind? Whats she doing here?” His son yelled, calling Helen a gold-digger, a predator hunting wealthy widowers. He even lunged at her.
Bernard clutched his chest, collapsing. Helen rushed to him.
“Get your hands off him!”
“Help me get him inside and call an ambulance!”
But his son refused, bundling Bernard into the car instead. When Helen tried to follow, he slammed the door and sped off.
Dazed, Helen locked up and walked to the bus stop. Rain began to fall. By the time she reached home, she was frozen.
The flat greeted her with silence. Johns portrait seemed to judge her.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
After tea, she called hospitals. Bernard was in ICUheart attack.
Next day, she visited. His son blocked her.
“Here to finish him off? Forget his flathes made a will. Youll get nothing. Leave, or Ill call the police.”
Eyes on them, Helen left in tears.
She returned the next day, lying that she was his wife. They told her Bernard had died at dawn. She skipped the funeralcouldnt bear more accusations.
Two lonely hearts, briefly met, now parted.
A week later, her daughter called. “Were coming.”
“Whats wrong?” Helen braced for more bad news.
Her daughter arrived with the children and bags. “Dad and I are divorcing. Hes got someone else.”
Helens daughter wept for days. The grandchildren, subdued, clung to her, their gadgets forgotten.
Helen revelled in the sudden purposeneeded again.
But for how long?
