“And what else do you have to live for?” asked the daughter. And suddenly, I understood: for myself.
Edith Whitmore walked slowly, as though afraid to disturb the peace of that clear evening. She loved strolling here—on the outskirts of Winchester, where between the tower blocks, the remnants of an old village still lingered. There was something comforting, warm, and real about those crooked little houses. One of them—two storeys with carved shutters and a neat front garden—always lifted her spirits. Edith often let herself imagine living there: baking pies, sipping tea on the porch. But her reality was far humbler—a cramped flat on the seventh floor, without a balcony, without charm.
“Good evening!” called a man’s voice. Edith turned and met the gaze of a tall man in his sixties, with a kind smile.
“Good evening,” she answered, slightly flustered. “I often pass by and admire your house. It’s lovely.”
“My parents live there. I’m just down the road in one of those new builds. I stop by to check on them.”
They introduced themselves. His name was Geoffrey. It turned out they were almost neighbours. Later, Edith heard more about him from Auntie Mabel, her chatty neighbour.
“He’s single, you know. You ought to take notice, Edith. A fine-looking man like that. No good being on your own at your age.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” Edith laughed. “Who’d look twice at me?”
“You’ve just let yourself go, dear. A bit of sprucing up, and you’d shine again—just like you used to. You only have to want it.”
Edith fell silent. It stung. Like pressing a finger to an old bruise that never quite healed. She looked in the mirror but saw no woman there—just a shadow. The last ten years had revolved around her daughter and grandson—helping, cleaning, cooking, handing over bits of her pension. She had long stopped counting herself among the living.
She and Geoffrey sometimes crossed paths. Once, he asked her to drop off medicine for his elderly parents—he was in a hurry. She agreed, and from then on, she became a regular visitor to Margaret and Henry’s house. It was warm and bright inside, smelling of apple jam and faintly of beeswax polish.
Being with them was easy. But Edith began taking that street more often, hoping to bump into Geoffrey. When she didn’t, she’d go home with a quiet disappointment.
One day, flipping through photos with her daughter, Edith saw herself from the outside—tired eyes, dull hair, slumped shoulders. After that, she avoided Geoffrey when she could. Shame coiled in her gut—for herself, for the years spent forgotten.
The next morning, she booked a haircut. The stylist, a sharp-eyed woman, didn’t just give her a flattering cut—she made her believe in it. With her new hair and a touch of makeup, Edith looked ten years younger. For the first time in ages, the mirror showed her a woman—alive, lovely, worthy of love.
When she visited her daughter, the girl barely glanced up.
“Not bad,” she mumbled, eyes still on her phone. “Mind the baby while I run errands?”
But Auntie Mabel gasped at the sight of her.
“Now that’s more like it! Come to the leisure centre with me—I’ll show you the pool. I’ve got a spare swim cap for you.”
Edith felt a spark. But she needed to speak to her daughter first—if she took up swimming, she couldn’t be at their beck and call.
“Mum, who’ll watch the baby? And we can’t afford it. We need a new telly!”
“Then you’ll manage,” Edith said calmly. “I’m tired of living just for you. I’m a person too. I want to live for myself.”
“And what else is there to live for?” her daughter asked, genuinely puzzled.
“For myself,” Edith said softly but firmly. “Not for stews and nappies. Not for other people’s needs. For my own life. I’m not a servant. And I don’t have to be a martyr.”
From that day, everything changed. Edith stopped letting her daughter take advantage. She helped—when she could, when she wanted—not at every demand. She bought new clothes, shoes, a handbag. She felt beautiful. And most of all—she felt sure of herself.
But Geoffrey was nowhere to be seen. Until one evening, by the lift—there he was. Edith held her breath.
“Hello… is everything all right?” she managed.
He studied her, then suddenly smiled.
“Hello! I almost didn’t recognise you… You look younger. I’m visiting my parents tomorrow. Fancy joining me?”
“I’d love to,” said Edith, and in her voice was hope.