“Mish, could you pop by for some groceries?” Tamara Nikolaevna’s voice trembled with exhaustion. “It’s so icy out—I’m afraid I’ll slip.”
“Honestly, Mum?” Mikhail sighed irritably. “I’ve just got back from work—I’m shattered. Besides, Lena and I were planning an evening alone.”
“But, Mish, I can’t manage…” she whispered, pleading.
“Mum, I’ve told you a hundred times—order delivery! Learn how, and you won’t have these problems!”
“I don’t understand how it works, love. Couldn’t you place the order for me?”
A heavy silence filled the line before Mikhail muttered, “I’m driving—it’s awkward now. Ask Katya.”
“I did. She said she’s busy.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll call when I’m home. Tell me what you need then.”
Tamara Nikolaevna brightened. “All right, I’ll wait.” But hours passed without a word. She tried ringing him, but he never picked up. In the end, it was their neighbour, a young chap named Ilya, who sorted the groceries for her. As she unpacked the bags, her chest tightened with grief. Why had life treated her so unfairly?
She had been a good mother. Tamara had raised two children—her eldest, Michael, and younger Kate—alone after her husband’s passing when Michael was seventeen and Kate just twelve. She’d worked two jobs to keep food on the table, with her mother and mother-in-law helping when they could. But when they, too, were gone, the burden fell entirely on her shoulders.
Fortunately, the grandparents had left behind flats. She’d put her mother’s flat in Michael’s name—he was the eldest, just starting university. Even with a home, he needed support, and she’d kept providing for him. When her father-in-law died, his flat went to Kate. Tamara had paid for both their educations, denying herself everything, never once considering reclaiming the properties. It was all for them.
She had always been there—ferrying them to lessons, helping with homework, hiring tutors for their university exams. She’d lived for them, cutting corners on her own needs, believing they’d be there for her in old age. Not that she expected repayment for love, but a little kindness, a little gratitude—was that too much to ask?
Tamara rarely asked for help, managing on her own. When Michael’s son was born, she’d spent endless hours with her grandson. Kate, whenever she travelled, left her unruly dog with her—a beast that demanded walks no matter the weather. Tamara never refused. But as the years passed, she realised: the children didn’t value her. Their care was nothing but empty words.
When she’d started renovations, she’d asked for their advice—just a little input. But Michael was “too busy,” and Kate had dismissed her with, “Not now, Mum.” When Tamara ended up in hospital, it was Ilya who brought her medicine. The children had each visited once, glanced around the ward, and slipped out within minutes.
“Mum, you know I can’t stand hospitals,” Kate had grimaced.
“No one likes them, love,” Tamara had replied quietly.
“You’re the one in bed, not me. Get better, and we’ll chat later.”
Michael, as always, had hidden behind his family: “Lena’s exhausted—I’ve got to help with the baby.” He left without even a hug.
Today was the final straw. The streets of their little town, Woodbury, were sheeted in ice, and Tamara had barely made it home. A simple request—groceries—and neither child could be bothered. Michael never called back; Kate brushed her off. Tears stung her eyes, the emptiness in her chest swelling.
When had she ever lived for herself? The only memory that came was from when Michael was small and Kate unborn. She’d been hospitalised then, later sent to a sanatorium by the seaside. No mobile phones meant no interruptions. For a whole week, she’d breathed in the salt air, strolled the promenade, felt free. Her husband had called once a day, grumbling about his struggles, oblivious that this was her daily reality. That week had been her one escape.
The sea called to her again. Starting anew past fifty was daunting, but what kept her here? Ungrateful grown children? They needed help—but she did too, and it only ever flowed one way.
Money was the only hurdle. She walked through her three-bedroom flat in Woodbury’s centre—inherited from her late husband’s father, a man of influence in his day. Now it was hers. And she felt no guilt that her children wouldn’t get it. They already had the grandparents’ flats. Enough.
By morning, the idea no longer seemed mad—it burned in her chest. She quietly sold the flat through a friend’s estate agent, wrapping it up before anyone noticed.
One evening, she summoned her children. They arrived reluctantly, annoyed by the urgency.
“You’re not ill, are you?” Michael frowned.
“No. Why would you think that?”
“Then why the rush?” Kate snapped.
“I have something to tell you.”
They sighed, just as they had as children when called away from their games.
“Go on, Mum. Oh—Lena needs me to take over with the baby. Actually, we’ll drop him off this weekend, all right?”
“Sorry, Michael,” Tamara said evenly. “I won’t be here.”
Kate stiffened. “And why’s that?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?” they demanded in unison.
“By the sea,” she answered dreamily. “I’ve bought a cottage near Brighton. I’ll live there now.”
“You’re joking,” Michael laughed. “With what money?”
“I sold the flat.”
“WHAT?” Kate burst out. “Without consulting us?”
“I would have. But you’re always ‘too busy.’ You’ve no time for me.”
“And how will you live there?” Michael blustered. “Find a job at your age?”
“I’ll manage. The cottage is small, and the flat’s sale covers it.”
At first, they thought she was joking. But soon, the accusations flew.
“You’ll waste everything!”
“It’s my money,” she cut in.
“We thought the flat would be ours!” Kate spat.
“Not anymore.”
“You’ll be miles away—we’ll never see you!”
“When did you ever see me? Only when you needed something.”
They raged, begged her to undo the sale, promised to help more. But Tamara wasn’t listening. The sea was calling, and for the first time in decades, she felt alive. She wanted happiness—for herself. And the children? They’d manage. Perhaps they’d finally realise what they’d lost when their mother had been right there.