Not Mine to Hold [Narrated]

A second fictional prequel to the same factual (sort of) story

The first companion piece followed Helen—full of longing, resolve, and the ache of quiet misrecognition. This one belongs to June. Where Helen offered presence, June offered something closer to insistence. Both believed they were helping. Neither was asked.

Together, these two prequels sit behind She Stayed for Tea like silhouettes behind drawn curtains. Not to explain it—but to cast a longer shadow. To explore what brings someone to a threshold they weren’t invited across. And what it costs, on either side of the door.

Not Mine to Hold

June folded the nurse uniform she hadn’t worn and placed it carefully on the chair by the radiator. It was stiff with starch and smelled faintly of lavender from the drawer liners her mum insisted on. She didn’t know when she’d wear it—college started in September—but it made her feel useful in advance. Like she could earn her worth ahead of schedule.

Downstairs, the kettle clicked off. Her mum was always making tea for one.

She ran her thumb along the stethoscope on the armrest. It had been a birthday gift from her aunt—part practical, part symbolic. “For your future patients,” she’d said, as if kindness were a skill you could buy equipment for.

It was Helen who’d said he would be a good match. “He’s thoughtful,” she’d said. “Soft around the edges. A little lost, maybe—but kind.”

They’d gone on a double date with Simon and Helen—a walk around Hardwick Lake. Helen and Simon had lingered behind for some private time. Robert had suggested waiting for them, but June had said, “They’ll catch up. Let’s keep going.”

It had felt ordinary. Safe. He’d kissed her once, on the second time out—her idea, not his. He’d touched her shoulder like he was checking for injury.

She didn’t mind the quiet. She just wanted it to be full of something.

She hadn’t planned to read anything.

The part-time job at the surgery had come through her mum, who worked on reception. It was only meant to tide her over until nurse training started—filing, fetching tea, being helpful in quiet ways.

But once she figured out the filing system, curiosity folded into familiarity.

She read his dad’s file first. Then his mum’s. Then his.

It felt less like spying and more like knowing something important. Like standing closer to the truth than anyone else. Like care, just earlier than requested.

She told herself she was worried. She told herself it was about readiness.

When she read the final note in his mum’s record—palliative focus only—her chest tightened, not with sadness, but with clarity. As if now, she had a reason to be close. A real one.

That night, she called him.

“I saw your mum’s file,” she said. “I know how bad it is.”

She waited for the pause to break into something. A thank you. An opening.

Instead: silence.

It pressed down through the line like static that wouldn’t clear.

She called again two days later.

Softer this time. An apology tucked into the middle of the sentence, not at the start. She said she shouldn’t have looked. That it was just because she cared. That she didn’t mean to make things worse.

He said something that sounded like forgiveness. But only just. Enough—to end the call, not the distance.

During the call, she asked if she could come over. He said he didn’t think it was a good idea. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening.

After that, she stopped hearing from him.

Robert might have missed the youth fellowship event that Saturday because it was getting close to the end. His brothers were coming home from London every weekend, and all were still pretending that his mum would get better. But even strangers now knew—that wasn’t going to happen.

That night, June called Helen.

It was early May, and the light still lingered past eight. She sat on the edge of her bed, the window open just enough to let in the scent of cut grass and something faintly burning from a garden two doors down.

Helen answered on the third ring. Her voice was quiet but clipped, like she’d just pulled back from something too tender.

“I did something,” June said.

A pause. “Okay…”

“I read his mum’s file. At the surgery. His dad’s too. Even his.”

Helen didn’t say anything at first. Just a soft rustle, like she’d shifted in her seat.

“I told him,” June added. “I thought it might help him to know I knew.”

Helen exhaled. “And did it?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say much.”

“June… some things aren’t yours to hold.”

June looked at her hands. “But no one else seems to be holding them either.”

The silence stretched.

“I don’t think he can see you right now,” Helen said. Not unkindly. Just... flat.

“I could help,” June said. “If I could just talk to him.”

Helen didn’t agree. But she didn’t argue.

“Would you come with me?”

“I don’t think it would make a difference.”

She didn’t say don’t go.

And June took that as permission.

She left just after tea.

On the way, she stopped at the village store to buy a box of Milk Tray. Generous enough to mean something. Safe enough not to say too much.

They were for his mum.

The walk took nearly an hour. She’d looked at the bus schedule, but decided this would give her time to think about what she was going to say. She passed the church where he’d once told her his family had been christened, married, and buried for generations. She passed Locko Brook, then started the climb up the steep hill into Lower Pisley.

His street was quiet.

She stood at the end of the drive, unsure what to do next. After a pause, she spotted the side door. Decision made, she walked toward it—briskly now, before the moment could slip.

As she passed the side window, she noticed the curtains were drawn. For a second, she thought about leaving the chocolates and walking away. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. But not enough.

She thought about what kindness looked like. Whether this counted.

But she didn’t leave.

She knocked. Three times. Firm, but not loud.

And waited.

She had decided this mattered. Even if no one had asked her to.

Even if no one opened the door.

She’d know she’d tried.