My three colleagues all have children.  They also still have their parents living nearby.  They know mine passed away a few years ago.  They have never asked me why I don’t have children. They are sensitive women.  Maybe they appreciate the personal nature of that question. 

As the pandemic takes hold, we are abruptly sent home to work because we can.  I set myself up in our little office at the front of the house overlooking the street.  We embrace virtual working as quickly as we can.  Printer-less, we become paperless.  Microsoft Teams and Zoom roll themselves out across the whole organisation for us to call, chat, meet and share files.  We glue ourselves to our computers in their company for much of the day.

My screen perches on the window sill, focusing my eyes and mind within the confines of its rectangle.  However, outside the window my attention is drawn to a wider world, to other lives unfolding just beyond my doorstep.

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The elderly lady opposite on the left has just returned from hospital with her daughter, who helps her slowly back into the house.  Two nurses then visit three times a day.  They’re the lucky ones - they seem to have PPE.  The other daughter and her husband start to visit regularly.  A younger man in his twenties comes with them once.

The family opposite on the right are making the most of the warm weather.  Mum hoists three bikes onto her car rack by herself.  Dad’s car’s not there at all but he’s always been away a lot. A handyman paints the window frames and prunes the shrubs.

We escape from our desks into the back garden for coffee and tea breaks. We spend more time there than ever before. It becomes our cocoon, making up for the loss of our regular coffee shop visits.  We even get a gazebo and a dining table, and watch spring gently unfold into summer.

Then next door is rented out after months standing empty.  A young couple with a toddler plus her parents.  They get busy turning it into a home, with a picket fence, flowering containers and a shed.  Over the garden wall their dog and ours exchange gruff greetings. 

Sometimes I am calm. Pragmatic. Sometimes envious of others. 

Weekly Team Zoom: “…schools closing…prospect of home schooling…a daughter furloughed…parents shielding…family shopping rotas…”

How am I?  Fine. Just getting used to it all.

One evening an ambulance car pulls up opposite.  Both daughters’ cars are there.  Two medics jump out. One returns to the car shortly afterwards.  He sits in the back seat waiting for the other, who comes out some time later.  Two nurses arrive in separate cars but don’t get out.  They pause, then drive away again.  The next day a black van reverses onto the drive.  Two men in smart black suits wearing masks enter the house with a stretcher.  They emerge discreetly, lift the laden stretcher gently in and drive away.

The three of them stand on the doorstep opposite when we all clap for carers every Thursday. He’s not living there any more.  He has the girls on Tuesday nights. She goes out running.  When he drops them back the next day he pops inside but doesn’t stay long.  Things seem to be amicable. 

Out the back, the garden fills with coos and claps as a swing, then a slide and a paddling pool appear.  They are building a dolls house.  Brother arrives with two young sons.  They can all bubble together as two households.  

My workload drops.  My motivation plummets. Some days I can barely function.  Grief.  Flatness. More envy.

Weekly Team Zoom:  “…juggling kids and work…the strain on the home internet...taking parents to medical appointments and garden centres ….”

How am I?  Fine. Just doing what I can.

Opposite there’s no time to waste.  Daughters and husbands come and go, filling up their cars.  A house clearance truck trundles off with its load.  I watch mesmerised as the lady’s paraphernalia makes its way off to new homes or to be disposed of.  A life dismantled. That brings back distant memories.  A “For Sale” sign goes up. I remember that too.  In a week the sign says “Sold”.

It’s now officially the school holidays.  Grandma arrives to collect the girls. Mum hugs and kisses them both before they leave with their brightly coloured packed rucksacks.  She will join them a few days later.

Over the wall, something is different.  The garden now looks bare, suddenly stripped of its homely features.  It’s quiet. The grandparents have gone and taken the dog with them.  He has a new car and visits occasionally.  One afternoon an estate agent shows three couples round.

More change. Uncertainty about the future. Sadness. Despondency. Joylessness.

Weekly Team Zoom: “….family days out…a week in a cottage with siblings…awaiting exam results…home working till at least January…”

How am I?  Fine.  Planning ahead for the autumn.”                   

The three houses stand temporarily empty as I write.  If I’d been at work these last few months, I wouldn’t have witnessed any of this.  These families. Their relationships. Their life events playing out around me. I wouldn’t have seen them or heard them or felt the jagged edges of triggered emotions digging into my heart and soul.

Nor would I be a bystander in workplace conversations where my experiences seem irrelevant and too hard to explain.  

I sit at my desk and wait for whatever comes next. Along with autumn. For now, that’s all I feel I can do.

Anon.