The Tuesday People

Week 1: Margaret

I arrive at 1:58pm, as I have every Tuesday for six years. Not early enough to seem desperate, not late enough to risk the queue stretching past the hearing aid display.

The pharmacy sits in the corner of a Tesco Express. Blue plastic chairs, ergonomically hostile. I’ve learned which one wobbles least. Third from the left.

Five people ahead of me. I recognise four.

The elderly man in the good coat is already seated, prescription slip folded in his hand like a theatre ticket. Navy blazer, pale blue shirt, tie. His shoes are polished. He sits with his back very straight and watches the digital display board. His lips move as he reads the names.

The younger man, early thirties, hovers near the counter. He’s apologising to the pharmacist about something, his voice too low to catch. Shoulders curved inward, one hand rubbing his neck. He retreats to the chairs, still muttering sorry.

The woman my age sits with careful stillness. She times her breathing, I think. In for four, hold, out for four. She carries a small backpack with multiple pockets. Everything organised and accessible.

I take my seat. The elderly man glances at me. The smallest nod. I nod back. We have never spoken, but we witness each other’s persistence.

I’m called at 2:14pm. Sixteen minutes. Average.

The pharmacist, Priya, knows my name without checking. Blood pressure tablets. Statins. The small, tedious rituals of staying alive.

Outside, the afternoon is bright and cold. I walk home alone, carrying my maintenance. Next Tuesday, 1:58pm, we will all perform this careful choreography again.

There is comfort in that.

Week 2: Dev

I’m early. 1:53pm. This throws everything off.

I should have walked around the block, timed it better, but my hands were shaking in the Tesco car park and I just needed to be inside, to be moving toward the thing, to have it done.

The touch screen hates me. It always does. My finger hovers. Press too soft, nothing happens. Press too hard, it selects the wrong option. The woman behind me is waiting. I can feel her waiting. I press COLLECT PRESCRIPTION. It takes me to a screen about flu jabs. Wrong. Back. Try again. Someone behind me sighs.

Finally: signed in. I retreat to the chairs.

The old man in the blazer is here. Always here. Always immaculate. I wonder if he was military. That kind of bearing. He nods at the older woman who always sits third from the left. They have some sort of understanding.

I sit at the end. Nearest the exit. Just in case.

My prescription is ready, I can see it in the rack. Small white paper bag. My name printed on the label. Elvanse. Sertraline. Proof that my brain doesn’t work right, that I need chemical assistance to function like a normal person.

I check my phone. Delete an email I’ve already read. Refresh my inbox. Nothing urgent. Everything feels urgent.

The woman with the backpack is called. She moves carefully, as though in pain. I recognise that carefulness. The negotiation with your own body.

They call my name. I stand too quickly, bump the chair. ‘Sorry,’ I say. To the chair. To the pharmacist. To everyone.

Priya smiles. ‘No worries, Dev. Here you go.’

I check the bag immediately. Two boxes. Both correct. Relief floods through me. Enough for another month. Another month of pretending I’ve got this under control.

Week 3: Lily

Mum’s prescription isn’t ready.

‘It’ll be another ten minutes,’ the pharmacist says. The nice one, Priya. ‘The GP only sent it through this morning.’

Ten minutes. I’ve got homework. I pull out my maths book, find a seat. Not the wobbly one. The old lady always has that one anyway.

The old man in the suit is here. He’s always here. He smiles at me, that kind smile adults do when they’re trying to be reassuring but don’t actually want to talk. I smile back. Look down at my book.

Quadratic equations. I’ve done these already but Miss Peters set extra for homework because half the class were messing about. I wasn’t messing about. I never mess about. But I still get the extra work.

The old lady arrives. 1:58pm exactly. She always comes at the same time. She notices me. I can feel her noticing. Adults always notice when kids are in places they don’t expect them. I keep my eyes on my work.

There’s a man who apologises a lot. Young, but not young young. He checks his prescription bag three times before leaving. I understand that. Checking. Making sure.

Priya calls my name. I pack my books carefully. Have my NHS card ready. Mum’s date of birth memorised.

‘Is your mum okay?’ Priya asks.

‘Yeah, just busy with work,’ I say. The script. Easy. Practised.

I sign the electronic pad. Take the bag. Check it has both boxes without being obvious about checking.

2:17pm. I’ll be home by 2:35 if I walk fast. Mum will still be asleep probably. I’ll leave the medication on the kitchen counter. Make tea. Start on the extra maths.

Week 4: Robert

Tuesday. The week’s fixed point.

I dress with care. Navy blazer, needs pressing but it will do. Pale blue shirt, the one Maureen bought me in 1998. The fabric is soft now, worn comfortable. Tie, because a man should make an effort.

The bus arrives at 1:52pm. I am the only passenger. The driver nods. We have an understanding.

The pharmacy is already busy. Margaret is in her usual seat. The anxious young man is hovering by the vitamin display, not quite joining the queue yet. The girl from last week is here again. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. School uniform. Doing homework in the waiting area. Her concentration is fierce.

I sign in at the screen. My hands shake slightly. Peripheral neuropathy, the consultant called it. Another addition to the collection. I take my seat. Prescription slip folded in my pocket, though I have it memorised. Metformin. Ramipril. Atorvastatin. Aspirin. The daily liturgy.

The girl looks up briefly. I smile. She smiles back, then returns to her work. Quadratic equations. I taught those for forty years. The formula comes back unbidden: x equals minus b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four ac, all over two a. Sung to the tune of Pop Goes the Weasel. The children always remembered it that way.

My name is called. I stand carefully. Knees, hips, the mechanical negotiations of seventy-eight years.

Priya greets me warmly. ‘How are you, Robert?’

‘Oh, mustn’t grumble,’ I say, which is what men of my generation say, which means everything and nothing.

She hands me the carrier bag. Heavy. Reassuring. Four boxes, collected monthly. Proof that the system still considers me worth maintaining.

‘See you next week,’ she says.

‘Indeed,’ I say.

Outside, I wait for the 2:23pm bus. The girl from the pharmacy walks past, walking quickly, backpack heavy. She glances at me. I nod. She nods back.

We are all carrying something.

Week 5: Aisha

2pm. Traffic was bad. I’m late. I hate being late.

The queue is longer than usual. Six people. I do the calculation automatically: six people, average three minutes per person, eighteen minutes standing. Can I stand for eighteen minutes? Probably. Maybe. There’s a chair free but if I sit I’ll have to stand again and that transition is worse than just staying upright.

I stay upright.

The girl with the homework is back. Same spot, different textbook. English this time. She’s highlighting something with careful precision. Too careful. Too practised. I recognise that carefulness.

The man who apologises is called. He checks his prescription three times. I understand that too. When your body is unreliable, you check everything.

My abdomen is cramping. Not badly. Four out of ten. Manageable. I breathe through it. In for four, hold, out for four. The technique the pain clinic taught me. It helps. Sometimes.

Margaret, the older woman, catches my eye. Just for a moment. There’s something in that glance. Recognition? Concern? I look away.

The girl is called. She packs up quickly, efficiently. Has her card ready. Knows the routine. She’s collecting for someone else, I realise. Parent probably. My heart contracts. I remember being fourteen. I remember many things about being fourteen. None of them involved collecting prescriptions.

My name is called. I walk to the counter. Normal pace. Nothing to see here. Just a woman collecting medication. Not someone whose immune system attacks her own intestines. Not someone who plans every journey around bathroom locations. Just normal.

Priya hands me my bag. Immunosuppressants. Pain management. The monthly negotiation with my own body.

‘Take care,’ she says.

I will. I always do. I have no choice.

Week 6: Margaret

The girl is here again. Third week running. Same time, same seat. Homework spread across her lap.

I want to say something. Ask if she’s all right. But what business is it of mine? I’m not a teacher anymore. I’m just an old woman in a pharmacy queue.

But I was a teacher for thirty-two years. I know when a child is carrying too much.

She’s doing geography today. Physical geography. Oxbow lakes. I taught that unit countless times. The way rivers carve their own paths, how erosion and deposition create new landscapes. The children always liked the diagrams.

Dev, the anxious young man, is struggling with the touch screen again. The girl glances up, looks like she might help, then thinks better of it. Returns to her work.

Robert arrives, immaculate as always. He’s lost weight, I think. The blazer hangs differently.

The girl is called. She packs up with practised speed. I watch her approach the counter. Watch the pharmacist’s face. Priya knows something. I can tell. That professional concern, carefully neutral.

‘Same as usual?’ Priya asks.

‘Yeah,’ the girl says. ‘Thanks.’

She leaves quickly. Through the main shop, past the meal deals, out into the October cold. No coat. Just a school blazer, too thin for the weather.

When my turn comes, I linger slightly.

‘That young girl,’ I say quietly. ‘Lily, is it?’

Priya’s face is careful. ‘I can’t discuss other patients, Margaret.’

‘No. Of course not.’

But we understand each other.

Outside, the afternoon light is fading earlier now. The clocks will change soon. Darker mornings, darker evenings. I think about the girl walking home. I think about what she’s walking home to.

I think about whether noticing is enough.

Through the window, I see her pause at the memorial bench outside. The one with the plaque. Her hand touches it briefly. A ritual, perhaps. Or a memory.

Week 7: Dev

The prescription isn’t ready.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought… the GP said they’d send it yesterday.’

Priya checks the system. ‘Nothing here yet. Can you call the surgery?’

Can I call the surgery. Can I navigate their phone system, wait on hold, explain to a receptionist that yes, it’s urgent, no I can’t wait until next week, my brain stops working properly without these pills.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sure. Sorry.’

I step aside. Pull out my phone. Hands shaking. The girl with homework is watching. I feel exposed. Incompetent. Can’t even collect a prescription properly.

The surgery number rings. Rings. Automated message. ‘We are experiencing high call volumes.’ Aren’t they always. ‘Please hold.’

Hold music. Tinny classical. Vivaldi, I think. The Four Seasons. Winter. How appropriate.

Margaret is called. She collects her prescription, glances at me. That concerned look adults give when they can see you’re struggling but don’t want to interfere. I hate that look. I hate that I need it.

Three minutes. Five. The girl is still doing homework. Geography. Rivers. Her pen moves steadily across the page. Everything under control. Unlike me.

‘Good afternoon, Riverside Surgery, you’re through to Paula, how can I help?’

‘Hi, yeah, sorry, my prescription wasn’t sent through and…’

Ten minutes later it’s sorted. They’ll send it now. Fifteen-minute wait.

I sit down. The girl is being called. She packs up, collects her prescription. Our eyes meet for a second. She looks away first.

When my prescription finally arrives, I check it four times. Both boxes. Correct dosage. Relief like falling into bed after a terrible day.

Outside, I sit in my car for five minutes before driving home.

Week 8: Lily

The prescription is wrong.

‘This is 40mg,’ I say. ‘She needs 60mg.’

Priya checks the label. Checks the system. ‘That’s what the GP prescribed.’

‘But that’s wrong. She’s been on 60mg for six months.’

‘I can only dispense what’s prescribed. You’ll need to contact the surgery.’

My stomach drops. Mum will need this tonight. She’ll be upset if it’s not there. She’ll say it doesn’t matter, she’ll make do, but it does matter. It matters a lot.

‘Can I use your phone?’ My voice sounds small.

‘Of course, love.’

The surgery phone. The holding. The explaining. The receptionist says the GP will call back. When? This afternoon. Probably.

I can’t wait here all afternoon. I have maths at 3pm. Then history. Then I was going to get shopping.

The old lady, Margaret, is here. She’s watching. The man who apologises is hovering nearby. He heard the whole thing. I feel tears starting. Push them down.

‘I’ll come back,’ I tell Priya. ‘Later.’

‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’

‘Yeah. Fine. Just… I’ll come back.’

Outside, I walk fast. School is fifteen minutes. I can make it if I run. My backpack bangs against my spine. The prescription bag crumples in my fist. 40mg. Wrong. Everything wrong.

I should call Mum. But she’ll stress. She’ll try to fix it and she can’t fix it because she’s the reason I’m fixing things in the first place.

My phone buzzes. Text from Emily about the party on Saturday. I delete it without reading properly.

At the traffic lights, I stop. Breathe. Count to four. Out for four.

I’ll come back at 4pm. After school. The GP will have called by then. It’ll be sorted.

It has to be sorted. I’m the one who sorts things.

Week 9: Robert

The girl looked distressed last week. I noticed.

One develops an eye for distress, teaching for four decades. That particular tension in young shoulders. The too-bright voice when speaking to adults. The competence that sits wrong on someone so young.

Today she’s here again. Homework out. French vocabulary, I think. Her lips move as she reads.

Margaret arrives. We exchange our usual nod. She’s watching the girl too. I see it. Teachers, even retired ones, never stop teaching. Never stop noticing.

Dev is agitated. Checking his phone repeatedly. His leg jiggles. That restless energy of anxiety. I remember boys like him. Bright but convinced of their own inadequacy. They always surprised themselves on exam day.

My name is called. I collect my carrier bag. Four boxes, heavy and reassuring.

‘Robert, can I ask,’ Priya says quietly, ‘you used to teach, didn’t you?’

‘History. Forty-two years.’

‘The young girl who comes Tuesdays. Lily. Do you… does she seem all right to you?’

I choose my words carefully. ‘She seems very capable.’

‘Too capable?’

‘Perhaps.’

Priya nods. ‘I’ve been wondering if I should… but patient confidentiality…’

‘Yes. Difficult.’

We understand each other. The obligation to notice. The restrictions on action.

‘If she needed help,’ I say, ‘if she seemed in immediate difficulty, you would be obligated to act.’

‘Yes.’

‘Keep watching,’ I say. ‘That’s all we can do.’

Outside, the November wind is sharp. I button my coat. Think about the girl. About what being capable costs at fourteen.

I wait for my bus and hope someone is watching out for her at home.

I suspect no one is.

Week 10: Aisha

Flare day. Seven out of ten. Maybe eight.

I shouldn’t be here. Should be home, hot water bottle, darkness, waiting for it to pass. But if I don’t collect the prescription today, I’ll run out Friday. Weekend gap. Can’t risk it.

Every step is negotiation. The car park to the door. The door to the queue. Standing. Breathing.

The girl is here. Lily. I’ve heard Priya use her name. She’s doing maths. Homework or revision, can’t tell. Her hand moves across the page with mechanical precision.

Margaret settles into her usual seat. Glances at me. I must look terrible.

‘Are you all right?’ she mouths.

I nod. Lie with my body language. Fine. All fine.

Dev is here, collecting quickly, checking his bag, leaving. The routine we all perform.

Robert arrives. Impeccable as always. That generation of men who treat every outing as an event. His shoes are polished. His hands shake slightly as he signs in.

My abdomen cramps. Hard. I close my eyes. Count. Breathe.

When I open them, Lily is watching me. That look. She knows. She recognises pain when she sees it.

Our eyes meet. Understanding passes between us. We are both carrying things. We are both pretending.

She looks away first. Returns to her maths.

My name is called. I walk to the counter. Every step costs. Worth it.

Priya hands me my medication. ‘Take care, Aisha.’

If only it were that simple.

In the car, I sit for ten minutes before driving. The pain will ease. It always does. Until it doesn’t.

I think about the girl. Wonder what she’s carrying. Wonder if anyone’s helping her carry it.

Week 11: Margaret

I’ve made a decision.

If the girl is here again today, if she’s alone again, I’m going to speak to her. Not about anything specific. Just… connection. Just letting her know someone sees her.

She arrives at 2:07pm. Later than usual. Her school blazer is damp. It’s been raining. She’s been walking in it.

She takes her seat. Pulls out homework. English literature. Shakespeare. Macbeth, I think. I taught that play fifty times. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Time’s petty pace.

Dev struggles with the touch screen. The girl glances up, looks like she might help, then doesn’t. That calculation children make. Help and risk being noticed, or stay invisible and safe.

Robert arrives. His breathing is laboured. He sits heavily. Not well, I think.

Aisha is here but moving with obvious difficulty. Pain day. I recognise the carefulness. The way she holds herself.

We are a collection of managed conditions. All of us. Keeping ourselves alive through chemistry and routine.

The girl is called. She packs up efficiently. Too efficiently.

I stand. Follow her to the counter. Wait my turn.

‘Lily,’ Priya says. ‘Your mum’s prescription.’

‘Thanks.’

Lily takes the bag. Turns. Nearly bumps into me.

‘Sorry,’ she says automatically.

‘No, my fault,’ I say. ‘I’m Margaret. I see you here most weeks.’

She looks uncertain. ‘Yeah. I’m… yeah.’

‘Macbeth?’ I gesture to her book.

‘English homework.’

‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’ I smile. ‘I used to teach it.’

Something shifts in her face. Guard dropping, just slightly.

‘It’s quite depressing,’ she says.

‘It is. But there’s something in it about… carrying on. Even when things are terrible. Creeping in this petty pace from day to day.’

She looks at me properly now. Really looks.

‘Yeah,’ she says quietly. ‘I suppose there is.’

My name is called. The moment breaks.

‘See you next week,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘See you.’

Week 12: Dev

Margaret spoke to the girl today. I watched it happen.

Just a brief exchange. Books. Shakespeare. But the girl’s face changed. Opened up, just for a moment.

I wish I could do that. Speak to people. Make connections. But my brain doesn’t work that way. Every interaction is a script I rehearse, mess up, apologise for.

The girl reminds me of myself at fourteen. That desperate competence. Trying so hard to hold everything together. Convinced if you just try hard enough, manage well enough, it’ll all work out.

It didn’t work out. Not how I planned. Took me twenty years and two breakdowns to learn that trying harder isn’t always the answer.

Robert is here but he doesn’t look good. His colour is off. Grey. When his name is called, he stands slowly. Too slowly.

‘You all right, Robert?’ Priya asks.

‘Just tired, my dear. Just tired.’

He collects his medications. Sits back down instead of leaving. Just sits. Breathing carefully.

Margaret notices too. I see her watching him.

Aisha arrives late. Moving badly. She shouldn’t be here. Should be home, resting. But we all make these calculations. Prescription versus pain. Routine versus rest.

My name is called. I collect my medication. Check it. Both boxes. Correct.

As I leave, Robert is still sitting. Margaret has moved closer to him. Not intrusive. Just… present.

The girl is doing homework, but her eyes keep flicking to Robert too.

We’re all watching each other. All these strangers. All these Tuesday regulars.

Outside, I sit in my car. Wonder if Robert made it home okay. Wonder if I should have done something. Said something.

But I don’t know how to help people. I can barely help myself.

Week 13: Lily

Robert wasn’t here today.

I noticed immediately. His chair, the one he always sits in, empty. Margaret noticed too. I saw her looking at it. Worried.

She’s the lady who spoke to me last week. About Macbeth. She was kind. Not pushy kind, just… kind kind.

The man who apologises was here. He noticed too. The empty chair. We all know each other’s patterns now, even though we don’t talk.

Aisha came in, moving carefully. She looked at the empty chair. Frowned.

We’re all thinking it. Where is he? Is he okay? Is he in hospital? Is he…

But we don’t ask. We don’t even know each other’s names. Except I know Margaret’s, and Priya knows all of ours, but that’s different. That’s official.

I collected Mum’s prescription. Same as usual. Priya asked how I was doing.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Good.’

‘How’s school?’

‘Yeah, good. Busy.’

The script. Easy.

But when I turned to leave, Margaret was there.

‘Lily,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you come here for your mum?’

My stomach tightened. ‘Yeah. She’s busy with work on Tuesdays.’

Margaret nodded. Didn’t push. ‘That’s very responsible of you.’

‘It’s fine. I don’t mind.’

‘Still.’ She paused. ‘If you ever needed anything. Help with homework, or just… anything. I’m here every Tuesday. 1:58pm.’

I didn’t know what to say. Adults don’t usually offer help without wanting something back.

‘Thanks,’ I managed.

‘I mean it,’ she said.

Outside, it was getting dark earlier now. November. The worst month. Dark when you leave for school, dark when you get home.

I walked fast. Mum would be waiting. Or sleeping. Probably sleeping.

Robert’s empty chair stayed with me all the way home. That absence. That gap in the pattern.

I hoped he was okay. I hoped someone was checking on him.

I hoped someone checks on all of us, eventually.

The memorial bench outside has frost on it. Dad’s bench. Five years next month. Mum’s been worse. I know the signs now.

Week 14: Margaret

Robert is back.

He arrives at 2:05pm, moving slower than usual. Thinner. The blazer hangs loose now. But he’s here. Dressed with his usual care.

Relief floods through me. I hadn’t realised how worried I’d been.

‘Robert,’ I say, breaking our unspoken rule. ‘Good to see you.’

He looks surprised. Then pleased. ‘Margaret. Yes. Good to be seen.’

‘You were missed last week.’

Something crosses his face. Emotion, quickly contained. ‘Hospital,’ he says. ‘Just routine. Nothing to worry about.’

Nothing to worry about. The thing we all say. The lie we’re all complicit in.

The girl, Lily, I heard Priya call her last week, arrives. Sees Robert. I watch relief cross her face too. She didn’t know his name, but she knew his absence.

Dev is here. He nods at Robert. Robert nods back.

Aisha arrives, moving better than last week. She sees Robert, smiles slightly.

We are all relieved. All these strangers, relieved that another stranger is alive and present.

‘Robert,’ I say, ‘I wonder if you’d mind if I sat next to you today? My usual chair seems to have developed a worse wobble.’

It hasn’t. But he understands what I’m offering.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Please.’

We sit in companionable silence. Watching the digital board. Waiting for our names.

Lily is doing biology homework. The cardiovascular system. Hearts. Appropriate.

When Robert is called, he stands carefully. I nearly offer help. Don’t. He wouldn’t want that.

But when my name is called, when I stand to collect my prescription, I say, ‘See you next week, Robert.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Next week.’

A promise. From both of us. To keep showing up. To keep witnessing each other’s persistence.

Outside, the November day is grey and cold. But something has shifted. Something has been named.

We are not just strangers sharing a queue anymore.

We are something else. Something I don’t have a word for yet.

But it matters. Whatever it is, it matters.

Week 15: Robert

Margaret sat beside me today. By choice.

It is a small thing. It is also not small at all.

The hospital stay was difficult. Infection. Complications. Three days of fluorescent lights and meal trays and blood pressure checks every four hours. But I’m home now. Managing.

The girl, Lily, brought different homework today. Chemistry. Chemical reactions. The way elements combine, transform, create something new.

I taught science in my first year, before moving to history. Chemistry seemed cleaner then. Predictable. Mix this with that, get a specific result.

People are not predictable. History taught me that.

Dev is agitated today. Some difficulty with his prescription. The pharmacist is making phone calls. He apologises repeatedly. To everyone. To no one.

I want to tell him: stop apologising for existing. But I don’t know him well enough. And my generation doesn’t speak that way.

Aisha is here. She notices my weight loss. I see her noticing. There is kindness in that noticing. Also concern.

We are all concerned for each other. These strangers. These Tuesday people.

‘Robert Davies,’ Priya calls.

I stand. Margaret’s hand moves slightly, as if to help, then stops. She’s learning my boundaries. I appreciate that.

Four boxes today. The monthly collection. Plus antibiotics, post-infection. An addition to the liturgy.

‘Take care,’ Priya says.

‘I shall endeavour to,’ I reply.

Maureen used to laugh at my formality. ‘Just say yes, Robert,’ she’d say. But formality is how I maintain dignity. How I keep myself upright.

Outside, I wait for the bus. The 2:23. Margaret walks past, on her way home. She nods. I nod back.

The bus arrives. I board. Sit in my usual seat.

The driver says, ‘Good to see you back, mate.’

He’d noticed too. My absence.

We are all being witnessed. In our small ways. In our small routines.

It is enough. Some days, it is just barely enough.

But it is enough.

Week 16: Aisha

Good day. Three out of ten. Manageable.

I can sit today without calculating the cost of standing again. Small mercy.

Robert is back, still too thin but present. Margaret sits near him now. They’ve stopped pretending they don’t know each other.

Lily arrives exactly 2:07pm. Later than her original pattern. I’ve noticed the shift. School club, maybe? Or avoiding something at home?

She does chemistry homework. Periodical table. I loved chemistry once. The logic of it. The way everything had a place, a valency, a predictable behaviour.

Then my body became unpredictable. My immune system decided my intestines were the enemy. Chemistry became something that happened to me, not something I could understand and control.

Dev is here. He’s brought a coffee. Disposable cup from Costa. His hands wrap around it like it’s anchoring him. I understand that. The need for an anchor.

When Lily is called, she collects the prescription with her usual efficiency. But today, as she turns to leave, Margaret speaks to her.

‘How did the Macbeth essay go?’

Lily stops. Surprised someone remembered. ‘Got a B+.’

‘Well done.’

‘Could have been better.’

Margaret’s expression softens. ‘Could always be better. Doesn’t mean it isn’t good.’

Lily considers this. Nods. Leaves.

That exchange. That small moment of recognition. It matters more than Margaret probably knows.

My name is called. I collect my medication. The monthly reprieve. The chemicals that keep my body from attacking itself.

‘How are you feeling?’ Priya asks.

‘Better this week.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

Outside, the day is cold but bright. I walk to my car slowly. Not from pain, from choice. Savouring the good day.

Tomorrow might be a seven. Next week might be a nine. But today is a three.

Today, I can walk slowly by choice.

That’s not nothing.

Week 17: Dev

I’m getting better at the touch screen.

Only one failed attempt today. Progress. Tiny, pathetic progress, but still.

Robert and Margaret sit together now. They don’t talk much, but there’s companionship there. It makes me ache with something I don’t have a name for. Loneliness, maybe. Or recognition of what connection looks like when you’re not me.

Lily is here. She’s doing physics homework. Forces. Newton’s laws. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction.

I think about that a lot. The medication I take. The side effects. Action and reaction. Chemical balance and imbalance. My brain trying to find equilibrium and never quite getting there.

Aisha is having a good day. I can tell. She’s sitting but relaxed. Not that careful stillness of pain management.

My name is called. I collect my prescription. Both boxes. Check them. Once, twice. Stop myself checking a third time.

As I turn to leave, Lily’s pencil rolls off her lap. Lands near my feet.

I pick it up. Hand it to her.

‘Thanks,’ she says.

‘No problem.’

A moment. Nothing. Everything.

‘You’re doing physics,’ I say. Immediately regret it. Awkward. Weird. Stop talking, Dev.

‘Yeah. It’s okay. Better than English.’

‘I liked physics. The equations. They always… worked out. Predictable.’

She looks at me properly. ‘Yeah. I like that too.’

We understand each other. The comfort of predictable systems. The relief of problems that have definite solutions.

‘Good luck with it,’ I say.

‘Thanks.’

Outside, I sit in my car. That interaction replays. Did I sound weird? Probably. But she smiled. She understood.

Maybe I’m not completely hopeless at this human connection thing.

Maybe.

Week 18: Lily

Half term. No school. But Mum still needs her prescription.

I come at the normal time. 2:07pm. The routine matters. Structure helps.

Margaret and Robert are here. They smile when they see me. Actually smile, like they’re pleased I’m here. It’s strange. Nice strange.

Dev is here. He talked to me last week. About physics. It was… normal. Just normal. I liked that.

Aisha arrives. She’s moving better today. I’m glad. I don’t know her name but I know her pain patterns. That sounds weird. But it’s true.

‘No school today?’ Margaret asks.

‘Half term.’

‘Ah. Plans?’

I shrug. ‘Catching up on homework. Might see friends.’ The lie comes easily.

‘Might?’

‘Yeah. Everyone’s busy.’

Margaret nods. Doesn’t push. I appreciate that.

Robert speaks. ‘When I was your age, half term meant reading. I’d get through three books a week.’

‘What kind of books?’

‘History. Biography. Anything about other times, other places.’

‘Escape,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘Escape.’

We understand each other. The need to be elsewhere. Even briefly.

My name is called. I collect Mum’s prescription. Both boxes. Sertraline and zopiclone. Antidepressants and sleeping tablets. The maintenance.

‘Tell your mum I hope she’s well,’ Priya says.

‘Will do.’

Outside, the January day is grey and damp. Half term. Four days off school. Four days at home with Mum. Making sure she takes her medication. Making sure she eats. Making sure.

I walk fast. Get it over with. Go home. Do what needs doing.

But for a moment, in the pharmacy, with Margaret and Robert and Dev and Aisha, I felt something.

Normal. Connected. Seen.

It doesn’t fix anything. But it helps.

It helps more than I expected.

Week 19: Margaret

Early February now. The pharmacy feels quieter. Darker evenings, winter dragging on.

Lily is here, but something’s different. She’s thinner. Paler. The school blazer hangs wrong.

Robert sees it too. Our eyes meet. Concern passing between us.

Dev arrives, struggling with shopping bags. Drops one. Apologises. Picks it up. Drops another. A comedy of anxiety.

‘Let me help,’ I say, without thinking.

He looks startled. Then grateful. ‘Thanks. Sorry. I’m just…’

‘It’s fine. We’ve all been there.’

Aisha is having a bad day. Seven, maybe eight out of ten. She shouldn’t be here. But here she is, because the system doesn’t care about your pain scale.

Lily’s name is called. She stands slowly. Too slowly.

At the counter, Priya says something quiet. Lily shakes her head. Priya persists. Lily’s face closes down.

She collects the prescription. Turns. Sees us all watching.

For a moment, she looks like she might cry. Then the mask comes down. Fine. All fine.

She leaves quickly.

‘I’m worried about her,’ I say to Robert.

‘As am I.’

‘Should we… can we…’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what we can do.’

But doing nothing feels impossible now.

When my name is called, I linger at the counter.

‘Priya,’ I say quietly. ‘Lily. The young girl. Is she… is someone checking on her?’

Priya’s face is careful. Professional. ‘I can’t discuss other patients.’

‘I’m not asking you to. I’m just… I’m concerned.’

‘So am I,’ Priya says. ‘But my hands are tied unless there’s immediate risk.’

‘And is there?’

‘I don’t know. I hope not.’

Outside, the December wind is bitter. I walk home slowly. Thinking about Lily. About duty of care. About the gaps in the system where children fall through.

I was a teacher. A mandatory reporter. I knew the procedures.

But I’m not a teacher anymore.

I’m just a woman in a pharmacy queue. Watching a child struggle. Feeling helpless.

It’s not enough. Whatever I’m doing, it’s not enough.

Week 20: Robert

Mid-February. The pharmacy is frantic. The system running slow, everyone impatient. The queue stretches past the vitamin display.

Lily is here but withdrawn. Earphones in. Homework out but she’s not working on it. Just staring.

Margaret arrives. Sees Lily. Sees me. We exchange a look that says everything we cannot say.

Dev is stressed by the crowd. I watch him counting people. Calculating wait time. His fingers tap against his thigh. One two three four five. One two three four five.

Aisha arrives late. Apologises to no one in particular for existing in the space.

The system is clogged. Computers running slow. Pharmacist stressed. The woman at the counter is arguing about something. Her prescription, their error, someone’s fault.

Twenty minutes pass. Thirty.

Lily takes her earphones out. Packs her homework. Stands.

She’s leaving. Can’t wait anymore.

‘Lily,’ Margaret calls gently.

Lily stops. Turns.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yeah. Just… I need to go.’

‘Do you have time to wait? I could wait with you.’

Something in Lily’s face cracks. Just slightly.

‘I don’t think it’ll be much longer,’ Margaret says.

Lily sits back down. Next to Margaret. Not speaking. Just sitting.

When Lily’s name is finally called, Margaret stands with her. Waits while she collects the prescription.

‘Do you need anything?’ Margaret asks. ‘Are you…’

‘We’re fine,’ Lily says. The script. Automatic.

‘If you weren’t fine,’ Margaret says, ‘would you tell someone?’

Lily’s eyes fill. She blinks rapidly. ‘I have to go.’

She leaves.

Margaret returns to her seat. Sits heavily.

‘She’s not fine,’ she says to me.

‘No,’ I agree. ‘She’s not.’

‘What do we do?’

‘I don’t know.’

But we have to do something. Doing nothing is no longer an option.

The question is: what? And how?

Week 21: Dev

No pharmacy today. Tuesday closure.

I collected my prescription last Tuesday. Should be fine. But I still feel off-kilter. The routine broken. The week structureless.

Alone today. I told my parents I was busy. Told my friends I was with family. Truth is easier than admitting I can’t handle the noise, the questions, the performance of okay-ness.

I think about the Tuesday people. Margaret and Robert sitting together. Aisha managing her pain. Lily doing homework in the queue.

Are they alone too? Robert probably is. Margaret maybe. Aisha, I don’t know.

Lily. I hope Lily isn’t alone. But I suspect she is. Or worse, alone in a crowd.

I eat leftover pasta in front of Netflix. Take my medication at the correct time. Try not to think about how empty everything feels.

The pharmacy will reopen next Tuesday. Normal service will resume. The routine will return.

I need the routine to return.

Without it, I’m just a man alone in a flat, taking medication to fix a brain that will never quite be fixed.

With it, I’m a Tuesday person. Part of something. Part of a pattern.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

It’s enough to hold on to.

Week 22: Aisha

Late February. The pharmacy is quiet. Winter settling heavily on everyone.

Robert arrives, thinner still. The winter weeks have been hard on him. I see it in the careful way he moves.

Margaret is here. Watchful. Worried.

Dev arrives exactly on time. He looks relieved to be back. The routine restored.

Lily arrives last. 2:15pm. Later than usual. She’s not wearing her school blazer. Just a hoodie. Wrong for the weather. Wrong for her pattern.

She sits. No homework. No book. Just sits. Stares at nothing.

Margaret speaks to her. Lily doesn’t respond immediately. Then shakes her head. Pulls her hood up.

Something has happened. Something bad.

My name is called. I collect my prescription. As I’m leaving, I pause near Lily.

‘Hey,’ I say quietly.

She looks up. Surprised anyone’s speaking to her.

‘I don’t know you,’ I say. ‘But I see you here every week. And I just wanted to say… if you need help, ask for it. Even if it feels impossible.’

Her eyes fill. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can. It’s hard. But you can.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Maybe not. But I understand difficult. I understand impossible. And I’m still here.’

She looks at me properly. Sees my backpack. The careful way I stand. Recognition.

‘You’re in pain,’ she says.

‘Often. But I keep coming back.’

‘Why?’

‘Because giving up is harder.’

She processes this. Nods slightly.

I leave her with that. Not advice. Just truth.

Outside, I sit in my car. Think about the girl. About whatever she’s carrying.

I hope she asks for help. I hope someone’s listening if she does.

But I suspect she won’t. And I suspect no one is.

Some of us carry things alone. Even when we shouldn’t.

Even when it’s killing us.

Week 23: Lily

Mum tried to hurt herself on Tuesday. The anniversary. Five years since Dad died.

She’s fine. She’s in hospital. They’re keeping her for observation. Adjusting her medication. That’s what they say. Observation. Adjustment.

It’s always worst on the anniversary. But this year—five years—it was too much. She couldn’t hold on. And I was out. Collecting her prescription. Like I do every Tuesday. Like I wasn’t there when she needed me.

I’m staying with Auntie Karen. She’s not really my aunt. She’s Mum’s friend from school. She’s nice but she doesn’t know what to do with me.

I still come for the prescription on Tuesdays. Force of habit. Even though Mum’s in hospital and getting her medication there.

But I came anyway. Needed the routine. Needed to be somewhere that made sense.

Margaret is here. She sees me. Sees something’s wrong.

‘Lily,’ she says gently. ‘Are you all right?’

I shake my head. Can’t speak.

She stands. Moves next to me. Doesn’t touch, just sits close.

‘What’s happened?’

I tell her. Words tumbling out. Mum and the pills and the hospital and Auntie Karen and I don’t know what happens now.

Margaret listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t say it’ll be fine.

When I finish, she says, ‘You’ve been carrying a lot. For a long time.’

‘Someone had to.’

‘Not a fourteen-year-old. Not alone.’

‘There wasn’t anyone else.’

‘There is now. There’s me. There’s Robert. There’s everyone here who sees you every week.’

I look around. Robert is watching, concern clear on his face. Dev has stopped his phone checking. Aisha is leaning forward slightly, listening.

‘You’re not alone,’ Margaret says. ‘Not anymore.’

I start crying. Properly crying. In a pharmacy queue. On a Tuesday at 2pm.

Margaret doesn’t tell me to stop. Just sits with me.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ she says eventually. ‘You’re going to give me a way to contact you. Phone number. And if you need anything—anything at all—you’re going to call me. Understood?’

I nod.

‘I mean it, Lily. Shopping. Help with homework. Just someone to talk to. You call me.’

‘Why would you… you don’t even know me.’

‘I know enough. I know you’re a child who’s been coping with adult problems. And I know that stops now.’

She pulls out her phone. I give her my number. She calls it so I have hers.

‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘After school. You’re coming to mine for tea. We’ll sort out what needs sorting.’

‘I can’t ask you to…’

‘You’re not asking. I’m telling.’

Week 24: Margaret

Lily came for tea on Wednesday. Then Friday. Then Saturday.

She’s staying with a family friend while her mother is in hospital. The friend is kind but overwhelmed. Lily needs more than kind and overwhelmed.

I’ve made some calls. Old contacts from teaching. Social services. Young carers support. The wheels are turning slowly, but they’re turning.

Today, Lily arrives at the pharmacy with me. Not collecting a prescription. Just here.

Robert smiles when he sees us together. ‘Good,’ he says simply.

Dev nods. Awkward but genuine.

Aisha’s face softens. ‘How are you doing?’ she asks Lily.

‘Better,’ Lily says. ‘Getting there.’

It’s not a lie. Not completely.

The prescription system is working more smoothly this week. January efficiency. Everyone focused after the holiday chaos.

We’re called in order. Robert first. Then Dev. Then Aisha. Then me.

Lily waits. When I collect my medication, she stands with me.

‘Next week,’ Priya says to Lily, ‘when your mum’s home, we can arrange for her prescriptions to be delivered. You shouldn’t have to keep coming.’

‘Actually,’ Lily says, ‘I think I’ll keep coming. If that’s okay.’

‘Of course it’s okay.’

Outside, the January day is clear and cold. Lily walks beside me.

‘Thank you,’ she says quietly.

‘For what?’

‘Seeing me. Actually seeing me.’

‘You were always worth seeing, Lily. You just needed someone to look properly.’

We walk in comfortable silence. Heading home. To my home. Where she’ll stay until her mother is well enough. Where she’ll be safe. Where she’ll be seen.

The Tuesday people. Our small community of witness and care.

It’s not everything. But it’s something.

It’s enough.

Week 25: Robert

The girl has changed.

Not completely. She still arrives on Tuesdays. Still does homework. But there’s less weight in her shoulders now. Margaret walks in with her. They talk easily.

The system worked. Slowly, imperfectly, but it worked. Margaret made it work through sheer determination.

I am proud of her. Proud of us. The Tuesday people who noticed a child falling through the cracks and caught her.

Dev is more relaxed. He nods at Lily now. Sometimes they talk about school, physics, equations. He’s good with her. Patient. Kind.

Aisha moves better some weeks, worse others. But she’s here. Persistent.

Today, my prescriptions have increased. New medication. Heart failure management. The consultant used gentle words. Progressive condition. Quality of life. Time.

I am seventy-eight years old. I have had a good life, a long life. Maureen and I had forty-three years together. I taught hundreds of students. Made a difference, I hope.

But I am not ready to stop yet. Not ready to miss Tuesdays.

Not ready to leave my seat empty.

‘Robert,’ Margaret says gently. She sees something in my face.

‘Just tired,’ I say.

‘More than usual.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We’re here,’ she says. ‘Whatever you need. We’re here.’

The Tuesday people. Our strange, necessary community.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know you are.’

And I do know. That’s the gift of this. This small, repeated gathering. This witness.

I am not alone. I will not be alone, even at the end.

That is worth more than any prescription.

That is everything.

Week 26: Dev

Six months of Tuesdays since I started noticing the pattern. Since I started seeing us as a group rather than random individuals.

Robert is declining. We all see it. He’s here but frailer. His hands shake more. The polished shoes are still polished, but everything else is looser, thinner, slower.

Margaret walks with Lily now. Lily lives with her temporarily. The word “temporarily” is doing a lot of work there. I suspect it’ll become permanent.

Aisha is having a good week. Three, maybe four out of ten. She smiles at me. I smile back. Less awkward than it used to be.

The pharmacy has new stock displays. Hay fever remedies, even though it’s February. The retail cycle marches on regardless of seasons or human concerns.

I collect my prescription without checking it three times. Twice today. Progress. Pathetic, tiny progress.

As I’m leaving, Lily calls out, ‘Dev, wait.’

I stop. She’s holding a book.

‘Margaret said you like physics. I finished this, thought you might like it. It’s about chaos theory.’

She hands me the book. It’s worn, well-read.

‘You don’t have to…I just thought…’

‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘That’s really kind.’

‘You helped me,’ she says. ‘When you picked up my pencil. When you talked about equations being predictable. It helped.’

I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to helping people. I’m not used to mattering.

‘You’re welcome,’ I say eventually.

Outside, I sit in my car. Hold the book. Read the first page.

A small kindness. A small connection. It doesn’t fix my brain. Doesn’t cure my anxiety.

But it makes the world slightly less hostile. Slightly more bearable.

That’s worth something. That’s worth a lot, actually.

Week 27: Aisha

Spring. Technically. The weather hasn’t noticed yet.

Six out of ten today. Manageable but present. I’ve learned to work within these numbers. To plan life around them.

Robert is here but he’s brought someone with him. A woman, maybe forty. His daughter, I realise. She sits next to him, protective but not overbearing.

Margaret and Lily arrive together. They’re talking about university applications. Lily’s only fourteen but Margaret’s planting seeds. Showing her futures are possible.

Dev is reading. The book Lily gave him. He looks absorbed. Peaceful. I haven’t seen him peaceful before.

When my name is called, I collect my medication. The monthly ritual. The chemicals that keep my body from destroying itself.

As I’m packing everything away, Lily approaches.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘How do you… how do you keep going? When your body doesn’t work properly?’

I consider this carefully. She deserves honesty.

‘Some days, I don’t know. Some days, I lie in bed and think about giving up. About how much easier it would be.’

She nods. Understanding.

‘But then I think about the good days. The threes and fours. They’re rare, but they’re real. And I think about the people who see me. Really see me. Like here, on Tuesdays.’

‘Does it get easier?’

‘No. But you get stronger. Better at carrying it.’

‘My mum,’ Lily says quietly. ‘She has depression. It’s like her brain is her body, you know? It doesn’t work right. And I used to think if she just tried harder…’

‘But it doesn’t work like that.’

‘No. It doesn’t.’

‘You’re learning young what took me years to understand. That’s valuable. Hard, but valuable.’

She absorbs this. ‘Thanks.’

‘Anytime.’

Outside, the March wind is sharp. I walk to my car slowly. Not from pain, from thought.

Lily will be okay. She has Margaret now. She has all of us, in our small way.

She’s learning what I learned: you can’t fix everything. But you can witness it. You can sit with it.

You can keep showing up.

That’s not nothing.

Week 28: Lily

Mum came home last week.

She’s different. Better, maybe. The medication is adjusted. She’s seeing a therapist. She sleeps normal hours now instead of all day or not at all.

But I’m still living with Margaret. Everyone agreed it was better. Temporary, they say. But it feels permanent. It feels like home.

Today, Mum came to the pharmacy with me. First time in months.

Margaret was here. She smiled at us both. ‘Hello, Anne.’

‘Margaret. Thank you for… for everything.’

‘No need to thank me.’

Robert was here with his daughter again. She introduced herself. Claire. She’s arranging more care for Robert. We can all see he needs it.

Dev nodded at Mum. Shy, awkward, but kind. Mum nodded back.

Aisha was here. She and Mum made eye contact. Understanding passed between them. Two people managing chronic conditions. Two people just trying to survive.

When Mum’s name was called, I went with her. Force of habit.

‘I can manage,’ she said gently.

‘I know. But I’m here anyway.’

She collected her prescription. New medication. Different dosages. The system adjusting, trying to find balance.

Outside, we walked together.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘For everything you had to do. You shouldn’t have had to.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not. But I’m going to make it okay. I’m going to get better. Properly better.’

‘I know.’

And I did know. She was trying. Really trying. That’s all I’d ever wanted.

‘You can come home,’ she said. ‘Whenever you’re ready. But if you want to stay with Margaret…’

‘For now,’ I said. ‘If that’s okay. Just for now.’

She nodded. ‘Whatever you need.’

We hugged. Right there, outside Tesco. People walked around us.

When we pulled apart, I saw Margaret and Robert leaving. Margaret caught my eye. Smiled.

The Tuesday people. Our strange, necessary family.

I waved. They waved back.

Everything was changing. Everything was uncertain.

But Tuesdays would stay the same. The routine, the ritual, the showing up.

That was enough. For now, that was enough.

Week 29: Margaret

Anne came to the pharmacy today. It’s the first time I’ve met her properly, though I’ve been caring for her daughter for two months.

She’s younger than I expected. Forty-two, Lily told me. She looks exhausted but present. Medicated, stabilised, trying.

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said quietly, while Lily was doing homework.

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I failed her. I let my daughter become my carer. I…’

‘You were ill. That’s not failure.’

‘It feels like failure.’

‘I imagine it does. But Lily doesn’t see it that way. She loves you. She was protecting you.’

Anne’s eyes filled. ‘She shouldn’t have had to.’

‘No. She shouldn’t. But she’s going to be okay. You both are.’

Robert’s daughter, Claire, is here today. She’s arranging for carers to visit Robert daily. The system is finally supporting him properly. Too late, perhaps, but better than nothing.

Dev is reading again. He’s nearly finished the book Lily gave him. He looks up occasionally, smiles at nothing. Content.

Aisha is having a bad day. Seven, maybe eight. But she’s here. Persistent.

When my name is called, Lily automatically stands to come with me. Old habit.

‘I’m fine, love,’ I say gently.

She sits back down. Smiles. ‘Old habits.’

‘Good habits,’ I say.

I collect my prescriptions. Blood pressure, statins. The maintenance that keeps me alive for Tuesdays. For Lily. For this.

Outside, the March afternoon is bright. Daffodils in the Tesco planters. Spring, actually arriving this time.

Lily and Anne walk together. Not far, just to the bus stop. Learning each other again. Learning how to be mother and daughter when both of them are healing.

Robert walks slowly with Claire. She holds his arm gently.

Dev walks to his car, still reading.

Aisha walks carefully to hers.

We’re all walking. All moving forward. All carrying our maintenance.

The Tuesday people. Our small community of witness.

It’s enough. More than enough.

It’s everything.

Week 30: Robert

My last Tuesday.

I know this with certainty. The way you know things at the end. The consultant was gentle but clear. Days. Maybe a week.

Claire wanted me to stay home. Rest. But I insisted. One more Tuesday. One more routine.

Margaret sees it in my face. She always does.

‘Robert,’ she says gently.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know.’

Lily looks between us, understanding dawning. Her eyes fill.

‘Don’t,’ I say kindly. ‘No sadness. Not here. Not on a Tuesday.’

Dev stands. Awkward, uncertain. Then extends his hand.

‘It’s been good,’ he says. ‘Seeing you every week. You… you matter.’

I shake his hand. ‘As do you, young man. Take your medication. Show up. That’s all any of us can do.’

Aisha approaches. ‘You taught me something,’ she says. ‘About dignity. About showing up even when everything hurts.’

‘You taught me something too,’ I say. ‘About persistence. About grace under impossible circumstances.’

My name is called. I stand slowly. Claire moves to help.

‘I can manage,’ I say.

I collect my prescriptions. Four boxes. Enough for a month I won’t see.

Priya’s eyes are red. She knows too.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For everything. For treating me like a person, not just a patient number.’

‘It’s been an honour, Robert.’

I return to my seat. Margaret is beside me.

‘I’ve left instructions with Claire,’ I say quietly. ‘She’ll let you know. When.’

‘Robert…’

‘You’ve been a good friend, Margaret. This strange Tuesday friendship. It’s meant more than you know.’

‘To me too.’

‘Look after Lily. She’s special.’

‘I will. I am.’

‘Good.’

Lily sits on my other side. Takes my hand.

‘Thank you for the books recommendation,’ she says. ‘For showing me escape could be good.’

‘Escape is necessary,’ I say. ‘Sometimes. But coming back matters too. Keep coming back, Lily.’

‘I will.’

We sit. The Tuesday people. One last time, all of us together.

Outside, Claire helps me to the car. I look back once.

They’re all watching. Margaret, Lily, Dev, Aisha. Priya in the window.

I raise my hand. They raise theirs.

Goodbye. Thank you. See you.

Except I won’t.

But they will. They’ll keep coming. Keep witnessing each other.

That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

That’s everything I needed.

Week 31: Dev

Robert’s chair is empty.

We all know what it means. Claire called Margaret last Friday. Peaceful, she said. Surrounded by family.

Peaceful. That’s what we say. What we hope for.

Margaret is here, red-eyed but composed. Lily sits close to her, holding her hand.

Aisha arrives, sees the empty chair, stops. Her face crumples briefly. Then smooths. Control reasserted.

We sit in silence. The queue moves around us. Other people, not knowing. Not understanding that something has ended.

When Lily’s mother’s name is called, Lily stands mechanically. Collects the prescription. Returns.

When Aisha’s name is called, she moves carefully. More carefully than usual. Grief compounding pain.

When Margaret’s name is called, she walks like she’s aged ten years.

When my name is called, I collect my prescription. Both boxes. I don’t check them. It doesn’t seem important.

Outside, we gather without planning to. The four of us. The remaining Tuesday people.

‘He mattered,’ Margaret says.

‘He did,’ Aisha agrees.

‘He taught me about showing up,’ Lily says. ‘About dignity.’

‘He taught me it’s okay to be formal,’ I say. ‘To maintain standards. That it’s not pretentious, it’s survival.’

We stand in silence. Traffic passes. People shop. Life continues around our small grief.

‘Next week,’ Margaret says finally. ‘We come back. We keep showing up. That’s what he’d want.’

‘Yes,’ we agree.

We disperse. To our cars, our buses, our homes.

Robert’s chair will be empty next week. And the week after. And the week after that.

But we’ll be here. Witnessing the empty space. Remembering what filled it.

That’s what communities do. They remember. They persist.

They keep showing up, even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

Week 32: Aisha

Four out of ten. Manageable.

Robert’s chair is still empty. Will always be empty now.

But someone new is sitting near it. An older woman, maybe seventy. Nervous, uncertain. First time here, clearly.

Margaret notices her. Margaret always notices.

‘First time?’ Margaret asks gently.

The woman nods. ‘I don’t understand the system. The screen…’

‘Let me help.’

Margaret guides her through the touch screen. Patient, kind. The way she’s learned to be through these Tuesdays.

Lily watches, learning. This is what care looks like. This is what community does.

Dev is here but distracted. Reading something on his phone. Work email, probably. Stress evident in his shoulders.

The new woman sits. Looks around nervously.

‘It takes a few weeks to learn the pattern,’ Margaret tells her. ‘But you’ll get there. We all did.’

‘You all come every week?’

‘Tuesdays. 2pm. Like clockwork.’

‘That must be nice. The routine.’

‘It is,’ Margaret says. And then, because Robert taught us something about acknowledgment, ‘We lost someone recently. He sat where you’re sitting. Every Tuesday for years. We miss him.’

The woman’s face softens. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Us too. But we keep coming. That’s what you do.’

My name is called. I collect my prescriptions. The monthly maintenance.

As I’m leaving, I pause by the new woman.

‘It gets easier,’ I say. ‘The routine. Eventually you’ll know which chair has the least wobble.’

She smiles. ‘Which one is it?’

I glance at Robert’s chair. Margaret’s chair. The geography of our small community.

‘You’ll figure it out,’ I say. ‘We all do.’

Outside, early April brings the first blooms. Daffodils in the Tesco planters. Light lingering longer.

Robert won’t see this spring. But we will. We’ll see it and remember that he taught us to notice. To show up. To persist.

That’s his legacy. Our Tuesday legacy.

Worth more than any prescription.

Worth everything.

Week 33: Lily

Mum wants me to come home.

She’s stable now. Medication working. Therapy helping. She has routines, support systems. She’s ready.

But I’m not sure I am.

Margaret doesn’t push. ‘When you’re ready,’ she says. ‘No rush.’

Today at the pharmacy, Mum comes again. Third week running. She’s trying. Really trying.

The new woman, Jean, is here. She’s learning the pattern. Sits in a different chair each week, testing them all.

Dev is less anxious today. He smiles at me, shows me he finished the chaos theory book.

‘Did you like it?’ I ask.

‘Loved it. The idea that tiny changes can have huge effects. That systems that seem random actually have patterns.’

‘Like us,’ I say. ‘The Tuesday people. Random, but a pattern.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Exactly like us.’

Aisha is having a good day. She moves easily, sits comfortably. When Mum is called, Aisha catches my eye. Smiles.

After we collect Mum’s prescription, as we’re leaving, Margaret touches my arm.

‘Whatever you decide,’ she says, ‘about going home or staying, you’re not alone. You have both of us now. Me and your mum. And the Tuesday people.’

‘I know,’ I say.

And I do know. That’s the gift Robert gave us. The gift of community. Of showing up. Of witness.

Outside, Mum and I walk together.

‘I want you to come home,’ she says. ‘But I understand if you’re not ready.’

‘I think I’m ready,’ I say. ‘To try, at least.’

She takes my hand. ‘We’ll figure it out. Together.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Together.’

But I’ll still come on Tuesdays. Still collect her prescriptions. Not because I have to anymore.

Because I want to. Because the Tuesday people are my people too.

Because some routines are worth keeping.

Week 34: Margaret

Lily moved back home yesterday.

I helped her pack. Drove her the three miles to Anne’s flat. Carried boxes up two flights of stairs.

The flat was clean, organized. Anne had prepared. Fresh sheets. Food in the fridge. Lily’s room exactly as she’d left it.

‘You can visit whenever you want,’ I told Lily. ‘Anytime. My door is always open.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

We hugged. Long and tight. This child who isn’t mine but somehow is.

Today, Tuesday, she comes to the pharmacy alone. Anne is at work. Lily’s been given permission to leave school early to collect the prescription.

She arrives at 2:07pm. Her usual time. Sits in her usual spot.

Jean, the new woman, is here. She’s settling in. Found her chair. Third from the left. Robert’s old chair. It feels right somehow.

Dev is here, less apologetic than usual. He’s started therapy, he told me last week. Working on the anxiety. It’s helping.

Aisha arrives, moving carefully but determined. Five out of ten, I’d guess. Medium day.

We sit in our familiar pattern. The Tuesday people. Changed but persisting.

Lily does homework. History. The Russian Revolution. I taught that unit hundreds of times.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask. ‘At home.’

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Good, actually. We’re learning each other again. Taking it slow.’

‘That’s wise.’

‘I miss your house sometimes. The quiet.’

‘My house misses you. But I’m glad you’re home. Glad you’re both trying.’

‘Me too.’

When her name is called, she collects the prescription efficiently. But there’s less weight in it now. Less burden.

She’s a daughter collecting her mother’s prescription. Not a carer shouldering an impossible load.

The difference matters.

Outside, she waves goodbye. Walks toward the bus stop. Toward home. Toward Anne.

I watch her go. My heart full and aching.

Jean appears beside me. ‘Your granddaughter?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘But yes. It’s complicated.’

‘The best families are,’ Jean says.

Yes. The best families are.

Week 35: Robert

(— — —)

Week 36: Dev

Therapy is helping. Actually helping.

My therapist says I have rejection sensitive dysphoria. That my anxiety isn’t just general, it’s specific. Fear of failure, of disappointing people, of being found inadequate.

Knowing the name helps. Understanding the pattern helps.

Today I only apologised once. Progress.

The Tuesday people are here. Margaret, Lily, Aisha, Jean. Our small constellation.

A man joins the queue. Early fifties. He’s shaking. Not Parkinson’s. Anxiety, maybe. Or withdrawal from something.

He approaches the touch screen. Stares at it. Steps back.

I recognize that paralysis. That overwhelming sense of inadequacy.

Before I can stop myself, I’m standing. Walking over.

‘Need help with the screen?’

He looks at me. Grateful. Ashamed. Both.

‘I can’t… it’s confusing…’

‘Yeah, it is. Here, let me show you.’

I guide him through. Step by step. Patient. The way Margaret was patient with Jean. The way the Tuesday people are patient with each other.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘No problem. First time?’

‘Yeah. Usually my wife… but she’s away. I didn’t think it would be this hard.’

‘It gets easier. You’ll learn the pattern.’

He sits. Still shaking but less. Helped.

Margaret catches my eye. Smiles. Proud.

When my name is called, I collect my prescription. Check it once. Just once.

Outside, I sit in my car. Think about helping someone. About being useful.

It’s a small thing. Tiny. But it matters.

Robert knew that. That small kindnesses compound. Small witnesses accumulate.

That’s what community is. Tiny kindnesses. Repeated weekly. Building something larger than any individual piece.

I’m part of that now. Really part of it.

That’s worth more than any medication.

Week 37: Aisha

Two out of ten. Best day in months.

I arrive early. 1:55pm. Unplanned. But the good day makes me restless, wanting to use it before it disappears.

Jean is already here. She nods. We’re becoming familiar.

Margaret arrives at 1:58pm exactly. Smiles when she sees me.

‘Good day?’

‘Very good day.’

‘Those are precious.’

‘They are.’

Lily arrives on time. She’s brighter now. Home life is working. She and Anne are finding their rhythm.

Dev arrives, helps an older man with the touch screen. He’s becoming confident. Growing into himself.

The new man from last week is back. Less shaky. He nods at Dev. Recognition.

We’re expanding. The Tuesday people. Growing. Including.

When my name is called, I walk to the counter without calculation. Without negotiating with my body. I just walk.

It’s such a small thing. Such a normal thing.

But for me, it’s everything.

Priya notices. ‘Good day today?’

‘Very good.’

‘I’m glad.’

Outside, the late April afternoon is warm. I don’t rush to my car. I stand in the sun for a moment. Feeling it on my face.

Tomorrow might be a seven. Next week might be a nine.

But today is a two. And I’m going to inhabit every moment of it.

Robert taught me that. To notice. To appreciate. To show up for the good days as well as the bad.

The Tuesday people taught me that too. That we witness all of it. Pain and joy. Struggle and ease.

All of it matters. All of it counts.

Week 38: Lily

Final revision period now. Exams in a few weeks. I’m stressed but managing.

Margaret helps with revision. Tuesdays at her house after the pharmacy. It’s become our routine.

Today, after collecting Mum’s prescription, I stay to do homework while Margaret collects hers.

Jean sits next to me. ‘What are you studying?’

‘Chemistry. Organic compounds.’

‘That’s beyond me. But you look like you understand it.’

‘Getting there.’

‘You come every week. For your mum?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s very responsible.’

I used to hate that word. Responsible. It felt like a weight. A judgment.

But Jean says it with admiration, not pity.

‘She’s doing better now,’ I say. ‘Mum. She’s stable. This is just… helping. Routine.’

‘Routine matters,’ Jean says. ‘I’m learning that.’

Dev finishes early, waves goodbye. The shaky man from two weeks ago is here again, steadier now. Third visit. He’s learning the pattern.

Aisha is here, moving well. Good day, I think.

When Margaret returns, we leave together. Walk to her house. Tea and revision. Chemistry and conversations.

‘How are you really?’ she asks, once we’re settled.

‘Okay. Actually okay. Home is… it’s working. Mum and I are figuring it out.’

‘That’s wonderful, Lily.’

‘But I still need this. Tuesdays. The routine. You. All of it.’

‘Of course you do. Healing doesn’t mean not needing support anymore. It means knowing how to ask for it.’

I absorb this. Write it in my heart next to all the other things Margaret has taught me.

At 5pm, Mum texts. Dinner at 6?

I reply. Yes. See you soon.

Home. Both of Margaret’s house and Anne’s flat. I have two homes now.

And every Tuesday, the pharmacy. A third home, in its way.

The Tuesday people. My people.

All of it. All of them. Making me whole.

Week 39: Margaret

Spring turning to summer. Light lingering until 8pm now.

The Tuesday people are settled. Margaret, Lily, Dev, Aisha, Jean. The shaky man, who we’ve learned is called Martin. A few others rotating through, learning the pattern.

Today, a young woman arrives. Mid-twenties. Bright purple hair. Piercings. She signs in with practiced efficiency.

She sits. Pulls out a book. Not homework. A novel. Fantasy, I think.

When her name is called, she collects multiple prescriptions. More than usual for someone her age.

As she’s leaving, Lily speaks.

‘I like your hair.’

The woman stops. Smiles. ‘Thanks. I like your… competence. You’ve got the system down.’

‘Four months of Tuesdays will do that.’

‘Try four years.’

They both laugh. Understanding.

The woman leaves. Lily watches her go.

‘She’s like me,’ Lily says quietly. ‘Young. Collecting for someone. Or for herself, maybe.’

‘Probably.’

‘There are more of us than I thought.’

‘Yes. There are.’

The Tuesday people. The visible ones and the invisible ones. All of us carrying our maintenance. All of us showing up.

When I collect my prescription, Priya smiles.

‘You’ve built something here, Margaret.’

‘I haven’t built anything.’

‘Yes, you have. Community. Witness. Care. That’s everything.’

Outside, the summer evening is perfect. Warm but not hot. Golden light.

Lily and I walk together. Talking about exams, university, futures.

She has futures now. Real ones. Possible ones.

That’s what community does. It makes futures possible.

Robert knew that. He showed us how.

And we’re carrying it forward. Week by week. Tuesday by Tuesday.

Until it becomes something permanent. Something real.

Something that outlasts any individual life.

Week 40: Dev

My therapist asked me to think about what’s changed in six months.

A lot. Everything. Nothing.

I still take the same medication. Still have anxiety. Still struggle with the touch screen sometimes.

But I help people now. Martin, the shaky man, has become someone I check on. Make sure he’s managing.

The Tuesday people have become people I care about. Not just witnesses. Friends.

Today, I bring coffee. Five cups from Costa. For Margaret, Lily, Aisha, Jean, Martin.

They look surprised.

‘What’s this for?’ Margaret asks.

‘Nothing. Just… thank you. For being here. Every week.’

‘Dev,’ Aisha says gently, ‘you’re here too. You don’t have to thank us.’

‘I know. But I want to.’

We sit. Drinking coffee. Talking about nothing important. Weather. Traffic. The new self-checkout system in Tesco that nobody likes.

Normal conversation. Easy conversation.

Six months ago, this would have been impossible. Too much anxiety. Too much second-guessing.

Now it’s just… nice.

Robert would be proud, I think. He’d see this and know his showing up mattered.

That we all matter. Every Tuesday. Every routine. Every small kindness.

When my name is called, I collect my prescription. One check. That’s it.

Outside, I don’t rush to my car. I wait. Say goodbye to people properly.

‘See you next week, Dev,’ Lily calls.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘See you next week.’

I will see them next week. And the week after. And after that.

The Tuesday people. My people.

Carrying me forward. One week at a time.

Week 41: Aisha

Seven out of ten. Difficult day.

But I’m here. That’s what matters.

Margaret notices immediately. ‘Bad day?’

‘Seven.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It is what it is.’

Dev offers me his chair. ‘It’s the least wobbly.’

‘I’m fine standing.’

‘Please. I’ll stand.’

I sit. Grateful. Small kindnesses on hard days.

Lily is doing final revision. Summer exams starting next week. She’s nervous but prepared.

Jean chats with Martin. They’ve both been coming long enough now to be regulars. Part of the pattern.

The woman with purple hair is back. She waves at Lily. Lily waves back.

When my name is called, I walk slowly. Every step is negotiation. But I make it.

Priya sees the pain. ‘Rough week?’

‘Rough day.’

‘Your new prescription should help. The consultant adjusted the dosage.’

‘Okay. Good.’

Outside, I sit in my car. Don’t start the engine yet. Just sit.

Pain is exhausting. The management of it. The constant calculation. The hiding of it.

But here, on Tuesdays, I don’t have to hide it. Margaret knows. Dev knows. They all know.

And they don’t pity me. They just witness it. Sit with it. Offer the least wobbly chair.

That’s enough. On bad days, that’s everything.

I start the car. Drive home carefully.

Tomorrow might be better. Tomorrow might be worse.

But next Tuesday, I’ll be here. 2pm. The routine that holds me together.

The Tuesday people who see me, even on sevens.

Especially on sevens.

Week 42: Lily

Last day of school before exams. Teachers giving final advice. Classmates panicking.

I’m nervous but okay. Margaret’s been helping. Mum’s been supportive. I’m managing.

At the pharmacy, everyone wishes me luck.

‘You’ll do brilliantly,’ Margaret says.

‘I hope so.’

‘I know so.’

Dev gives me a good luck card. Inside, he’s written: ‘Equations always work out. So will you.’

Jean brings chocolate. ‘Brain food.’

Aisha is having a bad day but she smiles at me. ‘You’ve got this.’

Martin nods. He doesn’t know me well but he’s heard the others talking. He knows I’m sitting exams.

‘Good luck, kid,’ he says.

The purple-haired woman is here. She high-fives me. ‘Smash it.’

I collect Mum’s prescription. Priya adds, ‘We’re all rooting for you, Lily.’

I don’t know what to say. This small community, this Tuesday routine, all of them supporting me.

‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘All of you. For everything.’

Outside, Margaret walks with me.

‘Whatever happens with the exams,’ she says, ‘you’re going to be fine. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you know how to show up. How to persist. How to ask for help when you need it. Those skills matter more than any exam result.’

I hug her. Right there on the pavement.

‘I love you,’ I say. Not planned. Just truth.

‘I love you too, sweetheart.’

We walk in comfortable silence. Toward home. Toward revision. Toward exams and futures and all the uncertainty ahead.

But Tuesdays will stay the same. The routine will hold.

The Tuesday people will be here.

That’s enough. That’s everything.

Week 43: Margaret

Lily’s exams start today. She’s prepared. She’ll do well. But I’m nervous anyway. That’s what parents do, even accidental ones.

The pharmacy is quiet. Half-term for schools. Holiday schedule throwing off the usual rhythm.

Dev is here early. ‘Can’t sleep,’ he admits. ‘Work stress.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not really. Just want to… be here. Somewhere familiar.’

I understand that. The pharmacy as anchor. The Tuesday routine as stability when everything else shifts.

Aisha arrives, moving well. Three out of ten, maybe. Good day.

Jean is here, bringing news. She’s been matched with a young carers support group. Volunteering, helping families like Lily’s.

‘You inspired me,’ she says. ‘Watching you with Lily. I want to do that. Help people the way you helped her.’

‘That’s wonderful, Jean.’

‘Robert would approve,’ she says. ‘Of all of this. What we’ve become.’

‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘He would.’

Martin is here, steadier every week. He’s been sober for six weeks. The shaking has reduced. He’s finding his footing.

When my name is called, I collect my prescriptions. The maintenance that keeps me here for Tuesdays.

Priya asks about Lily. I tell her about the exams. She promises to ask next week.

Outside, the late June day is perfect. Summer arriving properly now.

I think about Robert. About his last Tuesday. About his empty chair.

But also about what he started. What we’ve all continued.

This small community of witness and care. Accidental but essential.

The Tuesday people. Growing. Persisting. Mattering.

I walk home alone. But not lonely. Never lonely anymore.

Not with Tuesdays waiting. Every week. Reliable as clockwork.

That’s Robert’s legacy. Our legacy.

And it’s enough. More than enough.

It’s everything.

Week 44: Dev

I’m writing this down. The therapist suggested it. Recording good things. Evidence against the anxiety’s lies.

Today’s good thing: The Tuesday people.

Margaret brought photos. Old ones from her teaching days. She wanted to show Lily what she was like at fourteen. Confident, she said. Always confident.

Lily studied the photos. ‘You look kind,’ she said. ‘Like you are now.’

Margaret teared up. Lily hugged her.

That’s the Tuesday people. Small moments that mean everything.

Aisha had a good day. Two out of ten. She stood without calculation. Moved without negotiation.

Jean talked about her volunteering. Helping three families now. Making a difference.

Martin showed us his two months sobriety chip. We all clapped. Right there in the pharmacy. People stared. We didn’t care.

Lily got her GCSE results today. Straight As. Margaret cried. We all celebrated. Right there in the queue. Her future is opening up.

The purple-haired woman, whose name is Sadie, joined our conversation. She collects for her mum too. Chronic pain. She and Aisha talked about management strategies. Comparing notes.

When my name was called, I collected my prescription without checking it. Just trusted it was right.

That’s progress. Actual, measurable progress.

Outside, we lingered. All of us. Not ready to disperse yet.

‘We should do something,’ Margaret said. ‘Outside of Tuesdays. All of us.’

‘Like what?’ Lily asked.

‘I don’t know. Coffee? Meal? Just… something.’

We exchanged phone numbers. All of us. The Tuesday people, connected beyond the routine now.

I drove home thinking about community. About how it forms in unexpected places.

A pharmacy queue. 2pm Tuesdays. People managing their maintenance.

We found each other. We witnessed each other. We became something.

That’s the good thing. The best thing.

The Tuesday people. My people.

Week 45: Aisha

We met for coffee on Saturday. All of us. Outside of Tuesday. Outside of the routine.

It was strange at first. Seeing everyone in different clothes. Different context. Margaret without her pharmacy face. Dev without his apologetic hover.

But then it was nice. Really nice.

We talked about normal things. Weather. Politics. Holidays. Nothing medical. Nothing about prescriptions or pain or maintenance.

Just people. Being people. Together.

Today, back at the pharmacy, it feels different. Warmer. More connected.

Lily finished her exams. Now just waiting. The hardest part, she says.

Martin is ten weeks sober. Attending meetings. Rebuilding his life.

Jean is helping five families now. Changing lives.

Dev has reduced his therapy to fortnightly. Still struggling, but managing.

Sadie’s mum is having surgery in two weeks. Scared but hopeful.

And me? I’m five out of ten. Medium day. But surrounded by people who understand. Who don’t need me to explain or apologize or hide.

When my name is called, I collect my medication. The monthly ritual.

But it’s not just medicine anymore. It’s an excuse to be here. With these people. This community.

Priya smiles. ‘You all look happy today.’

‘We are,’ I say. ‘Actually happy.’

Outside, we linger again. Making plans for next Saturday. Another coffee. Maybe lunch.

The Tuesday people, expanding beyond Tuesdays.

But Tuesdays will still matter. Still be the anchor. Still be where it started.

Where Robert showed us how to witness each other. How to persist. How to care.

That’s his gift. The gift that keeps giving.

Week after week. Tuesday after Tuesday.

Forever.

Week 46: Lily

A levels next year. University applications. Futures becoming real.

Margaret helps me research courses. Biology, maybe. Or chemistry. Something science-based. Something about understanding how things work.

Mum is proud. So proud. She cries every time we talk about it.

‘You did this,’ she says. ‘Despite everything. You did this.’

‘We did this,’ I correct her. ‘Both of us. And Margaret. And the Tuesday people.’

Because it’s true. I didn’t do it alone.

Today at the pharmacy, a new person arrives. Young girl, maybe thirteen. Collecting for someone. Parent, probably.

She looks lost. Scared. Too competent for her age.

I see myself in her. Six months ago. Carrying too much. Alone.

Margaret sees her too. Our eyes meet.

I stand. Walk over.

‘First time?’ I ask gently.

The girl nods.

‘It’s confusing at first. Let me show you the screen.’

I guide her through. Step by step. The way Dev helped Martin. The way Margaret helped Jean. The way we all help each other.

‘You collect for someone?’ I ask.

‘My mum. She’s… she can’t come today.’

‘I collect for my mum too. Have done for months. It gets easier.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yeah. And there are people here. See them?’ I gesture at the Tuesday people. ‘They’ll help. If you need it. Just ask.’

The girl’s eyes fill. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m Lily. I’m here every Tuesday. 2pm.’

‘I’m Sophie.’

‘Nice to meet you, Sophie.’

She collects her mum’s prescription. Leaves. But she knows now. She’s not alone.

Margaret hugs me. ‘That was beautiful, Lily.’

‘I learned from you.’

‘You learned from Robert. From all of us. And now you’re teaching Sophie.’

The cycle continues. The witness continues. The community grows.

That’s what we do. The Tuesday people.

We show up. We notice. We help.

Week after week. Person after person.

Building something that matters. Something that lasts.

Something that started with an old man in a good coat, showing up every Tuesday with polished shoes and dignity.

Thank you, Robert. For everything.

For all of this.

Week 47: Margaret

One year since I first really noticed the pattern. One year since I started seeing us as more than random individuals in a queue.

So much has changed. Robert is gone. Lily has healed. We’ve all grown.

But Tuesdays remain. The constant. The anchor.

Today, Sophie is back. Second visit. She sits near Lily. They talk about homework. About school. About managing.

Dev is here, confident now. He helps an elderly man with the touch screen. Patiently. Kindly.

Aisha is here, four out of ten. Medium day. She sits comfortably, reads a book.

Jean is here, full of stories about her volunteering. Lives she’s touching. Differences she’s making.

Martin is here, three months sober. Looking younger. Healthier. Hopeful.

Sadie is here, her mum recovering well from surgery. They’re both here today, actually. Mother and daughter, together. Managing together.

And me. Still here. Still collecting my blood pressure tablets and statins. Still maintaining.

But also witnessing. Facilitating. Connecting.

When my name is called, I collect my prescriptions. Turn to leave.

The pharmacy is full. Tuesday at 2pm. Always busy.

But I see them all now. Not just the Tuesday people. Everyone. All of us collecting our maintenance. All of us showing up. All of us persisting.

We’re all the Tuesday people, really. We just don’t all know it yet.

Outside, the autumn is returning. Full circle. Year complete.

Lily walks with me. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘For everything. For this year.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For letting me help. For becoming family.’

‘We are family, aren’t we? All of us. The Tuesday people.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We are.’

And we are. Chosen family. Accidental family. The best kind of family.

Built on showing up. On witness. On small, repeated kindnesses.

That’s enough. That’s everything.

That’s the Tuesday people.

Week 48: Dev

I brought cake today. Homemade. First time I’ve baked in years.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Margaret asks.

‘Nothing. Just… wanted to.’

We share it. All of us. The Tuesday people. In the pharmacy waiting area. Eating cake. Being community.

People stare. We don’t care.

Sophie joins us. She’s learning the pattern. Learning she’s not alone.

Martin tells jokes. Terrible jokes. We laugh anyway.

Aisha is having a good day. Genuinely good. She stands easily. Moves freely. Joy evident on her face.

Jean shows us photos of the families she’s helping. Children like Lily. Thriving now. Supported.

Sadie’s mum walks without a cane. Three weeks post-op. Recovering beautifully.

And Lily. Lily is applying to universities. Cambridge. Oxford. Imperial. Reach schools, she calls them. But she’ll get in. I know she will.

When my name is called, I collect my prescription. No checking. Just trust.

That’s the biggest change. The trust. In the system. In people. In myself.

The Tuesday people taught me that. Week by week. Small kindness by small kindness.

Outside, we linger. Making plans for Saturday. Someone’s birthday. Celebration.

We’re not just pharmacy acquaintances anymore. We’re friends. Real friends.

Built on routine. On witness. On showing up when it would be easier not to.

That’s community. That’s family.

That’s everything Robert taught us.

And we’re living it. Week by week. Tuesday by Tuesday.

Forever.

Week 49: Aisha

Three out of ten. Very good day.

I’m celebrating by being here. By moving easily. By not hiding pain because there isn’t much to hide.

Margaret hugs me. ‘Good day?’

‘Very good.’

‘Those are precious.’

‘They are. But they’re more common now. The new medication is working.’

That’s the thing about chronic illness. It’s not always getting worse. Sometimes it gets better. Sometimes things work.

Today, Sophie’s mum comes with her. They’re both here. Working together.

Margaret talks to Sophie’s mum quietly. Offering help. Resources. Community.

That’s what we do now. The Tuesday people. We expand. We include. We witness.

Lily is glowing. Conditional offers from three universities. Her future is bright. Certain.

Dev is calm. Actually calm. Not faking it. Not performing it. Actually at peace.

Jean is helping eight families now. Changing lives. Being the Margaret for others.

Martin is three months sober. His hands don’t shake anymore. He’s rebuilding relationships with his children.

Sadie and her mum are laughing together. Proper laughing. Joy despite pain. Life despite difficulty.

When my name is called, I walk to the counter. No negotiation. No calculation. Just walking.

Priya smiles. ‘You look well, Aisha.’

‘I feel well. Today, at least.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

Outside, the late August day is bright and warm. Summer ending. Full circle. Year nearly complete.

But we’ll be here next week. And the week after. And after that.

The Tuesday people. Persisting. Witnessing. Caring.

That’s our rhythm. Our ritual. Our reason.

And it’s enough. More than enough.

It’s everything.

Week 50: Lily

Late September. Margaret’s birthday is this weekend—her 68th.

We’re planning. All of us. A birthday dinner for Margaret. The Tuesday people. Our chosen family.

Margaret tried to say it wasn’t necessary, but we insisted. I’m helping cook. Dev is bringing wine. Aisha is making dessert. Jean is organizing. Martin is bringing his guitar, apparently. Sadie and her mum are coming. Sophie and her mum too.

All of us. Together. Celebrating not just Margaret but this. Us. What we’ve become.

Today at the pharmacy, there’s gratitude in the air. Thank yous to Priya. To each other. To the routine that held us together.

When my name is called—not Mum’s anymore, but mine, for the pill I started taking—I collect my prescription with pride.

I’m managing my own health now. My own body. My own future.

Mum is stable. Independent. Thriving.

And I’m here not because I have to be, but because I want to be.

Because the Tuesday people are my people.

Margaret squeezes my hand. ‘Proud of you.’

‘Couldn’t have done it without you. Without all of this.’

‘You could have. But you didn’t have to. That’s the point.’

Outside, we linger. All of us. Making final plans for Margaret’s birthday.

Someone suggests photos. We huddle together. The Tuesday people. Pharmacy queue as backdrop.

Priya takes the picture. We’re all smiling. Genuinely smiling.

This strange, accidental family. Built on routine and witness and care.

‘To Robert,’ Margaret says quietly.

‘To Robert,’ we echo.

He started this. Showed us how. And we carried it forward.

Week by week. Person by person. Life by life.

That’s legacy. That’s love. That’s everything.

Week 51: Margaret

Margaret’s birthday dinner was perfect. Chaotic and loud and perfect.

All of us. The Tuesday people. Plus partners, children, friends. Our community expanding. Growing. Thriving.

Martin played guitar. Badly but enthusiastically. We sang Happy Birthday three times, each time louder. Drank too much. Laughed until we cried.

Lily and Sophie bonded over university applications. Young carers supporting each other.

Dev talked to Martin about recovery. Different struggles, same persistence.

Aisha and Sadie’s mum compared pain management strategies. Practical. Helpful. Real.

Jean recruited three of us for her volunteer program. The work continues. The witness expands.

And me. I looked around my crowded house and felt complete. Whole. Home.

This family I didn’t plan for. Didn’t expect. But somehow found.

Today, the Tuesday after Margaret’s birthday, we’re here. All of us. Routine restored. Pattern resumed.

But different now. Warmer. More connected. More certain.

When my name is called, I collect my prescriptions. The maintenance that keeps me here.

‘Happy birthday for last weekend, Margaret,’ Priya says.

‘Thank you, dear.’

And it was happy. It truly was.

Despite everything. Because of everything.

Because of Tuesdays. Because of this. Because of us.

Outside, the September day is cool and bright. New academic year. New possibilities.

But Tuesdays remain. Constant. Reliable. Essential.

The Tuesday people. Our small miracle. Our accidental family.

Robert’s gift. Our responsibility. Our joy.

Week by week. Person by person. Forever.

Week 52: Robert

[This week contains a letter, found in Margaret’s mailbox, postmarked the week before Robert died. She reads it aloud to the Tuesday people.]

Dear Tuesday People,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Claire will have posted it when the time came.

I want to thank you. For witnessing me. For making my final months feel less like an ending and more like… community.

Margaret, you taught me that connection doesn’t require words. Just consistent presence.

Dev, you showed me that vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s courage.

Aisha, your grace under pain humbled me. You persist with dignity I can only aspire to.

Lily, you reminded me why I taught. Children are stronger than we imagine. You’ll do remarkable things.

And to all the others who will come after—Jean, Martin, Sadie, Sophie, and those I haven’t met—keep showing up. Keep witnessing each other. Keep caring.

These small routines matter. These repeated kindnesses compound. These Tuesday gatherings are everything.

Don’t let them stop. Don’t let the pattern break.

Show up. For yourselves. For each other. For the person who will arrive next week, lost and alone, needing witness.

That’s all any of us can do. Show up. Persist. Care.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

It’s everything.

With gratitude and affection,
Robert Davies

[The letter ends. Margaret folds it carefully. They sit in silence. The Tuesday people. Together.]

[Outside, life continues. The pharmacy queue grows and shrinks. People collect their prescriptions. The routine persists.]

[And every Tuesday, at 2pm, they’re here. Witnessing. Caring. Showing up.]

[The Tuesday people. Forever.]

THE END