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Mrs. Souris stood frequently on her grey, wooden veranda, and gave the Hellenic Villa a long envious look. “How lucky all those old people are to live in lavishness,” she mused, “and for having loved ones who could afford such luxuries.” She said this often to me, but did not have the time to think through what she said. No, my neighbour did not have one minute to reflect on life’s important things. She sighed more than she talked. Mrs. Souris had everyone on her back and so many tasks waiting for her – all the cooking, feeding her brats, washing their clothes and cleaning the house – yes, her chores were endless.
    â€œThey’re either crying or tugging at my skirt, they never leave my side these unpleasant children—always in mischief they are, and the little one here always stretches his arms for me to pick him up. What am I to do?” Poor Mrs. Souris, how could she not wish to live in the Hellenic Villa? “Imagine,” she used to say, “those people up there have no care in the world, they nap when they feel like it and wake up at their leisure, and others prepare their meals. And they have all those nice doctors and nurses looking after them. As for me, I go to bed bushed every evening.”
    One bright spot surfaced in the dark cloud which hung over Mrs. Souris and that was her only daughter, Eugenia. A hairdresser, she worked long hours at a downtown beauty salon. She was talented as a hair stylist, but her customers were hard to please; indeed their fussiness had no bounds: when she cut one’s hair, it was not the right length, and, when she dyed another’s hair, she had not captured the preferred shade. This experience, combined with the endless bus ride home, fatigued her to the bone, but regardless of her tiredness, Eugenia always showed Mrs. Souris her gratitude and love.
    â€œYou don’t know what it means to me,
Mana
to come home and find the kids all taken care of, and the food on the table no less. Thank you,
Mana
; I could not have done it without you my dear. What would become of me, a single mom, raising two kids on my own—no, I could not have done it without your support.”
    When Mrs. Souris related this to me, she said that she experienced a strange feeling, a sensation that permeated her weary limbs and muscles, something transformed her drained body and she felt energized, younger; yes, she felt forty years old again. Was it draining for her to be the pillar for everyone to lean on? Definitely. But her daughter’s remarks invigorated Mrs. Souris and gave her the strength to endure the struggle a while longer. Still, when she stepped on the balcony the next day, placed her hand to shade her eyes and look at the Hellenic Villa, she sighed and said to herself, “Oh, I’m fine here, it’s okay, but maybe I’d be better off in there. The people there have it so good, they’re so happy, even old age doesn’t terrify them.”
    By all accounts, the Hellenic Villa ran smoothly inside, with a well-trained staff and a committed administration that ensured the well-being of all its residents. I could attest to this myself because before my mother passed away, I had promised her that I would visit her eighty-year-old friend Christina, who had been living in the Hellenic Villa for about seven years. She knew my mother for more than thirty years; both hailed from the island of Corfu and had immigrated to Canada at an early age. Ever since I can remember I called her ‘auntie.’ Materially independent thanks to an inheritance, auntie Christina loved life’s finer things and every Sunday I bought a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates and popped across the street to see her. As usual her overpowering perfume unsteadied me. In her navy dress, the heavy powder on her face, her auburn dyed hair and the jingling bracelets on her wrists, auntie looked as if she was dressed for lunch at the Royal York