Coronation Street Full Episode | Thursday 29th January
The heat was unbearable, the kind that made everything feel heavy and slow. Someone joked about it being scorching, almost suffocating.
“So… heading to work?” one voice asked lightly, trying to sound casual.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?” came the reply. Then the tone softened. “Listen, love. You’ve been restless all night, tossing and turning. Maybe you should call Roy, explain that you’re not feeling up to it. I’m sure he’d understand.”
“I am up to it,” she insisted. “Just a bit of makeup, tidy up the place, and I’m fine. Ready to go.”
Benny tried to reason with her gently. Grief, he explained, isn’t something you power through. It doesn’t disappear just because you keep busy. There’s no shame in slowing down, no way to outrun it.
She pushed back, saying she could keep going until she dropped, but even that wouldn’t change what had happened.
He offered to help, to take some of the burden off her shoulders, but she refused. She felt like she was making up for lost time, for mistakes she couldn’t undo.
Benny reminded her that the past was the past. She had been a good mother, a good grandmother—but she wasn’t invincible. Everyone has limits. He worried she was pushing herself toward collapse.
She brushed it off with a sharp “You know best,” but the tension was clear.
Later, people talked quietly about how strange it felt seeing the altar without Billy there. His absence was loud. The world felt tilted, like something fundamental had shifted. Bernie was asked how she was coping. She answered with stoic humor, implying that the alternative—falling apart—wasn’t an option.
Plans were made to go out later, starting at the Rovers. Everyone agreed she needed to blow off some steam.
At home again, concern followed her everywhere. She was barely eating, barely sleeping. Offers were made to help with the kids, to take care of things, to give her space. She rejected most of it, snapping that she didn’t have time, that she was going out with the girls.
Her partner tried again, gently warning that another night of heavy drinking might not be the best idea. Yesterday had been emotionally brutal for everyone. This brave, unbreakable front she was putting up—it wasn’t fooling anyone.
She exploded, accusing him of suffocating her. Everyone had an opinion, she said. Everyone was telling her how to grieve.
“I’m not everyone,” he replied.
“But you’re not listening,” she shot back.
At the pub, the mood was a strange mix of sorrow and forced cheer. Drinks flowed freely. Jokes were cracked. Condolences were exchanged. Bernie laughed louder than usual, drank faster than usual. People noticed—but no one quite knew how to stop it.
Someone commented that sometimes it pays to drink yourself numb. Another round was poured, on the house.
As the night wore on, grief surfaced in fragments—memories of Paul, of Billy, of love that had been deep and real. Bernie admitted how much they had meant to each other, how strong their bond had been despite everything they’d endured.
But the alcohol kept coming.
Eventually, things spiraled. Voices rose. Boundaries blurred. The bartender stepped in, saying she’d had enough and needed to leave. Bernie protested, calling it a “mini wake,” reminding everyone she’d buried her son-in-law just yesterday.
Sympathy remained, but rules were rules. She was escorted out.
From there, the night grew darker. More drinking. Pills. A hotel room. Disjointed conversations about failed marriages, regrets, missed chances at being better parents, better partners.
Bernie broke down, confessing how deeply she felt she had failed her children, how Billy had been the love of Paul’s life, how kind and gentle he’d been. Now both men were gone, and the weight of that loss crushed her.
Back home, worried messages went unanswered. People searched for her. Panic crept in.
In the early hours of the morning, reality finally caught up. Questions were asked. Lines were crossed. Denials were made—“Nothing happened”—but the damage was already there.
And as dawn approached, it was painfully clear that grief, no matter how hard you try to drown it, always finds a way back to the surface.