When the phone rang at dawn, Emily barely remembered where she was—half in bed, half still in a dream. The screen flashed “Mum.” Sleep vanished in an instant. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful:
“Still in bed, lazybones? I’ve already got scones in the oven. Expect an invitation tomorrow—you and Jack. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About the will! I won’t have you two squabbling over the house and pennies at my funeral. Both of you, no excuses!”
Emily froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing felt futile.
Meanwhile, Margaret Whitmore—mother to Emily and Jack—sat at the table, adjusting her woolen shawl. Beside her, her neighbor Doris watched with uneasy eyes:
“Margaret, love, are you ill? Why such grim talk? You’re frightening me…”
“Don’t fret, Doris. I just need to see my children. It’s been a year. Each off on their own, like strangers. If something happened to me tomorrow, who’d tell them? And I want to test them. See who truly cares.”
With that, Margaret shut the door behind Doris and retreated to rest. Tomorrow promised to be a long day.
The morning was overcast, as if in tune with her plan. She tidied the house, slipped into an old dressing gown, washed her face, and settled into her armchair, holding her breath. An hour later, footsteps thudded at the door.
Emily raced in first—flushed, breathless.
“Mum! What’s wrong? Are you sick? What’s this about a will?” she cried, lunging forward.
Behind her, Jack stepped in, calmer but tense.
“You gave us a fright, Mum. Planning to kick the bucket already? Bit premature, isn’t it?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said evenly. “And fetch your better halves. Claire, Mark, come in, don’t linger.”
Once they’d settled, she began.
“Listen, and don’t interrupt. I’ve things to say. Old age isn’t a picnic, and I’m alone. Illness doesn’t knock before it arrives. So I’ve decided to speak while I can. But first—help around the house. Who else will do it? Firewood to chop, dinner to make…”
Emily and Claire nodded and set to work. Margaret watched closely: dough stuck to their fingers, potatoes were sliced too thick, pans clattered. “City folk,” she thought mournfully, but held her tongue. That wasn’t the point.
When the table was set and the meal finished, she asked Mark and Claire to step out—leaving just her children.
“Now, listen. The house you grew up in—I’m leaving it to Doris. She’s here, she’ll help if needed. Jack, you’ll have the shed, the tools, the land. Do as you please. Emily, you’ll get the savings. I’ve been setting aside my pension, barely spent a pence.”
A heavy silence fell.
“The house—to a stranger?” Jack finally muttered. “You’re serious?”
“Why not? You haven’t visited in a year. Doris checks on me daily. And you, Jack—didn’t invite me to your wedding, ashamed of your country mum? And you, Emily—haven’t seen you since you remarried that Mark. Still cross I said he wasn’t right for you? I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Mum, please…” Emily whispered.
“I’m not well. I’ll lie down,” Margaret sighed, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, voices rose.
“This is your fault!” Jack hissed. “You could’ve visited her. Now the house goes to Doris!”
“Oh, brilliant! I work all hours! What’s your excuse? Claire sits at home—she could’ve come!”
They shouted, drowned each other out. Margaret listened from her chair, staring through the window. Tears pricked her eyes. Where were the children who’d run barefoot through the garden? Where was their kindness, their care for one another?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—she sat upright, composed, though her eyes betrayed her.
“Mum, what—? You’re ill…” Jack started.
“Better now,” she said quietly. “I see clearly. I’m not needed. The will, you say? There’ll be one. Later. When you decide—why you want this house: to love it or to fight over it?”
Breakfast the next morning passed in silence. Only the scrape of chairs, the clink of spoons. Emily spoke first:
“Forgive us, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit, I promise. We’re family…”
Margaret nodded. Warm quiet settled over the table.
From then on, much changed—and nothing. Jack hardly appeared but sent money dutifully. Emily visited more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. But no one mentioned the will again.
No one knew it already lay in the bottom drawer, signed and stamped. Everything split evenly. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
