The Gift from a Daughter: The Growling Silence of Old Age
Margaret Williams had been bustling in the kitchen since dawn—chopping salads, simmering soup, roasting garlic chicken, and polishing the crystal vase for flowers. Twice, she dashed to the shops, returning with a cake and bulging bags, bumping into her neighbour at the doorstep.
“Celebrating something, Maggie?” asked Eleanor Thompson, her old friend who never left the bench by the building entrance.
“Oh, absolutely! My Emily’s coming home today!” Margaret beamed, straining to haul the groceries upstairs.
Eleanor sighed. “Still fussing over that girl… That Emily barely rings you, yet you wait by the window like a lost pup.”
“It’s not so simple,” Margaret murmured. A mother’s heart isn’t a light switch. Emily was the only reason she dragged herself out of bed, even if love grew thinner with each passing year.
When Emily finally called—her voice clipped, announcing, “I’ll stop by tonight”—Margaret’s heart hammered like a drum. She flitted about, straightening bedsheets, cooking one more dish… Then—the doorbell.
There stood her grown daughter: tall, sharp, icy behind dark sunglasses, a tiny terrier on a lead.
“Hello, Mum,” Emily said, unsmiling.
“Darling! Come in, freshen up—everything’s ready!”
Margaret rushed to the kitchen, clattering plates, setting out the feast. Emily trailed silently, her gaze detached.
“Eat, love—your favourite roast, lemon cake!”
“Mum, I won’t stay. I’m moving to Edinburgh. It’s expensive to visit, so we won’t see each other for years. This is Bella. My ex bought her—no idea why. She’s a hassle to take. You’re alone anyway—keep her. She’s quiet.”
Margaret froze. The cake, the roast, fresh linens—all suddenly pointless. Emily hadn’t even removed her sunglasses.
“Alright,” Margaret managed.
“Thanks, Mum. Love you.” A peck on the cheek, the lead thrust into her hands, and Emily was gone.
Minutes later, Margaret stood in the hallway, clutching the dog. She’d never liked pets. With her bad back, meagre pension, and weariness—what now?
“Come on, Bella… Maybe Eleanor will take you.”
But the moment Eleanor opened her door, she spat: “Mad, are you? I don’t need your mangy mutt! It’ll ruin my flat!”
“She’s clean—Emily’s fussy! Please, Ellie, you’ve had dogs before—”
“And you’ve got a brain! I told you—stop grovelling to that girl. Now look! Stuck with her cast-off. Just take it to a shelter.”
Bella stared up with dark eyes—fearful, resigned, yet… familiar.
“We’re the same, aren’t we?” Margaret whispered. “Unwanted.”
Eleanor huffed. “Suit yourself.”
Hard days followed. Bella needed walking five times a day. Margaret’s back burned, her legs ached. Yet the dog endured silently—no barks, no whines. In rain, she waited by the door. In heat, she curled under the bed. Slowly, Margaret felt… less alone.
Even when Eleanor stopped speaking to her. Friendship had died, but a soul now filled the house.
A year passed—Margaret’s last. Her heart gave out. Neighbors found her in the kitchen, Bella guarding the door, refusing food or sound.
A week later, Emily barged in unannounced.
“Ugh, the stench—” she sneered. Bella barked fiercely.
“Quiet! Your owner’s gone. I’ll sell this place—you’re worthless.”
At the graveside, Emily tossed the lead aside.
“Thanks for the flat and the money. And take this mutt with you.”
Bella sniffed the fresh earth, then lay down beside the mound. This was home.
Two days. She didn’t move. Didn’t eat.
On the third, Eleanor arrived with flowers.
“There you are, little one…” she murmured, spotting Bella. “Oh, Maggie… Gave everything to that girl. And in the end… only a dog stayed.”
She knelt, stroking the thin fur.
“Come on, then. I’ll take you. If Maggie could… so can I. Just… be decent.”
As she lifted Bella, sunlight broke through the clouds—the first in a long, grey week.
