Margaret was frying sausages when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out of the kitchen.
“Mum, it’s for me,” her daughter Emily called, cutting her off halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“Just go back to your sausages,” Emily snapped, tossing a glance over her shoulder from the front door.
“Why ‘my’ sausages? I bought the meat from the butcher’s—”
“Mum, shut the door.” Emily rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve said so straight away.” Margaret retreated to the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. She turned off the hob, hesitated, then untied her apron and wandered out.
In the hall, Emily was shrugging into her coat while Thomas, her boyfriend, gazed at her with infatuation.
“Hello, Thomas. Where are you off to? Stay for supper.”
“Hello,” Thomas smiled, glancing at Emily for direction.
“We’re in a hurry,” Emily muttered without looking at her mother.
“But it’s all ready,” Margaret insisted. Thomas shifted awkwardly.
“No,” Emily cut in sharply. “Let’s go.” She hooked her arm through his and flung the door open. “Mum, close up behind us?”
Margaret approached the door but left it slightly ajar, catching their voices on the landing.
“Why were you so rude to her? It smells amazing—I wouldn’t mind some sausages.”
“We’ll grab something at the pub. I’m sick of her cooking,” Emily grumbled.
“Sick of it? I’d eat your mum’s sausages every day if I could,” Thomas said.
Margaret didn’t catch Emily’s reply. Their voices faded down the stairs.
She closed the door properly and found her husband, Henry, glued to the telly.
“Supper’s ready while it’s hot.”
“Eh? Right.” He heaved himself off the sofa and lumbered past her to the kitchen, settling at the table.
“What’ve we got?” he demanded.
“Sausages, mash, and peas.” Margaret lifted the pan lid.
“How many times do I have to say—I don’t eat fried food anymore,” he grumbled.
“I added a bit of water—they’re practically steamed.” She froze, lid in hand.
“Fine. But last time.”
“At our age, starving yourself isn’t healthy,” Margaret remarked, setting his plate down.
“What ‘our age’? I’m only fifty-seven. Prime of life for a man.” He stabbed a sausage, biting off half.
“Have you all conspired against me today? Emily bolts off, you’re picking at everything. Maybe I’ll stop cooking—see how you like pub grub then.”
“Don’t, then. You could stand to lose a few pounds yourself. Soon you won’t fit through the door.” He finished the sausage and speared another.
“Oh, so I’m fat now? And here I was, wondering why you’ve gone all dapper—new jeans, leather jacket, that cap to hide your bald spot. Who’s it for? Not me, that’s certain. Got someone to compare me to?”
“Let me eat in peace.” Henry shoved mash onto his fork but dropped it back. “Pass the ketchup.”
Margaret slammed the bottle in front of him and stormed out, her own supper untouched.
She locked herself in Emily’s room, sinking onto the bed as tears pricked her eyes.
“Slaving away for them, and what thanks do I get? Henry’s preening like a peacock, eyeing some other woman. Emily treats me like hired help. Just because I’m retired, they think they can walk over me. If they’d not made redundancies at work, I’d still be there. Useless, these youngsters they hire instead…”
She swiped at her cheeks.
She’d always thought theirs was a decent family—not perfect, but solid. Emily at university, Henry bringing in wages, no drinking, no smoking. A tidy home, good meals. What more did he want?
Margaret studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. “Bit rounder, yes, but not fat. At least the wrinkles don’t show as much. Used to style my hair when I worked—now it’s just pinned up. Easier that way. Still, could do with slimming down. And roots could use a touch-up.”
That night, she resolved: tomorrow, no early rise.
When the alarm buzzed, she feigned sleep.
“You ill?” Henry asked, voice devoid of concern.
“Mmm.” She burrowed into the duvet.
“Mum? You okay?” Emily hovered in the doorway.
“Yes. Fix your own breakfast,” Margaret murmured weakly.
Emily huffed and left. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thudded, muffled voices drifted through. Margaret stayed put.
Henry reappeared, reeking of pricey aftershave—the one she’d bought him. Then, silence as they left.
An hour later, Margaret stretched and padded to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs, crumb-strewn table. She nearly tidied—then stopped. “I’m not the maid.”
After a shower, she rang her old schoolmate, Mary.
“Mags! How’s retirement treating you?”
Margaret said she missed her, couldn’t stand being cooped up, and fancied visiting her parents’ grave. Would Mary mind putting her up?
“Course not! When?”
“Today. Straight to the station.”
“Brilliant! I’ll bake a pie.”
She packed a small bag, left a note (“Gone to Mary’s. Back whenever.”), and hesitated at the bus stop.
“Let them manage without me. See how they like it.”
The bus pulled up. She boarded.
Mary’s embrace was warm. Over tea and fresh pie, the truth spilled out.
“Good. Let them stew. Turn your phone off.”
“Won’t that be too harsh?”
“Perfectly fair.”
Next day, Mary dragged her to a salon. Val, their former class dunce, now a sought-after stylist, wielded scissors and dye. Makeup followed.
Margaret barely recognised the elegant woman in the mirror.
“Now, shopping,” Mary declared.
By evening, Margaret wore new trousers, a blouse, and a soft caramel cardigan, clutching bags of dresses and shoes. Renewed, she walked taller.
Outside Mary’s, a silver-haired man with a dark moustache appraised her admiringly.
“Still gorgeous, Mags.”
She blinked.
“It’s Paul Jenkins,” Mary whispered.
Margaret gaped. The scrawny boy from school now filled his suit impressively.
Back inside, wine flowed, old tales resurfaced.
“He’s still sweet on you,” Mary teased later.
“Don’t be daft.”
Three days in, Margaret switched her phone on.
“Mum! Dad’s in hospital! Come home!” Emily’s voice was frantic.
Heart pounding, Margaret packed. Paul drove her to the station.
“Anything you need, I’m here,” he said softly.
On the bus, Emily confessed: Henry had been cheating. She’d seen him leaving a neighbour’s flat.
“The husband came home unexpectedly. There was a fight. Dad’s got broken ribs, a minor brain bleed—but he’ll live.”
Margaret’s stomach twisted.
At home, Emily gawped. “Mum, you look incredible.” Her tone held new respect.
Next morning, Margaret took chicken broth to the hospital. Henry, stubbled and frail, wept apologies. She spoon-fed him in silence.
Two weeks later, discharged, Henry flinched as a redheaded woman hurried past their building. Margaret understood.
Back inside, he murmured, “You won’t leave again?”
“What, not fat anymore?”
“I was a fool. Fry us some sausages, eh? Missed your cooking.”
That evening, Emily inhaled deeply. “Smells divine.”
They ate together, like old times.
Margaret watched them, content.
Families stumble. Age gnaws at pride, flesh sags while the heart stays young. Lessons were learned.
They were still together. And really, what else mattered? You don’t swap horses midstream—lest you end up thrown, landing too soon at life’s final stop.
