The Call
Margaret had finished lunch, washed the dishes, and settled down for a nap. Her husband, Henry, had gone to his mate’s countryside cottage to help mend a fence and wouldn’t be back till late tomorrow—Monday was another workday for him. She’d been retired for a year now, while Henry still had two more years before his pension.
The shrill ringtone jolted her awake. Margaret fumbled for her phone, groggy with sleep.
“Yes…?” she rasped, not even checking the caller ID. Who else would ring her besides her daughter or Henry? Henry hated phone calls, so it had to be her daughter. She lived in another city with her husband and was due to give birth soon.
“Margaret? Were you asleep?” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice.
“Who is this?” Margaret asked, instantly wary.
The line crackled with an exaggerated sigh.
“Don’t recognise me? It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”
“Rebecca…?” Margaret frowned. “How did you get my number?” She didn’t feel the slightest bit pleased.
“Does it matter? Ran into your mum a few years back—she gave it to me.”
Margaret vaguely remembered her mum mentioning it.
“Are you in town?” She knew it was a daft question—why else would Rebecca call? “Last I heard, you’d gone off to America,” she added.
A laugh burst through the phone, twisting into a groan.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Margaret sat up, fully alert.
“In hospital. That’s why I’m calling. Can you come? Need to tell you something. And don’t bring anything—don’t fuss.”
“Hospital? You’re ill?”
“Hard to talk… I’ll text the address.”
“But—” The line went dead.
A second later, her phone pinged with the hospital details. *Good Lord, Rebecca’s got cancer!* Margaret re-read the message, her hands shaking.
She glanced at the clock—half five. Visiting hours would end by the time she got there. She hurried to the kitchen, pulling a chicken from the freezer for broth. Rebecca had said not to bring anything, but who showed up empty-handed? Homemade broth wasn’t just food—it was medicine. She set the chicken in the sink to thaw and sat heavily at the table. Her daughter was twenty-eight now, meaning it’d been that long since she’d last seen Rebecca.
With age, Margaret had learned to treat even good news with caution. But after Rebecca’s call, unease gnawed at her. And of course, Henry wasn’t home—maybe that was for the best. Tomorrow, she’d make the broth, visit Rebecca, and find out what was going on. If only she could calm down.
Rebecca had been raised by her dad’s mother from the age of ten. Affection wasn’t something she knew—she’d often stayed late at Margaret’s, doing homework together. Her gran brewed moonshine and supplied the local drunks. Naturally, her parents drank too. The wives of those men had threatened to burn the illegal still down. Maybe someone had. Or maybe, as the police reckoned, her dad had fallen asleep with a lit fag. Either way, Rebecca’s parents never made it out of the burning house. Her gran had vanished somewhere that night, but Rebecca, as usual, had been at Margaret’s. They’d survived.
After the fire, Rebecca and her gran were moved into council housing. No more distilling on the shared kitchen stove. The gran grew bitter, counting every penny, snapping at Rebecca for every bite she took. Rebecca ate at Margaret’s instead.
The gran had hated Rebecca’s mum, called her a witch, blamed her for her son’s ruin. Never mentioned the free-flowing moonshine at home. Rebecca’s mum had been stunning—no man, young or old, could walk past without staring. Her dad had been wild with jealousy, even beat her.
Rebecca grew up looking just like her—tall, slender, with a riot of auburn curls, dark eyes, full lips. Freckles dusted her face, only making her glow more.
Right after school, Rebecca ran off with some bloke passing through town. *”No better than her mother,”* her gran had sighed.
Margaret’s mum hadn’t approved of their friendship, though she pitied the girl. When Rebecca left town, she’d been relieved—always feared she’d lead Margaret astray. What even bound them together? Margaret never quite knew, but Rebecca was fun.
Margaret finished college, got a job, met Henry, married him. A year later, their daughter was born. Rebecca only surfaced in gossip after that.
Margaret’s mum worked full-time and couldn’t help, and evenings—when Henry was home—she was too proud to intrude. So Margaret ran herself ragged, collapsing from exhaustion.
Back then, all she’d dreamed of was sleep. If she closed her eyes while nursing, she’d drift off, jerking awake in panic—had she dropped the baby? Smothered her under the weight of her own breasts? The baby, full, would sleep peacefully in her arms. Margaret would tuck her into the crib, pump milk, cook, scrub soaked nappies—forcing herself to stay awake.
That’s when Rebecca reappeared. She looked even more like her mum, impossibly beautiful.
“Blimey, you look rough. Always knew marriage and kids didn’t suit a woman. Never having any myself,” Rebecca said bluntly, no hello.
“Famous last words,” Margaret smirked.
Then Rebecca confessed—too many abortions to ever have children. But maternal instinct was genetic. She loved babysitting, taking the baby out so Margaret could nap or cook.
Rebecca soon ditched the bloke she’d run off with—the one she’d had her first abortion for. Next was an older man who rented her a flat in central London, visiting twice a week.
“Lived like a queen,” Rebecca sighed, reminiscing.
“Almost?” Margaret asked. She couldn’t care less about Rebecca’s men but humoured her.
“Old. Revolting. Still, generous—cash, gold, fur coats.”
“What about his wife? Kids?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Rebecca waved her off.
When he found out she was seeing others, he kicked her out. There were more after him—even a foreigner. That’s where the America rumour came from, though he was Norwegian.
“Enough about me. How’d you end up a milk cow? Call this happiness? Not for me.”
Henry was wary of Rebecca.
“Didn’t know you had a friend like that,” he muttered after meeting her.
“Keep your voice down!” Margaret snapped. “She’s staying a few days. Nowhere else to go—her gran’s dead. She’s kind, just rough around the edges. You’ve no idea how much she helps with Emily.”
Then Emily spiked a fever. Three days in, they called an ambulance. After a shot, they took her to hospital. Margaret ran out after them—still in her dressing gown and slippers.
Henry froze, but Rebecca brought spare clothes, shampoo, a toothbrush… A week later, they were discharged. The flat was spotless, soup simmered in the fridge, meatballs in a tub.
“Did you cook? And mop?” Margaret blinked.
“Rebecca did,” Henry mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
“And you called her a tart.” She elbowed him. “Where is she?”
“Dunno. Left. Why d’you care? How’s Emily?”
That night, Margaret curled into Henry, missing him. The stress had dried up her milk—no more painful breasts when he hugged her at night.
But Henry mumbled something and turned away. Same the next night.
“Henry, what’s wrong? Don’t you love me anymore? I was exhausted, but I never refused you,” she said, hurt.
He stammered excuses. With time, things smoothed over. Margaret lost weight—no need to eat for milk supply.
Emily grew up, married. She and Henry lived quietly, peacefully, unlike their early years.
And now this call…
Margaret couldn’t picture Rebecca dying. Must be a mistake. She barely slept, tossing until dawn, then started the broth early.
She poured it into a flask and headed to the hospital, hoping to sweet-talk the guard. Bribe him if needed.
The narrow ward had two beds. One held a gaunt woman in a headscarf—she looked ancient.
Margaret almost asked if she had the wrong room—until the woman opened her eyes.
Rebecca. Unrecognisable. Her face skeletal, freckles gone. Hands like twigs under the blanket. Where was the vibrant Rebecca? Her dark eyes dull.
Margaret’s shock must’ve shown.
“Didn’t know me,” Rebecca said.
Margaret forced a smile, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
“What I deserve. Sit.” Rebecca nodded at the bed’s edge.
Margaret perched, remembering the broth, fumbling with the flask.
“Put it away. Won’t eat.” Rebecca’s gaze never left her.
“IMargaret placed the flask on the bedside table anyway and whispered, “Just in case,” before turning to leave, her heart heavy but finally at peace.
