**The Day of Forgiveness**
Emily returned to the village from the city on the last bus. She’d spent the whole day rushing—first to the hospital for paperwork, then to the funeral home, then back to the hospital to hand over a bundle of clothes for the mortuary. Mum had prepared them herself in advance. Emily even managed to stop by her flat to change into a black jumper.
She sank into a chair at the table, too exhausted to undress. The cottage was cold—she ought to light the stove. She’d left early that morning, and now it was evening. Her eyes fixed dully on the muddy footprints streaked across the floor—left by the paramedics, the men who’d carried Mum out, the neighbours. It only now struck her that the door had been left wide open all day, and it was October. She hesitated over whether to mop the floor. Best leave it as it was.
Footsteps sounded outside. Emily sprang up, thinking it was Rachel, but it was only Auntie Margaret, Mum’s old friend.
“Saw you’d come back. Need any help?”
“No.” Emily sat down again.
“It’s freezing in here. I’ll get the stove going.” Auntie Margaret bustled off and returned with an armful of firewood, soon coaxing the kitchen range to life. For a fleeting moment, Emily imagined it was Mum, that her death had been a bad dream.
“Should warm up soon,” Auntie Margaret said, stepping back in. “Don’t fret about the wake. Funeral’s tomorrow, right? You go to the city, Annie and I will sort things here. Rachel know? She coming?”
“Her phone’s off. I sent a message. Don’t know. Thanks, really.” Emily’s voice was threadbare.
“Well, we’re family, aren’t we? Me and your mum were closer than sisters.” The words carried a quiet judgment, and Emily caught it, lifting her eyes. “Right, I’ll be off,” Auntie Margaret said quickly, fumbling for the door. She paused. “Don’t lock up tomorrow, alright?”
Emily nodded, biting her lip. The fire crackled, the flue humming as warmth seeped back into the house. For the first time since Mum’s death, the suffocating loneliness loosened its grip. They say the dead linger close at first. Emily glanced around but felt nothing.
Mum had been poorly for months. After Dad died, she’d lost her will to live, faded fast. Sometimes Emily thought she was hurrying to join him. She grew quiet, withdrawn. After sixth form, Emily moved to the city, trained as an accountant.
She visited every weekend—the village wasn’t far. Brought groceries, helped with chores. This past year, Mum had wasted away. The hospital diagnosis was grim. Mum took the news blankly, almost relieved.
When she became too weak to rise, Emily took leave from work. Warned them she might need more time. A month later, Mum was gone. The last two days, she’d stopped eating, speaking, drifting in and out.
Emily talked to her constantly, whether she heard or not. The sound of her own voice kept the fear at bay. That final day, she’d begged forgiveness for everything, begged Mum not to leave her, stroking her thin, lifeless hand.
She’d said Rachel would come soon. At her sister’s name, Mum’s eyelids flickered, but she didn’t open them. Maybe she was already there—wherever Dad was, where she’d longed to be.
Dad had been a hard worker, drank little, unlike so many in the village. Women—single and married alike—tried their luck, inviting him over under pretence. But he’d loved Mum, stayed true. Village gossip always finds a way.
Paydays meant sweets for Emily and Rachel. How they’d treasured those small joys.
He’d died young—no, not died. Been taken. Mum never recovered. Emily was seven then; Rachel had just finished Year 11. She’d left for college—no, fled home after the accident—and never returned.
Near the end, while Mum could still speak, she’d asked Emily to call Rachel. Begged. But the phone rang out, messages went unanswered. The last one—about Mum’s death—got no reply. Emily lied, told Mum Rachel’s daughter was ill. She’d come when the girl was better. Did Mum believe it? Emily couldn’t tell.
She remembered ringing Rachel a year ago, after the diagnosis.
“She threw me out. Don’t you remember? I’m not coming,” Rachel had snapped.
“You’re as bad as each other. She’s dying—come, talk, forgive—”
“I didn’t kill Dad. I was a child. Did she care how it’d wreck me, kicking me out?”
“She didn’t kick you out! She was grieving—please, just—”
“I’m not coming.” The line went dead.
So she wouldn’t. Emily stood, shrugging off her coat. The room was warmer now, soon it’d be too hot. Yet she shivered. “Am I ill? Perfect timing.” She flicked on the electric kettle.
No appetite, but tea would help. She sat in the kitchen, waiting. Mum had always scrubbed every inch. Now crumbs and stains marked the floor. Who cared about cleanliness now? Emily wiped the table anyway—as if Mum might scold her.
The house—what to do with it? Couldn’t decide without Rachel. The city had shops year-round; no reason to keep trudging back here. Doubt Rachel wanted it either. “Would she even come to the funeral?”
The front door slammed. Emily froze. No footsteps. Dark outside, and she hadn’t locked up after Auntie Margaret. Maybe she’d forgotten something?
Fear prickled under her skin. She tensed, ready to bolt—though where? Out the window? Then someone stepped into the room. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Peering around the stove, she saw Rachel.
“Thank God you’re here!” Emily rushed forward, hugging her, pressing her flushed cheek to Rachel’s cold one.
Rachel stood stiff, arms at her sides.
“Didn’t expect me?” Her voice was brittle as dead leaves.
“I hoped—I prayed. Come, I’ve got tea. Only biscuits and sugar, but—wait, there’s jam. Hungry? I’ll boil some potatoes—” Emily pulled away, darting toward the pantry—
“Tea’s fine.” Rachel’s tone was flat.
Emily turned back slowly.
“She died here?” Rachel glanced at the bed.
“Yes. I was with her. She waited for you.” The joy drained from Emily’s voice.
Rachel tossed her coat on the bed, approached the photo of their parents on the wall. Emily hung the coat properly, joining her.
“Funeral’s tomorrow?” Rachel didn’t look away from the picture.
“Yes, all arranged. We’ll go to the mortuary in the morning. The vicar will say prayers. The funeral home’s sending a car to bring her here, to the churchyard. Auntie Margaret’s handling the wake—” Emily spoke rapidly, like a child reciting. Tears streaked down her face, soaking into her black jumper. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been so alone—”
“You mentioned tea.”
“Right—this way.” Emily wiped her face.
She set out cups, poured the steeped tea. Just as she lifted the kettle, Rachel picked up her old cup—the one with forget-me-nots.
“Can’t believe this survived.” Rachel almost smiled.
“Jam? Your favourite—strawberry. Last year’s, but—”
“Just biscuits.” Rachel set the cup down.
They drank in silence. The house was warm now, fragrant with the herbs Mum used to dry by the stove. Emily’s eyes welled again.
“You’ve grown up. Look like her.” Rachel avoided saying *Mum*. “Married? Job?”
“Just work. Took leave to care for her. You? Why didn’t you answer? I thought you’d skip the funeral.”
“You blame me for Dad’s death too?” Rachel countered.
“No! Of course not—” Too quick to be honest.
“Liar. I see it.” Rachel sighed. “I was drowning, getting pulled under—I didn’t even see it happen. Didn’t see *him*. How was it my fault? Why was he even at the river? He was supposed to be at the workshop. She said he saved me, then drowned. But I always thought it was Jack who pulled me out. I remember *him*, not Dad. She didn’t see anything—” Rachel’s voice broke.
Emily understood—this was Rachel’s plea for absolution, from herself, from Mum.
“I saw,” Emily said quietly. “It was me who called Dad.”
“You?” Rachel gaped at her.
“The workshop didn’t get their delivery. Nothing to do, so Dad came home for lunch. Mum was thrilled, asked about you. We hardly ever ate together—this was special. I told her you’d gone to the river with Jack.” Emily spoke mechanically, words worn from repetition.”After the funeral, they stood by the fresh grave, hands clasped, finally understanding that grief had bound them tighter than blood ever could.”
*Sometimes, the hardest person to forgive is the one staring back at you in the mirror—but mercy, like love, must begin at home.*
