**The Day of Forgiveness**
Zoe came back to the village from the city on the last bus. She’d spent the whole day running around—first to the hospital to collect paperwork, then to the funeral home, then back to the hospital to drop off a bundle of clothes for the morgue. Her mum had prepared it herself beforehand. Zoe even managed to swing by her own place to change into a black jumper.
She slumped onto a chair by the table, her legs aching, too exhausted to even take her coat off. The house was freezing—she should’ve lit the fireplace before she left. She’d gone out early that morning, and now it was already night. Her eyes drifted to the muddy footprints on the floor, left by the paramedics, the men who’d carried her mum out, and the neighbours. It took her a moment to realise the door had been left wide open all this time, and outside, it was October. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to mop the floor yet, so she left everything as it was.
Footsteps outside made her jump—she thought it might be her sister, Rose, but instead, it was her neighbour, Auntie Mary, her mum’s best friend.
“I saw you come back. Need any help?” the older woman asked.
“No,” Zoe murmured, sinking back into the chair.
“It’s chilly in here. I’ll get the fire going.” Auntie Mary ducked out and returned with an armful of logs, bustling about in the kitchen.
For a second, Zoe could almost believe it was her mum—that her death had been just a bad dream.
“There, it’ll warm up soon,” Auntie Mary said, stepping back into the room. “Don’t worry about the wake. Tomorrow’s the funeral, isn’t it? You go to the city, and me and Annie will sort things here. Does Rose know? Is she coming?”
“No answer from her phone, but I sent a message. I don’t know. Thank you,” Zoe whispered, barely moving her lips.
“Ah, don’t mention it. We’re not strangers. Me and your mum were closer than sisters.” The words carried a hint of reproach, and Zoe noticed, flicking her eyes up. “Right, I’d best be off,” Auntie Mary mumbled awkwardly, heading for the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “Leave the door unlocked tomorrow, yeah?”
Zoe nodded, biting her lip. The fire crackled, the house coming back to life. That suffocating loneliness, the kind that lingers after a death, didn’t feel as heavy now. People say you can still feel the departed close by in the first few days. Zoe glanced around—but she didn’t feel anything.
Her mum had been fading for a while. After Dad died, she lost her will to live. Sometimes Zoe thought she was desperate to follow him—turning quiet, withdrawn. Zoe left for college after school, studying accounting in the city.
Every weekend, she’d come back, bringing food and helping around the house. Then, last year, her mum suddenly lost weight, grew weaker. The diagnosis was bleak, but her mum barely reacted—if anything, she seemed relieved.
When she could barely get out of bed, Zoe took time off work to stay with her. She warned her boss she might need more. A month later, her mum was gone. The last two days, she hadn’t eaten or spoken, just drifted in and out.
Zoe kept talking to her, just to fill the silence, to stave off the fear. On the last day, she begged her mum to forgive her, to not leave her alone, stroking her thin, lifeless hand.
She told her Rose was coming soon. At the sound of her sister’s name, her mum’s eyelids fluttered—but she didn’t open her eyes. Maybe she was already gone, already with Dad, where she’d wanted to be for years.
Dad had been hardworking, drank little—rare for the village. Women had tried their luck with him, but he never strayed. He always brought sweets home for Zoe and Rose.
He died young. Drowned. And Mum never recovered. Zoe was only seven; Rose had just finished secondary school. She left for college and never came back.
Before she died, when she could still speak, Mum had begged Zoe to call Rose. She tried—calls, messages—but no answer. Zoe lied, saying Rose’s daughter was sick, that she’d come soon. Did Mum believe her? She’d never know.
She remembered calling Rose a year ago, when the doctors gave the bad news.
“She threw me out, don’t you remember? I’m not coming,” Rose had said coldly.
“You’re both as bad as each other. She could die—come, talk, forgive—”
“It wasn’t my fault Dad died! I was a kid. Did she think about how I’d feel when she kicked me out?”
“She didn’t kick you out—she was just angry. She regretted it—please, come—”
“No.” The line went dead.
“So she won’t come,” Zoe thought, standing up. She took off her coat. The house was warming up, but she was still shivering. She flicked the kettle on.
She wasn’t hungry, but tea would help. The kitchen floor, usually spotless, was marked with crumbs. Who cared about cleanliness now? She wiped the table anyway—like Mum might scold her for leaving it messy.
She’d have to decide what to do with the house—but she couldn’t without Rose.
Then the front door slammed.
Zoe froze. No footsteps. It was dark outside—had Auntie Mary forgotten something?
Fear prickled under her skin. She stood, ready to bolt—but where? Out the window? Then someone stepped into the room. Her heart pounded. She peered around the fireplace—and saw Rose.
“Thank God!” Zoe cried, rushing to hug her, pressing her warm cheek to Rose’s cold one.
Rose didn’t hug back.
“Didn’t expect me?” Her voice was dry, like autumn leaves.
“I hoped. Come on, I’ve got tea. Just sugar and biscuits, but there’s jam—are you hungry? I can make potatoes—”
“Tea’s fine,” Rose cut in.
Zoe set the cups down, pouring the tea.
“She died here?” Rose glanced at the bed.
“Yeah. I was with her. She waited for you.”
Rose took off her coat, tossed it onto the bed, then stared at their parents’ photo on the wall. Zoe hung the coat up and joined her.
“Funeral’s tomorrow?” Rose asked, not looking away.
“Yeah, it’s all arranged. We’ll go to the morgue in the morning, then bring her back for the burial. Auntie Mary’s handling the wake…” Zoe spoke fast, like she was reciting a lesson. Tears rolled down her face. “Thank you for coming. I was so alone.”
“You mentioned tea.”
They drank in silence. The house smelled of the herbs Mum used to dry by the fire.
“You grew up. Look like her now,” Rose said, avoiding the word *Mum*. “Married? Working?”
“Working, not married. Took leave to look after her. And you? Why didn’t you answer?”
“You blame me for Dad’s death too?”
“No, of course not,” Zoe said too quickly.
“Liar,” Rose sighed. “I was drowning—I didn’t see what happened. Why was he even at the river? He was supposed to be at work. She said he saved me. But I always thought it was Nick who pulled me out. I don’t even remember Dad being there.” Her voice cracked.
Zoe knew Rose was trying to justify herself—to Zoe, to Mum, to herself.
“I saw it,” Zoe said softly. “I was the one who called Dad.”
Rose stared.
“Parts didn’t arrive for the workshop. He came home for lunch. Mum asked where you were. I said you and Nick went to the river. She sent me to fetch you.” Zoe spoke flatly, like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
“I got there and saw you struggling. Nick was just standing there. I was too small to help. I ran back for Dad.”
“You never told me!”
“Would you have listened? You kept saying it wasn’t your fault. Then you left.” Zoe sighed. “Dad ran ahead. By the time I got back, he was pushing you toward the bank. Nick helped pull you out. I was so relieved—then I realised Dad wasn’t there. If I’d noticed sooner…” She swallowed. “I was almost glad when Mum blamed you. She’d forbidden us from going to that part of the river.”
“So we’re both to blame?” Rose whispered.
“We were kids. You were fifteen, I was seven. We made mistakes.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Later, when she could hear it. She blamed herself, not us. She saw him run out but didn’t follow.”
“And she waited years to tell *me*?” Rose laughed bitterly. “Do you know how hard it was for me? Alone, in a strange city? She could’”She did come to see you—once, when your class was on a trip, she left food at your dorm, but you thought it was from Nick.”
