**The Day of Forgiveness**
The last bus brought Sophie back from Manchester to the village. She’d spent the whole day rushing between the hospital—collecting certificates and paperwork—and the funeral home, then back to the hospital to hand over the bundle of clothes Mum had prepared herself. She’d even managed to stop by her flat to change into a black jumper.
She slumped onto a chair by the table, legs aching, too exhausted to undress. The cottage had grown cold—she should light the fire. She’d left at dawn, and now evening had fallen. Her eyes drifted numbly over the muddy footprints on the floor, left by the paramedics, the men who’d carried Mum out, the neighbours. Only now did it strike her that the front door had been left open all this time—and it was October. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to mop the floor. Best to leave it for now.
Footsteps sounded outside. Sophie jumped up, hoping it was Rose, but it was only Auntie Margaret, Mum’s old friend.
“I saw you come back. Need any help?”
“No.” Sophie sank back down.
“It’s freezing in here. I’ll get the fire going.” Auntie Margaret vanished and returned with an armful of firewood, bustling in the kitchen to light the stove.
For a brief moment, Sophie almost believed it was Mum—that the death had been a nightmare.
“There we are. Warm soon.” But it wasn’t Mum. It was Auntie Margaret. “Don’t worry about the wake. The funeral’s tomorrow, isn’t it? You go into town, and we’ll sort things here with Mary. Does Rosie know? Is she coming?”
“Her phone’s off. I texted. I don’t know. Thank you,” Sophie mumbled.
“Well, we’re family, aren’t we? Me and your mum were like sisters.” There was a hint of reproach in her voice, and Sophie caught it, lifting her head sharply.
“Right, I’ll be off,” Auntie Margaret muttered, flustered, heading for the door. She paused, hand on the latch. “Leave the door unlocked tomorrow, yeah?”
Sophie nodded, biting her lip. The fire crackled, the flames roaring in the chimney, bringing the cottage back to life. That suffocating loneliness—the kind that settles after death—already felt less dense. They say the departed linger close in those first days. Sophie glanced around but sensed nothing, saw nothing.
Mum had been ill a long time. After Dad’s death, she lost purpose, withered fast. Sometimes Sophie wondered if she’d given up, eager to join him. She’d grown quiet, bitter. When Sophie finished school, she left for Manchester, studied accounting at college.
Every weekend, she visited—thankfully, the village wasn’t far. She’d bring groceries, help around the house. Mum had wasted away the last year. The diagnosis, when it came, brought no relief—Mum just nodded, indifferent. Maybe even relieved.
When she grew too weak to leave bed, Sophie took leave from work to care for her. A month later, she was gone. The last two days, Mum ate nothing, said nothing, hovered between worlds.
Sophie talked to her anyway—whether she heard or not. Her own voice kept the fear at bay. The final day, she begged forgiveness, stroking Mum’s thin, lifeless hand. She told her Rose was coming. At her sister’s name, Mum’s eyelids flickered—but no more. Maybe she was already there, with Dad, where she’d longed to be.
Dad had been a hard worker, drank little—rare for the village. Plenty of women, single or with drunk husbands, had tried luring him. But he loved Mum. Never strayed. You couldn’t hide such things here.
From his wages, he always brought sweets. The joy of those small gifts.
He’d died young. Or rather, he was killed. Mum never recovered. Sophie had been seven, Rose already finishing Year 11. She left for college—fled, really—after it happened and never returned.
Before she lost speech, Mum asked Sophie to call her sister. She tried—calls, texts. Rose never answered. The last message, after Mum died, went ignored. Sophie lied—said Rose’s daughter was ill. She’d come when the girl was better. Did Mum believe her? Sophie didn’t know.
She remembered calling Rose last year when the doctors gave the diagnosis. Rose had been cold.
“She threw me out. Don’t you remember? I’m not coming.”
“You’re as bad as each other. She’s *dying*. Just talk—forgive—”
“I didn’t kill Dad. I was a *child*. Did she care when she kicked me out?”
“She didn’t! She was angry—please—”
“No.” Rose hung up.
She won’t come, Sophie thought, standing.
The cottage warmed quickly, but she still shivered. She flicked on the electric kettle. Eating was unthinkable, but tea would help.
Mum had scrubbed the kitchen spotless. Now crumbs and stains stood out. Who cared? Sophie wiped the table anyway—as if Mum might scold her.
The house—what to do with it? She couldn’t decide without Rose. The city had everything, no need to come back. Doubt Rose wanted it either. Would she even show for the funeral?
At that moment, the front door banged. No footsteps. Dark outside, door still unlocked. Maybe Auntie Margaret forgot something?
Fear slithered under Sophie’s skin. She tensed, ready to bolt—where? Out the window? Then footsteps. Her pulse hammered. Peering around the stove, she saw Rose.
“Thank God!” Sophie rushed to hug her, pressing her warm cheek to Rose’s cold one.
Rose stood rigid, arms at her sides.
“Surprised?” Her voice was brittle.
“I hoped—Come in, the kettle’s on. Only sugar and biscuits, but—oh! Jam! Hungry? I’ll boil potatoes—”
“No need.” Rose’s voice was flat.
Sophie slowed, approaching.
“She died here?” Rose eyed the bed.
“Yes. I was with her. She waited for you.” Sophie’s joy faded.
Rose tossed her coat on the bed, faced their parents’ photo on the wall. Sophie hung the coat, joined her.
“Funeral’s tomorrow?”
“Yes. We’ll fetch her from the mortuary, then the burial. Auntie Margaret’s handling the wake—”
Rose cut her off. “You mentioned tea.”
In the kitchen, Sophie set out cups. Rose picked hers—blue forget-me-nots painted on porcelain.
“Still here.” A faint smile.
Sophie reached for the jam. “Strawberry. Last year’s, but—”
“Just biscuits.”
They drank in silence. The cottage was cosy now, herbs Mum dried by the fire still faintly scenting the air.
“You look like her,” Rose said finally. “Married? Work?”
“Just work. I took leave to care for her.” Sophie swallowed. “Why didn’t you answer? I thought you’d skip the funeral.”
“Do *you* blame me?”
“No—of course not.” Too quick.
Rose sighed. “Liar. I *drowned* that day—sinking, couldn’t see. I barely remember Dad. Why was he even at the river? He should’ve been at work. She said *he* saved me. But I always thought it was Nick.”
Sophie understood—Rose was pleading her case to ghosts.
“I saw it,” she said softly. “I called Dad.”
Rose froze. “*You?*”
“They hadn’t delivered parts to the garage. Nothing to do, so he came home for lunch. Mum was happy—asked where you were. I said you’d gone to the river with Nick.”
Sophie spoke tonelessly, words worn from years of repetition.
“Mum sent me to fetch you. I got there—saw you drowning. Nick stood there, useless. Too small to help. Dad came running—I must’ve screamed. I lagged behind. By the time I reached the river, he’d pushed you toward shore. Nick pulled you out. I helped. Then—Dad was gone.”
Her voice wavered.
“If I’d noticed sooner—maybe—When Mum blamed you, I *let* her. She’d forbidden that river.”
Rose stared. “So we’re *both* guilty?”
“We were *kids*. You fifteen, me seven. Kids break rules—”
“Did you tell *her*?”
“Later. Once she could listen. She blamed herself—saw Dad run but didn’t follow.”
Rose scoffed. “And I was supposed to know? Years—alone—she could’ve *come*—”
“She did.”
Rose stiffened. “*When?*”
“Your college trip. The matron said you’d gone. She left food—potatoes, jam, bacon. When you called Nick about your course, she got the address.”
Rose paled. “I thanked *him*.”
“Later, she sent things with villagers—Nick includedThey held each other tightly on the bus ride home, finally letting go of the past, choosing love over blame, and knowing that in forgiveness—no matter how long it takes—there is always peace.
