Fortunate Changes
Margaret Whitmore stepped out of her terraced house and paused. Squinting slightly, she glanced at the sky, weighing the chance of rain before nodding faintly to the neighbours gathered on the bench. Then she walked on, chin lifted. The women, who had fallen silent at her approach, stirred again, whispering behind her back with sharp, envious glances.
No one knew Margaret’s true age. She was no longer young, having retired years ago. Her silver-streaked hair was always stylishly cut, her eyes tastefully made up—elegant, but not overdone. She carried herself with grace, neither thin nor heavy, with not a hint of excess weight.
Some guessed she was in her sixties; others swore she couldn’t be past fifty. The bitterest among them insisted she was pushing seventy and only looked younger thanks to cosmetic wizardry.
*”Why wouldn’t she look well off? Had a decent husband—didn’t drink, didn’t make trouble. Just slipped away one day to a younger woman. An only son who never gave her grief. No grandkids, no pets, no burdens. If my drunkard of a husband hadn’t ruined my life, maybe I’d swan about like a queen too.”*
*”You? A queen?”* The woman next to her snorted, nudging her with an elbow. *”Pull the other one, Ethel.”*
*”And why not? If my bloody Jack drinks himself into the grave—God forgive me—I’ll start living too. Just like her. Walk out the door, give you lot a look, and off I’ll go.”*
The neighbours burst into laughter.
*”Look at Walter, can’t take his eyes off her. Left off working just to stare,”* one muttered.
*”Waste of time. Ought to aim lower,”* another sighed.
*”What’s wrong with Walter? Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, hands like gold,”* a third defended him.
*”Why’s everyone so sour, eh? Give the poor woman a break. Stop begrudging her,”* Walter called over, trimming the hedge with deliberate strokes.
Margaret knew they talked. She heard the murmurs, caught the resentful glances. But she’d long since stopped caring.
She’d lived like any woman—some good, some bad. Her husband had been handsome, charming, a match for her own poise. Women had thrown themselves at him, and she’d suffered for it. When he finally left, she’d nearly lost herself. Only her son, Edward, pulled her back. After that, she never let another man close.
Edward was nearing thirty now, still unmarried. It didn’t sit right with Margaret. What sort of grown man lived with his mother? Not that he lacked women—there’d been plenty. But none ever made it to the altar.
Not that Margaret had approved of any of them. Not one. But she’d held her tongue. She knew better than to push—scolding would only push *him* away. So she waited. One by one, the infatuations faded. Some he ended, others left him.
Then came one he nearly married. A sweet girl, pleasant. A wedding? Fine, it was time. Margaret didn’t object. Edward went to meet her parents—and returned shaken. The father was a drunk, the mother worn down by his fists. One drink in, and the man started lecturing, threatening, nearly coming to blows.
*”Mum, what do I do? I love her, but how do I live with family like that?”* Edward had asked.
*”That’s blood. You can’t change it. If you’re ready for that life, marry her,”* Margaret had said.
To her relief, they split.
After her walk, Margaret read, dozed, then began supper, checking the clock. Edward was late. *”Fallen for someone new, no doubt,”* she mused.
She was right. He arrived with a woman in tow.
*”Mum, this is Lily. Lillian. And this is my mother, Margaret Whitmore.”*
Margaret took in the young woman—blue eyes like lakes, dimpled cheeks… *The kind you marry.*
*”Couldn’t warn me? I’d have cooked something special,”* she chided.
*”Everything you make is special,”* Edward grinned, resting his head on her shoulder.
*”Flattery means you want something.”* She tapped his forehead. *”Wash up, supper’s ready.”*
Laughter and playful scuffles carried from the bathroom. They returned flushed, smiling. The table was set—plates arranged, silver polished, tea steaming. Proper.
Edward’s guilty look told her the real news was coming.
*”Out with it,”* she sighed.
He inhaled. *”The lads and I are hiking tomorrow. Lily’s coming.”*
*”Good. Best way to know someone. And introduce her to your friends.”* She sensed the rest.
*”Could you… watch her daughter? Six years old, no trouble. Not a place for a kid—mosquitoes, rough terrain.”*
*”Whose child?”* Margaret already knew.
*”Mine,”* Lily said, meeting her gaze—steady, unflinching.
*”No. I’ve forgotten how to mind children. And a stranger’s child? Too much responsibility.”*
*”Mum, come off it. What plans? A park stroll? Take Ruby with you.”*
*”Ruby? What names these days,”* Margaret thought.
*”No need,”* Lily cut in, resting a hand on Edward’s. Her eyes held Margaret’s—calm, firm.
*”Just two days, Mum.”*
Lily glanced down. No tantrum. No resentment. Just patience.
*”Fine,”* Margaret relented.
*”You’re the best!”* Edward kissed her cheek. *”We’ll drop Ruby off at six.”*
*”Six?! We—?”*
That night, she lay awake. Regretting it. A child—a stranger—meant noise, chaos.
At dawn, she boiled porridge. Edward left early, fetching Lily and Ruby.
The lock clicked. In the hallway stood Lily in hiking gear, a bag at her feet. Clinging to her was a girl with delicate braids and a doll. Blue lake-eyes, wary yet open. Margaret’s chest tightened.
*”Clothes inside, just in case,”* Lily said.
*”We’re off, Mum.”* Edward nudged Lily toward the door. She threw Margaret a pleading look.
*”Go on, then. It’s fine.”* Margaret waved them off.
*”Come in, dear,”* she turned to the girl. *”Don’t be afraid. I’m Margaret. Understand?”*
The girl nodded, stepping inside, scanning the room. Slowly, they settled. While washing breakfast dishes, Margaret heard pages turning—Ruby was reading one of Edward’s old books.
*”Want me to read?”* Margaret joined her on the sofa.
*”I can. Slow, though.”*
*”Clever girl.”*
By eleven, they ventured outside.
*”Visitor, Margaret?”* a neighbour called.
Margaret nodded curtly. Ruby dashed to the playground. Margaret sat nearby, uneasy in this grandmother role. *”What am I to her? They might break up after this.”*
*”Aunt Maggie!”* Ruby ran over. *”I want a wagon like hers.”*
*”For your doll?”*
*”No. For leaves.”* Those lake-eyes bored into her soul.
*”Right. Let’s ask Walter.”*
Walter nearly dropped his shears. The queen herself, coming to *him*?
*”Walter, could you make a wagon? Like the girl’s?”*
*”For you? I’d build a palace.”* His heart hammered. For her, he’d do anything.
Next day, Ruby and her new friend hauled stones and flowers in their wagons. Margaret watched, smug. *”Ours is prettier. Better dressed. Better mannered.”* Ours. The word slipped out.
Edward and Lily returned late Sunday. Margaret was putting Ruby to bed.
*”Keep her till morning?”* she asked hopefully.
But Lily refused. Work tomorrow, nursery drop-off. Edward drove them home. When he returned, Margaret pounced.
*”I like Lily. And Ruby. But how old was Lily when—? Is this serious?”*
*”Glad you approve. But Lily didn’t birth her. She’s her sister.”*
*”What?”*
Their mother had remarried—a younger man who wanted a child. She died in labour. He bolted. Lily took Ruby, raised her. The girl called her Mum.
Margaret exhaled.
*”Her own father left, and Lily took that on. Strength. I respect that. Why not say so? I thought—”*
*”We’ll have our own,”* Edward hugged her.
*”You’re marrying her?”*
*”Yes. And don’t argue. I love her. We’ll live in her flat.”*Margaret smiled to herself as she watched Walter fumble with his tools, realizing that sometimes the most unexpected changes bring the deepest joy.
