“What on earth are you saying, Mum?” Emily shot up, gripping the back of the chair. “What do you mean, ‘not your own’? I’m your daughter!”
“Don’t shout at me!” Margaret waved a hand without even looking up from her newspaper. “I said what I said. And who are you to tell me what to do?”
“Mum, what’s going on?” James rushed into the room, Emily’s husband. “The neighbours are banging on the wall!”
“Let them bang,” the old woman muttered. “It’s my house, I’ll say what I want.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, her legs giving way. It had started with something trivial—she’d asked her mother not to throw out the leftover soup, planning to heat it up tomorrow. But what she heard in response still didn’t feel real.
“Mum, maybe your blood pressure’s up?” Emily asked carefully. “Did you take your pills?”
“What’s blood pressure got to do with it?” Margaret finally looked up, her gaze cold. “I told you—you’re not mine. Never were.”
James exchanged a glance with his wife. In thirty years of knowing his mother-in-law, he’d seen her in all sorts of moods, but nothing like this.
“Margaret, maybe we should call a doctor?” he suggested. “You’re not yourself today.”
“I’m perfectly sane!” she snapped. “I’m tired of pretending! Enough of this happy family act!”
Emily felt her breath catch. A lump rose in her throat, one thought spinning in her head—did Mum really mean it? Had she hidden this her whole life?
“Mum, what are you talking about?” Her voice shook. “I’ve always been here for you. Looked after you when you were ill, helped with money, brought groceries—”
“Exactly!” Margaret stood abruptly, the newspaper falling. “Out of pity! Thinking you owed me! What do I need that kind of care for?”
“Pity?” Emily couldn’t believe her ears. “Mum, are you serious? I love you!”
“Don’t lie!” The old woman turned to the window, staring into the garden. “No one loves me. Not even you.”
James quietly took Emily’s hand. She was pale as a sheet, trembling.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he whispered. “Give her time to calm down.”
“No.” Emily stood. “Mum, explain this to me. Why are you saying these things?”
Margaret turned slowly, a strange smirk on her face.
“What’s there to explain? Think I don’t know what you say about me? ‘Old, ill, a burden’?”
“I never said that!”
“Oh, please!” She waved a hand. “I heard you and James whispering in the kitchen, thought I wouldn’t notice. My hearing’s sharp, you know.”
James frowned, trying to recall what they’d said to upset her.
“What did we talk about?” he asked.
“Don’t remember?” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “About putting me in a care home. How I’m in the way.”
Emily gasped. They had discussed it a month ago—not to abandon her, but because they worried. Margaret had started forgetting the stove on, mistaking neighbours she’d known for years.
“Mum, we never wanted to send you away,” Emily tried to explain. “We were just worried—”
“Spare me the lies!” she cut in. “I’ve had enough! Enough of your pretend concern!”
“Margaret, you know we love you,” James interjected. “We’ve always been there.”
“Out of duty!” she snapped. “Because that’s what’s expected! But real love? Never had it from her.”
Emily’s eyes welled up. How could she say that? She’d always tried to be a good daughter—even when life was hard, even when her own children needed her, she’d made time for her mother.
“Mum, why?” Her voice broke. “What did I ever do wrong?”
“What did you do right?” Margaret sank back into her chair. “You live your life, visit when you have to, ask how I am—like it’s a chore.”
“But I call every day! I help, I arrange doctors—”
“It’s all boxes ticked!” She shook her head. “But where’s your heart? When did you last visit just to talk, to have tea?”
Emily paused. Lately, their visits *had* been about errands—medicine, appointments, repairs.
“Mum, I’ve got my own family, work—”
“Exactly!” Margaret cut her off. “You’ve got everything. Who have I got? No one! Sat here alone, waiting for my daughter to grace me with a visit!”
“Then move in with us! We’ve offered so many times!”
“To be a burden? Have the grandchildren sigh and my son-in-law resent me?”
James opened his mouth, but Margaret spoke first.
“Think I don’t see? You rush in, rush out. Like it’s some obligation!”
Emily covered her face. There was truth in it, and that hurt most. She *had* hurried—always thinking of her own life.
“I tried to help,” she whispered.
“Help!” Margaret scoffed. “But talk to me like a person? Ask how I *feel*? Tell me about *your* life?”
“I do tell you—”
“What? Work stress, Sophie’s grades, money troubles. But what about *you*? What makes you happy? What hurts?”
Emily looked up. Her mother’s eyes were desperate.
“I thought you wouldn’t care…”
“Wouldn’t *care*?” Margaret moved closer. “I feel every sigh you hide! I see when you’re sad—but you shut me out!”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Then what’s a mother *for*?” She sat beside her. “Just feeding and dressing me?”
Silence fell. James stayed by the window, feeling like an intruder.
“Know what hurts most?” Margaret said at last. “You don’t *see* me. To you, I’m just an old woman to be managed.”
“That’s not true—”
“It *is*. When did you last ask what I *want*?”
Emily searched her memory—only practical talks came to mind.
“What *do* you want, Mum?” she asked softly.
Margaret smiled bitterly.
“Too late for that.”
“Better late than never.”
She gazed out the window.
“I want to be loved—not pitied. Needed. I want my daughter to visit because she *misses* me.”
“But I *do* miss you!” Emily took her hand. “I just don’t know how to show it.”
“Or you don’t *try*?”
“I never *learned*,” Emily admitted. “You raised me to hold it all in—‘don’t cry’, ‘don’t fuss’, ‘get on with it’. When I tried to hug you, you’d say, ‘Not now, I’m busy’.”
Margaret frowned.
“I worked hard. I was tired—”
“I know. But I grew up not knowing how to say ‘I love you.’ I thought you didn’t need it.”
“I *always* needed it,” Margaret said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to ask.”
They sat holding hands. James moved to the armchair, giving them space.
“So we’re both hopeless,” Emily said tearfully.
“Seems so.”
“Mum… why did you say I wasn’t yours?”
Margaret looked away.
“Just being daft.”
“No, tell me.”
She sighed.
“Sometimes I look at you… and you feel like a stranger. Like there’s a wall between us.”
“We built that wall,” Emily said. “Me by hiding my heart, you by holding onto hurt.”
A long pause.
“Can we break it down?”
Margaret turned.
“Don’t know. We can try.”
Emily squeezed her hand.
“Then let’s try. No pretending.”
“No pretending.”
“Mum… do you know I panic every time I come over? Worrying you’ve fallen, or worse?”
“No.”
“And I’m scared I’ll disappoint you. That you’ll think I’m…”
“Why?”
“Because I *love* you. I want you happy.”
Margaret’s eyes glistened.
“I thought you came out of duty.”
“Out of *love*. I just don’t know how to show it.”
“We’ll learn,” Margaret said, patting her hand. “Both of us.”
James watched, struck by how much pain came from unspoken words.
“Now tell me,” Margaret said. “*Really* tell me—what’s in your heart?”
Emily hesitated.
“Mum… I’m so afraid. Afraid I’ll lose you before I say the important things.”
“What things?”
“That IShe squeezed her mother’s hand and whispered, “That I love you, and no matter how much we’ve misunderstood each other, you’ve always been my mum, and that’s all I’ll ever need.”
