“My wife laughed when I cried.
‘Oh, stop bawling like a child!’ Margaret turned sharply from the stove, waving a ladle. ‘What’s all this drama for?’
Victor sat at the kitchen table, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, and wet trails glistened between his fingers.
‘Maggie, don’t you understand? It’s Mum,’ he croaked through tears.
‘Mum, Mum!’ she mocked, slamming the pot onto the table. ‘She lived to eighty-four—what more did you expect? Some people don’t even make it past sixty.’
Victor lifted his red, swollen eyes.
‘How can you say that? She loved you like her own daughter.’
‘Loved me?’ Margaret scoffed. ‘Especially when she told me how to cook stew and raise the kids. Thirty years I put up with her advice.’
She sat opposite him and served herself some soup, her appetite untouched by the fact they’d buried his mother just hours before.
‘Enough of this wallowing,’ she said, tearing off a piece of bread. ‘The dead won’t come back. Better think about what to do with her flat. We should sell it before prices drop.’
Victor shoved his chair back with a clatter.
‘Are you mad? You’re talking about the flat when Mum’s barely cold in the ground!’
‘And when should we talk about it?’ Margaret took another bite. ‘In a year? Five? The place is empty, bills piling up. Be practical, Vic.’
He clutched his head. The past few days felt like a nightmare—his mother’s slow decline, the hospital visits, holding her frail hand while Margaret made excuses.
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘I’m coming down with something—don’t want to spread it.’
‘Work’s piled up, can’t get away.’
Now, all she cared about was money.
‘I need to be alone,’ Victor muttered, heading for the door.
‘Where’s “alone”?’ Margaret called after him. ‘Eat while it’s hot.’
‘Not hungry.’
‘Suit yourself. Your body needs fuel.’
Victor stepped onto the balcony, the biting October wind stinging his face. He gripped the railing and watched children playing below. Life went on, while his world had shattered.
His mother was gone—the last thread to his childhood, to being truly needed. Margaret never understood that bond. To her, her mother-in-law was a nuisance.
The balcony door creaked.
‘Vic, come inside. You’ll catch cold.’ Margaret handed him a steaming mug.
He took it with trembling hands.
‘Maggie, tell me honestly—did you ever love her, even a little?’
She shrugged. ‘What does it matter now? We got on well enough.’
‘Well enough,’ he echoed.
For a fleeting moment, something like concern crossed her face.
‘What’s got into you? Don’t you like our life?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Right now, I don’t know anything.’
They stood in silence. Margaret hugged her dressing gown tight; Victor sipped the scalding tea.
‘Remember when Mum taught you to make pancakes?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Ugh. Endless critiques—too thick, too thin, wrong pan.’
‘Or when little Tommy first called her “Grandma”?’
‘All grandparents love that.’
Victor set the empty mug down. ‘And when she had pneumonia last year? You brought her meals every day.’
Margaret fell silent. She hadn’t—that was Victor. She’d stayed home, complaining to friends about his neglect.
‘Let’s go in,’ she said. ‘It’s freezing.’
That evening, their son Tommy arrived with his wife, Emily. The young couple fidgeted awkwardly—death was a stranger to their generation.
‘Dad, how are you holding up?’ Tommy hugged him.
‘Getting by, son.’
‘I’ll miss Gran. She was wonderful.’
‘She was.’ Victor’s throat tightened.
Emily shifted uncomfortably. ‘Our condolences, Victor. She was a lovely woman.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
Margaret bustled in with a tray. ‘Sit down, let’s have tea. I bought a walnut cake.’
‘Mum, maybe not the time for cake?’ Tommy ventured.
‘When is?’ Margaret said briskly. ‘Life doesn’t stop.’
She sliced the cake with practised ease, as if this were any ordinary Sunday.
‘Actually,’ she said to Emily, ‘Tommy, you two should take Gran’s flat. No point renting when you could own.’
The couple exchanged glances.
‘Mum, it’s too soon,’ Tommy said.
‘Nonsense. Prime location, near the Tube. Perfect for you.’
Victor slammed his hands on the table.
‘Margaret, enough! We buried her today, and you’re divvying up her home!’
‘Don’t shout in front of the kids,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m being practical.’
‘Practical!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Is that all you care about?’
Her lips thinned. ‘Should we sit and weep? What good does that do?’
‘Good?’ Victor’s voice broke. ‘To honour her memory!’
‘We’ve honoured her. What more do you want?’
Tommy gripped his father’s arm. ‘Dad, calm down. I know it’s hard.’
‘You don’t know! None of you do!’
Victor stormed out, slamming the door. Leaning against the wall, he pressed his palms to his eyes.
From the kitchen, muffled voices:
‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ Tommy asked.
‘Taking it hard,’ Margaret said lightly. ‘Always was a mummy’s boy.’
Even now, the mockery.
Victor lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His mother’s last words haunted him: *”Don’t be cross with Maggie, Vic. She means well.”*
Even dying, she’d made excuses for the woman who couldn’t be bothered to say goodbye.
Tommy peeked in. ‘Dad?’
‘Come in, son.’
He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I miss Gran too. Remember her fairy tales? That voice she’d do—like a proper actress.’
Victor smiled faintly. ‘She told them to us both.’
‘And her pies. Mum’s never got them right.’
Victor turned to him. ‘Tommy… why is your mother so… cold?’
Tommy hesitated. ‘People are different, Dad. Some feel things deeper.’
‘But grief—shouldn’t that be universal?’
‘Should be. But Mum’s… Mum.’
From the kitchen, laughter.
‘Hear that?’ Victor whispered. ‘Laughing. The day we buried her.’
Tommy stood. ‘I should go. Early start tomorrow.’
‘Go on, son. Live your life.’
After they left, the flat felt hollow. Margaret hummed as she washed up, the clatter of plates absurdly normal.
Victor lay in bed, listening. The TV blared upstairs; a dog barked in the square. Life marched on, indifferent.
Margaret slipped into bed. ‘Asleep?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t take it to heart, Vic. I’m just being sensible.’
‘Sensible,’ he repeated.
She kissed his cheek and was asleep in minutes—untroubled, at peace.
Victor stared into the dark. Maybe she was right. Maybe you had to move forward. But what then remained? What was love, if grief could be brushed aside for practicality?
Morning would come. Tea, work, supper, telly. A life ordinary in every way—except for the pain he’d bear alone.
This was his marriage. This was love. This was life.”
