**A Saturday with the Family**
“Honestly, don’t start about diets!” snapped Emily, waving a fork with a slice of Victoria sponge. “I already know I’m fat!”
“Em, who even said that?” her sister Lucy tried to soothe her. “Charlotte just wanted to share a recipe—”
“Well, I didn’t ask!” Emily cut her off. “I’m sick of it! Every weekend it’s the same—my figure’s wrong, my hair’s outdated, or my husband’s useless!”
Margaret sighed deeply and set down her teacup. Saturday gatherings at her house had become an ordeal. All three daughters and their families were here—grandchildren tearing through the flat, while the adults bickered instead of talking properly.
“Girls, enough,” she said wearily. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Let them!” Emily shot back. “Maybe then they’ll see what a *wonderful* family I’ve got!”
Charlotte, the eldest sister, pressed her lips tight and pushed her plate away.
“We’re only trying to help,” she said frostily. “But if you won’t listen—”
“I don’t *want* your help! I’m fine as I am!”
Margaret studied her daughters. At forty-eight, Charlotte was strict, polished, always put-together even at home—an accountant at a top firm, married to an engineer, with a son at uni. Picture-perfect, at least from the outside.
Lucy, the middle one at thirty-nine, was soft-spoken, eager to please—a nursery teacher married to a mechanic, with two school-age kids. They got by but were happy.
And Emily, the youngest at thirty-five but with the temper of a teen, forever dissatisfied, forever picking fights. She’d married late, had a daughter at thirty-two, and now griped about everything.
“Mum, where’s Grandad’s photo album?” asked James, Charlotte’s son, peering into the lounge. “I want to show Ollie.”
“On the shelf, the big one,” Margaret said. “Be careful with it.”
James nodded and dashed off. Margaret smiled faintly. At least the grandchildren brought joy—unlike their mothers.
“Listen, maybe we could stop arguing?” Lucy suggested. “Talk about something nice?”
“Oh, like how *perfect* Charlotte’s life is?” Emily sneered. “Three-bed house, new car, son at uni—”
“What’s *that* got to do with anything?” Charlotte flared. “I work my fingers to the bone for all of it!”
“Oh, sure, *you* work,” Emily drawled. “*I* don’t have time—I’ve got a little kid.”
“Sophie’s *five*, Emily. Hardly a toddler!”
“To you, five is ancient! James was dressing himself by ten!”
Margaret’s head throbbed. Every Saturday, the same script. They came for family time, left with frayed nerves.
“Girls,” she said quietly, “your father wouldn’t have wanted this.”
At the mention of him, silence fell. Arthur had died three years ago, and since then, these gatherings had turned jagged—as if he’d been the glue holding them together.
“Mum, don’t,” Lucy whispered.
“I must,” Margaret said firmly. “He wanted you to *support* each other. Is this what he’d see?”
Emily stared at her plate, shredding a scone. Charlotte fiddled with her hair.
“Mum, we don’t *mean* to fight,” Lucy said. “It’s just… different personalities.”
“Personalities!” Emily snorted. “*Hers* is lecturing everyone!”
“I *don’t* lecture! I just say what’s best!”
“That’s *exactly* it! Who *asked* you?”
Margaret stood and retreated to the kitchen—chaos of dirty dishes, crumbs, half-eaten food. She ran the sink, scrubbing plates to calm down.
Footsteps behind her. Lucy.
“Mum, let me help.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Don’t be silly. Four hands are quicker.”
Lucy grabbed a towel. Charlotte followed.
“Mum, sorry we—”
Margaret waved her off. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“No, you *tolerate* it,” Charlotte said. “We know.”
Emily drifted in, wordlessly sweeping crumbs.
For a while, they worked in silence. Margaret thought of how things used to be—Arthur telling stories, playing chess with the grandkids, the sisters sharing news without barbs.
“Mum, remember Dad taking us to the park on Saturdays?” Lucy asked suddenly.
Margaret smiled. “The swings. Ice creams.”
“And photos by the fountain,” Charlotte added. “*‘Smile, girls, it’s for keepsakes!’*”
Emily looked up. “Remember him carrying me on his shoulders? I was too short for the swings.”
“You *squealed*,” Margaret said. Tears pricked her eyes. How she missed him.
“Granny, why’re you all in here?” Sophie, Emily’s daughter, peeked in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Of course, love.” Margaret handed her the tin. “Where are the boys?”
“James is showing Grandad’s photos. Says he was *really* strong.”
Emily stiffened. “Soph, do you remember Grandad?”
“A bit,” Sophie mused. “He called me ‘Bear’ and gave me sweets.”
“*Bear?* Why?”
Margaret laughed. “You were always scruffy. He’d say, *‘Our little bear’s awake.’*”
Sophie giggled and scampered off. The kitchen fell quiet again.
“Girls,” Margaret said, “your father always said—don’t fuss over trifles. Life’s hard enough.”
“We *know*,” Charlotte murmured. “But sometimes we snap.”
“Why? You’re grown women.”
Charlotte shrugged. Emily stayed mute. Lucy twisted the towel.
“Maybe…” Emily said at last, “we all think *our* problems matter most.”
“Maybe,” Margaret agreed. “Or maybe you’ve stopped *listening*.”
Children’s laughter spilled from the lounge. The grandkids got along effortlessly—why couldn’t their mothers?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad,” Lucy asked. “Something we don’t know.”
Margaret thought. “He *worried* when you moved out. Started these Saturdays so you’d stay close.”
“*Really?*” Emily blinked.
“He’d say, *‘Margaret, they need this. Or they’ll forget they’re family.’*”
Charlotte sniffed. “I thought it was just… tradition.”
“No, love. He wanted you to have what *he* gave us.”
Emily bit her lip. “Mum… I’m sorry. I know I’m awful. But I’m just… *angry*.”
“At who, darling?”
“Myself, mostly. Charlotte’s got *everything*. Lucy’s so *kind*. And I’m—”
“Em—” Lucy hugged her.
Margaret understood now—Emily wasn’t spiteful. She was *lost*.
“Sophie adores you,” she said gently. “And does *Harry* really stay just for her?”
Emily wiped her eyes. “He barely *looks* at me.”
“Have you *told* him you’re unhappy?”
“With what? His job? My chores?”
“There you are,” Margaret said. “Silence solves nothing.”
A crash from the lounge—scattered photos, Ollie howling over a scraped knee.
The sisters rushed in. James explained: *”He tripped. Knocked the album—”*
Sophie huffed. *”I *told* him to be careful!”*
Margaret knelt, inspecting the photos—bent but unbroken.
“It’s alright,” she said. “We’ll fix it.”
As Charlotte tended to Ollie, the kids huddled over the pictures again—Arthur in uniform, Arthur laughing, holding baby Emily.
“He taught me to ride a bike,” Lucy remembered. “Ran beside me for *ages*.”
“And ice-skating!” Emily added. “*‘You’ll get it, Bear.’*”
Sophie pointed. “Was Grandad *strict*?”
“Kind, but fair,” Margaret said. “Your mums were terrors—Emily pulled boys’ hair, Charlotte dressed dolls as soldiers…”
“*Mum!*” Charlotte flushed.
“Granny, tell more!” James begged.
And so they did—laughing, teasing, remembering.
As dusk fell, Margaret hugged them all. “Next week, more photos, yes?”
Emily nodded. “No more rows. Promise.”
Charlotte sighed. “I’ll *try* not to nag.”
Watching them leave, Margaret felt it—Arthur had been right. Family wasn’t just blood. It was *choosing* each other, again and again.
And today, maybe, they’d begun to remember.
