A Saturday with the Family
“Don’t start about my diet again!” snapped Emily, waving her fork with a piece of cake on it. “I already know I’m overweight!”
“Em, no one said that,” her sister Alice tried to calm her. “Lucy just wanted to share a recipe—”
“I didn’t ask for it!” Emily cut in. “I’m sick of it! Every weekend, it’s the same—my figure isn’t right, my hair’s outdated, my husband’s useless!”
Lucy sighed deeply and set down her teacup. Saturday family gatherings at her house were turning into an ordeal. All three daughters had come with their families, the grandchildren were racing around the flat, and instead of a proper chat, the adults were at each other’s throats again.
“Girls, enough,” she said tiredly. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Let them!” Emily huffed. “Maybe they’ll see what a lovely family I’ve got!”
Margaret, the eldest sister, pursed her lips and pushed her plate away pointedly.
“We’re trying to help you,” she said coolly. “But if you don’t want—”
“I don’t want your advice! I live how I live, and I’m fine!”
Lucy looked at her daughters and once more thought how different they all were. Margaret, at forty-eight, was stern, polished, always immaculate, even at her mother’s house. An accountant at a big firm, married to an engineer, with a son at university—a model family, at least on the surface.
Alice, the middle one at thirty-nine, gentle and accommodating, always trying to smooth things over. She worked as a nursery teacher, married to a plumber, with two school-aged children. They lived modestly but happily.
Then there was Emily, the youngest at thirty-five but acting like a teenager—always discontent, always picking fights. She’d married late, at thirty-two, had a daughter, and now constantly moaned about her life.
“Mum, where’s Grandad’s photo album?” asked George, Margaret’s son, peeking into the living room. “I want to show Sophie.”
“On the shelf, the big one,” Lucy answered. “Be gentle with it.”
George nodded and dashed off to his cousins. Lucy watched him go and smiled. At least the grandchildren brought joy—unlike their mothers.
“Listen, can we stop bickering?” Alice suggested. “Let’s talk about something nice.”
“Like what?” Emily muttered. “How perfect Margaret’s life is? Three-bed flat, new car, son at uni—”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Margaret shot back. “I work day and night for all of it!”
“Oh, sure, you ‘work,’” Emily drawled. “I don’t have time—I’ve got a little one.”
“Sophie’s five, hardly a baby!” Margaret snapped.
“Five’s nothing to you, is it? George was making his own breakfast by ten!”
Lucy rubbed her temples. Every Saturday, the same drama. The girls came over for family time, and it always ended in chaos.
“Girls,” she said quietly, “your dad wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
At the mention of their father, the sisters fell silent. Edward had passed three years ago, and since then, these gatherings had felt tense, as if he’d been the glue holding them together.
“Mum, don’t,” Alice whispered.
“I have to,” Lucy said firmly. “He wanted you to stick together, support each other. And what are you doing?”
Emily looked down, crumbling her cake. Margaret adjusted her hair and stared out the window.
“Mum, we don’t mean to argue,” Alice said. “It’s just… different personalities.”
“Personalities!” Emily snorted. “Hers is ‘boss everyone around!’”
“I’m not bossing!” Margaret retorted. “I’m just saying what’s best!”
“Exactly! Who asked you?”
Lucy stood and walked to the kitchen. Chaos reigned—dirty dishes piled up, crumbs everywhere. She turned on the tap and started washing up, trying to calm down.
Footsteps followed.
“Mum, let me help,” Alice said.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Come on. Four hands are quicker.”
Alice picked up a towel. Margaret came in next.
“Mum, sorry we—” she began, but Lucy waved her off.
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be,” Margaret said. “We notice.”
Emily drifted in too, silent, just sweeping crumbs off the table.
They worked quietly for a while. Lucy thought about how things had changed. When Edward was alive, Saturdays were a joy. He’d tell the grandchildren stories, play chess with them, and the girls would help out, sharing news—no arguments, no resentment.
“Mum, remember when Dad took us to the park on Saturdays?” Alice suddenly asked.
“I do,” Lucy smiled. “The swings, the ice cream.”
“And the photos by the fountain,” Margaret added. “He’d always say, ‘Smile, girls, it’s for the album!’”
Emily sighed.
“Remember when he carried me on his shoulders? I was too little for the swings.”
“Yes,” Lucy nodded. “You’d shriek with delight.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She missed him so much, especially now.
“Granny, why’s everyone in here?” Sophie, Emily’s daughter, peeked in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Of course, love.” Lucy handed her the tin. “Where are the boys?”
“George is showing Grandad’s photos. Says he was really strong.”
Emily flinched.
“Soph, do you remember Grandad?”
“A bit,” Sophie mused. “He called me ‘Bear’ and gave me sweets.”
“Bear?” Emily blinked. “Why?”
“Dunno. Said I was fuzzy like a bear.”
Lucy laughed.
“Because you were always messy. He’d say, ‘Our little bear’s awake.’”
Sophie giggled and ran off. Silence settled in the kitchen.
“Girls,” Lucy said softly, “your dad always said family shouldn’t row over trifles. Life’s hard enough—why upset each other?”
“Mum, we know,” Margaret murmured. “It’s just… hard sometimes.”
“Hard how?” Lucy pressed. “You’re grown women.”
Margaret shrugged. Emily stayed quiet. Alice twisted the towel.
“Maybe because we each think our problems matter most,” Emily finally said.
“Maybe,” Lucy agreed. “Or maybe we’ve forgotten how to listen.”
Children’s laughter spilled from the living room. The cousins got along perfectly—why couldn’t the adults?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad we don’t know,” Alice asked.
Lucy thought.
“He worried when you all moved out. Didn’t want you drifting apart. These Saturdays were his idea—to keep you close.”
“Really?” Emily blinked.
“Really. ‘Luce,’ he’d say, ‘the girls need to stay connected. Or they’ll forget family.’”
Margaret sniffed.
“I thought it was just to keep traditions.”
“No, love. He wanted you to be a proper family. Dreamed of grandchildren growing up together.”
“Sorry, Mum,” Emily whispered. “I know I’m awful. I just get so cross…”
“At whom?”
“Me, mostly. Margaret’s got everything—career, looks. Alice, everyone loves her. And I’m just… fat, miserable.”
“Em,” Alice hugged her. “You’re a brilliant mum. Sophie adores you.”
“But that’s not everything. I want to be pretty, clever—make Jake happy.”
Lucy understood then—Emily wasn’t spiteful. She was just unhappy.
“Love, what makes you think Jake’s only with you for Sophie?”
“I see it. He barely looks at me. Just eats, watches telly, says nothing.”
“Do you talk to him?”
“About what? His job? The house?”
“There you go,” Lucy said. “And then you wonder why he’s quiet.”
“Mum’s right,” Margaret cut in. “Men don’t guess—you have to spell it out.”
“Easy for you. Your Will’s educated.”
“Doesn’t mean he reads minds. Twenty years married, and I still have to explain!”
Alice nodded.
“Same with Pete. Blunt as a hammer.”
Emily bit her lip.
“What if I tell him… and he doesn’t care?”
“What if he does?” Lucy smiled. “You haven’t tried.”
A crash came from the living room, then a wail.
“Oh, what now?” Alice worried.
They rushed in. A ripped photo album lay splayed, and Alfie, Alice’s youngest, was clutching a scraped knee, howling.
“What happened?” Lucy asked.
“Alfie tripped on the chair, fell, and the album tore,” George explained. “Sophie’s shouting at him.”
“Am not!” Sophie protested. “The sisters exchanged a knowing glance, and for the first time in years, they all laughed together—real laughter, warm and easy—as if their father’s spirit had quietly settled among them, mending what was broken.
