“What on earth are you on about, Mum?!” Emily snapped, gripping the back of the chair. “What do you mean, ‘not your real daughter’? I *am* your daughter!”
“Don’t shout at me,” Margaret muttered, not even looking up from her newspaper. “I said what I said. And who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”
“Mum, what’s going on?” Daniel, Emily’s husband, rushed into the room. “The neighbours are banging on the wall!”
“Let them bang,” the old woman grumbled. “I can say what I like in my own house.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, her legs shaking. It had started with something small—she’d asked her mum not to throw out the leftover soup so she could heat it up the next day. And then, out of nowhere, *this*.
“Mum, is your blood pressure all right?” Emily asked carefully. “Have you taken your tablets?”
“What’s my blood pressure got to do with it?” Margaret finally put the paper down and fixed Emily with cold eyes. “I meant what I said. You’re not mine. Never have been.”
Daniel exchanged a look with his wife. In thirty years of knowing his mother-in-law, he’d seen her in all sorts of moods—but never like this.
“Margaret, maybe we should call the doctor?” he suggested. “You’re not yourself today.”
“I’m perfectly sane!” she snapped. “I’m done pretending. Done playing happy families!”
Emily felt the air leave her lungs. A lump rose in her throat, her mind racing—*Had Mum really felt this way all along? Had she never loved her?*
“Mum, what are you saying?” Her voice trembled. “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 slipping to the floor. “Out of *pity*! Because you felt *obligated*! What do I want with that sort of care?”
“Pity?!” Emily couldn’t believe her ears. “Mum, are you serious? I *love* you!”
“Don’t lie to me!” Margaret turned to the window, staring out at the garden. “Nobody loves me. Not even you.”
Daniel squeezed Emily’s hand gently. She was pale as a sheet, shaking.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he whispered. “Give her a minute.”
“No.” Emily stood. “Mum, explain this to me. Why are you saying these things?”
Margaret turned slowly. A strange, bitter smile twisted her lips.
“What’s there to explain? You think I don’t hear what you say about me? ‘Old, sick, a burden’?”
“I *never* said that!”
“Oh, come off it!” She waved a hand dismissively. “I heard you and Daniel talking in the kitchen—whispering like I wouldn’t notice. My hearing’s sharp, you know.”
Daniel frowned, trying to remember what they could’ve said to upset her.
“What exactly did we say?”
“You don’t remember?” Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “About putting me in a care home. About how I’m ‘in the way’.”
Emily gasped. They *had* talked about it—a month ago. But not because they wanted to *get rid of her*. Because they were *worried*. Margaret had started leaving the stove on, forgetting faces, mixing up names.
“Mum, we *weren’t* trying to send you away,” Emily pleaded. “We were just concerned—”
“Don’t feed me rubbish!” Margaret cut in. “I know what I heard!”
“Margaret, you *know* we love you,” Daniel stepped in. “Emily barely slept when you were ill—”
“Out of *duty*!” Margaret snapped. “Because that’s what’s *expected*! Not because she actually *cares*!”
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes. How could she say that? She’d spent her whole life trying to be a good daughter—even when she was stretched thin with her own children, her own struggles.
“Mum… *why*?” Her voice broke. “What have I ever done wrong?”
“What have you done *right*?” Margaret sank back into her armchair. “You live your life, pop in when it suits you, ask how I am out of habit. Think that’s enough?”
“But I *call* every day! I buy your food, sort your doctors—”
“All *surface*!” Margaret shook her head. “Where’s your *heart* in it? When was the last time you just *came round*? Had a cuppa? *Talked* to me?”
Emily hesitated. Lately, their visits *had* been about errands—prescriptions, repairs, paperwork.
“Mum, I’ve got my own family, my job—”
“*Exactly*!” Margaret interrupted. “You’ve got everything. And what have I got? *No one!* Sitting here alone, waiting for my daughter to *grace me* with a visit!”
“Then *move in with us*!”
“And be a *nuisance*?” Margaret scoffed. “Have the grandkids sigh when I forget things? Have *Daniel* here counting the minutes ’til I leave?”
Daniel opened his mouth to object, but Margaret barrelled on.
“You think I don’t *see*? You rush in, tick off your list, and bolt—like I’m some *chore*!”
Emily covered her face. The worst part? Margaret wasn’t entirely wrong.
“I *tried* to help…” she whispered.
“*Help?*” Margaret snorted. “But did you ever *talk* to me? Ask how I *really* was? Tell me about *your* life?”
“I *do* tell you—”
“What? That work’s mad? That Lucy’s *behind in school*? That money’s tight?” Margaret leaned forward. “But what about *you*? What makes you *happy*? What keeps you up at night?”
Emily swallowed. Had she *ever* shared that?
“I didn’t think you’d… *care*.”
“Not *care*?” Margaret’s voice cracked. “I *notice* everything—when you’re sad, when you’re tired. But you *shut me out*!”
Silence fell. Daniel hovered awkwardly by the window.
Margaret exhaled. “You know what *hurts* the most? You don’t *see* me. To you, I’m just some old woman to *manage*.”
“That’s not—”
“It *is*!” Margaret cut in. “When did you last ask what *I* *think*? What *I* *want*?”
Emily faltered. She *couldn’t* remember.
“…What *do* you want, Mum?”
Margaret gave a sad smile. “Too late for that.”
“Better late than never.”
The old woman stared out the window.
“I want to be *loved*—not *pitied*. I want to *matter*.” Her voice wavered. “I want my daughter to *miss me*—not just *check in*.”
Emily reached for her hand. “I *do* miss you. I just… don’t know how to *show* it.”
“Or you *won’t*?”
“I *can’t*.” Emily’s throat tightened. “You never… *taught* me.”
Margaret frowned. “What?”
“Growing up—‘Stop crying,’ ‘Don’t fuss,’ ‘Get on with it.’ If I tried to hug you—”
“I had *work*,” Margaret muttered.
“I know. But I learned to *hide* how I felt.” Emily swallowed. “And I thought… that’s what *you* wanted too.”
Margaret’s face crumpled. “…I *always* wanted more. I just didn’t *know how*.” They sat, hands clasped. Daniel quietly made tea. Two stubborn women, finally *listening*.
“So we’re both daft,” Emily whispered, wiping her eyes.
“Seems so.”
“Mum… why did you say I wasn’t yours?”
Margaret sighed. “Because sometimes… you feel like a *stranger*. Like there’s this *wall*.”
“We *built* that wall,” Emily said softly. “Me, hiding. You, hurting.”
“…Can we break it?”
Margaret turned. “Dunno. But we can *try*.”
Emily squeezed her hand. “Then let’s *try*. No pretending.”
“No pretending.”
Daniel set the tea down. “Made up, then?”
“More than that,” Margaret said softly. “We *found* each other.”
They talked for hours—past, present, future. And Emily realised: sometimes, you need *ugly* words to remember the simplest truth.
Love isn’t just *doing*. It’s *being there*—*reallyAnd as the clock struck midnight, Margaret and Emily sat together, finally understanding that love wasn’t found in grand gestures, but in the quiet moments they’d now promise not to waste again.
