**Diary Entry – June 15th**
Margaret laughed when I cried.
“Oh, stop blubbing like a child!” she snapped, turning sharply from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “What’s all this drama about?”
I sat at the kitchen table, face buried in my hands. My shoulders shook, and tears slipped between my fingers.
“Maggie, how can you not understand… it’s *Mum*,” I choked out.
“Oh yes, *Mum*,” she mimicked, slamming the pot onto the table. “Eighty-four years she had. Most don’t make it past seventy.”
I looked up at her with swollen, red eyes.
“How can you say that? She adored you—treated you like her own daughter.”
“Adored me?” Margaret scoffed. “Especially when she lectured me about how to cook or raise the kids. Thirty years I put up with that.”
She sat opposite me and poured herself a bowl of soup, eating heartily despite the fact we’d just buried my mother that afternoon.
“Enough moping,” she said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “No use crying over spilt milk. Better think about what to do with her flat. We ought to sell it before prices drop.”
I stood so fast my chair clattered to the floor.
“Are you *mad*? She’s barely cold in the ground, and you’re already on about money?”
“Well, when *should* we think of it?” she replied calmly, still eating. “In a year? Five? The place is sitting empty, bills piling up. Be *practical*, John.”
I gripped my head. These past weeks had felt like a nightmare. Mum had been ill for months—I’d spent every day at the hospital, holding her hand. Margaret? Never once. Always an excuse.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“Bit of a cold—don’t want to pass it on.”
“Work’s mad; I can’t get away.”
And now, with Mum gone, all she cared about was the inheritance.
“I’m going to bed,” I muttered, heading for the door.
“Now?” she called after me. “Eat something—it’ll do you good.”
“Not hungry.”
“Suit yourself. Your body needs fuel.”
I stepped onto the balcony, the brisk October air stinging my cheeks. Below, children played in the courtyard—life carrying on as if nothing had changed. But inside, I was hollow.
Mum was the last thread to my childhood, to being *needed*. Margaret had never understood. To her, my mother was just another chore.
The balcony door creaked open.
“John, come in before you freeze,” she said, handing me a steaming mug. “Drink this.”
My hands trembled as I took it.
“Tell me honestly, Maggie… did you *ever* care for her?”
She shrugged. “What does it matter now? We got on, didn’t we?”
“Got on,” I echoed. “Yeah. We just… *got on*.”
For a second, something flickered in her eyes—something like worry.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You unhappy?”
“I don’t know anymore,” I admitted.
We stood there in silence. She hugged her dressing gown tight while I sipped the scalding tea.
“Remember when Mum taught you to make Yorkshire puddings?” I asked suddenly.
“Ugh. Never let me forget—‘Too thin, too thick, wrong pan.’”
“Or when little Tommy first called her ‘Granny’?”
“Well, all grandparents love that.”
I set down the empty cup.
“Remember last winter when she had pneumonia? You brought her broth every day.”
She went quiet. Because she *hadn’t*. That was *me*—while she’d stayed home moaning to her friends about how I neglected *her*.
“Let’s go in,” she said. “It’s freezing.”
That evening, my son Tom arrived with his wife, Emily. They looked uneasy—death wasn’t something their generation faced often.
“Dad, how are you holding up?” Tom hugged me.
“Getting by, son.”
“Granny was… she was really special.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, throat tightening.
Emily shifted awkwardly. “We’re so sorry, Mr. Wilson. She was a lovely woman.”
“Thank you, lass.”
Margaret bustled in with a tray. “Sit down, tea’s ready. Got a walnut cake, too.”
“Mum… maybe not the time for cake?” Tom said carefully.
“And when *is* the time?” she countered. “Life goes on. Can’t grieve forever.”
She sliced the cake with brisk efficiency, as if this were any normal Sunday.
“Actually,” she told Emily, “we were thinking—why don’t you two take Granny’s flat? Save you renting.”
Tom and Emily exchanged glances.
“Mum, bit soon for that,” Tom said.
“Why? It’s a good place—central, near the tube. Perfect for you.”
I slammed my hands on the table.
“*Enough*, Margaret! We buried her *today*!”
“John, don’t shout,” she said calmly. “I’m just being practical.”
“Practical! God forbid you *feel* something!”
Her lips thinned. “And what good’s *feeling* going to do? Won’t bring her back.”
“Respect, Margaret! Just a little *respect*!”
“We *paid* our respects. At the funeral, at the wake. What more do you want?”
Tom grabbed my arm. “Dad, please—”
“You don’t *get* it!” I wrenched free and stormed out.
Later, in bed, the ceiling spun above me. I thought of Mum’s last days—her frail hand in mine, her whisper:
“Johnny… don’t be hard on Maggie. She’s a good wife, just… set in her ways.”
Even then, she’d made excuses for the woman who couldn’t even be bothered to say goodbye.
Tom found me later.
“She was brilliant, Dad. Remember her roast dinners? Made them look easy. Mum could never manage it.”
I turned to him. “Tom… why’s your mother like this?”
He sighed. “Dunno. Some people just… don’t feel things like we do.”
Downstairs, Margaret and Emily laughed.
“Hear that?” I said softly. “*Laughing*. On the day we buried her.”
Tom left with a promise to call. The house settled into silence—Margaret humming as she washed up, the telly murmuring.
As if nothing had happened.
At breakfast, Margaret chattered about probate.
“Best sort the flat quickly,” she said, buttering toast. “No time to dally.”
I sipped my tea.
“Remember when we met?” she asked suddenly.
“At the factory canteen.”
“You were so shy—went red every time I spoke to you.”
“Ancient history,” I muttered.
She reached for my hand. “We need to move forward, John. Life *does* go on.”
“Forward where?”
“Living, working, grandkids someday.”
I studied her—this woman I’d spent decades with. The mother of my son. A stranger in my bed.
“Do you love me, Margaret?”
She blinked. “What sort of question is that? Of *course* I do.”
“But *how*?”
“We’re *family*, John. That’s what matters.”
*Family.*
I left for work in a daze. On the bus, commuters scrolled phones, laughed with friends. The world hadn’t stopped.
I didn’t go straight home that night. I visited the grave, straightened the wilting flowers.
“Sorry, Mum,” I whispered. “I never stood up for you.”
When I got back, Margaret scowled.
“Your dinner’s ruined!”
“Was at the cemetery.”
“What for? We went *yesterday*.”
“Needed to.”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly. Dead don’t care, John.”
We ate in silence. Later, as she snored, I stared into the dark.
Maybe she was right. Maybe you *do* just… move on. But then what’s left? What’s love, memory, grief, if you can laugh over cake hours after a funeral?
Or maybe—just maybe—some people never loved at all.
And that’s the worst truth of all.
**Lesson Learned:** Grief isn’t a burden shared equally. Some carry it like a weight; others shrug it off like an old coat. And no amount of years together guarantees understanding. Sometimes, the person beside you is the furthest away.
