Margaret Whitmore gazed out the bus window at the familiar streets of Manchester. Every morning, the same journey to work, the same bus stops, the same commuters’ faces. Only today was different. Today marked her final commute.
In her handbag lay a letter of resignation. The wording was standard, nothing unusual. Yet behind those words lay a story so painful, Margaret still struggled to believe it was happening.
The bus halted near the shopping centre where her son’s office was located. The very office where she had worked as an accountant for four years. The very business James had founded fresh out of university—with her support and small savings.
“Are you sure, Mum?” James had asked the night before when she handed him the letter. “You could think it over.”
“I’m certain, love,” she had replied. “This is best for everyone.”
Now, climbing the steps to the office, Margaret felt her chest tighten. Four years of her life, four years of hard work, four years of pride in her son’s achievements—all slipping away.
It had begun the day James brought home Sophie. A bright, beautiful girl with a degree in economics. Margaret had liked her immediately, relieved her son had found someone worthy.
“Mum, this is Sophie,” James had said, beaming. “My fiancée.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Margaret,” Sophie had extended her hand warmly. “James talks about you so much.”
They married a year later. A modest but heartfelt ceremony. Margaret had prepared the food herself, decorated the hall, bustling about like a mother hen, determined to make it perfect.
After the wedding, Sophie moved into their small two-bed terrace. Margaret had always dreamed of a house full of family, of grandchildren’s laughter.
“Mum, what if Sophie joined the firm?” James had suggested one evening. “With her economics background, she could really help us grow.”
“Of course,” Margaret had agreed. “The more good minds, the better.”
Sophie started as a sales manager. Ambitious, driven, she quickly proved her worth, bringing in new clients and boosting profits. The business expanded, hiring more staff, moving to a larger office.
“Margaret, could we talk?” Sophie had asked one day, stepping into the accounts office.
“Of course, dear. What’s on your mind?”
“I was thinking—perhaps we should modernise the accounting systems? Switch to digital software, automate processes.”
Margaret had nodded. She knew the old ways were becoming outdated.
“You’re right, Sophie. But at my age, learning new programs isn’t easy. My hands aren’t what they were, and my memory…”
“Don’t worry,” Sophie had smiled. “I’ll help. We’ll manage together.”
And she had helped—patiently explaining, repeating things when needed. Margaret did her best, but technology eluded her.
James encouraged her too, praising her efforts. Meanwhile, the firm kept growing. More employees, more paperwork, more responsibility.
“Mum, are you coping?” he’d ask. “It’s not too much?”
“Getting by, love,” she’d say. Though privately, she was exhausted.
Late nights, work brought home—it wore her down.
“Should we hire another accountant?” James had suggested.
“Why waste money?” Sophie had countered. “Margaret’s experienced. She’ll adjust. It just takes time.”
Soon, Sophie began pointing out mistakes—late reports, calculation errors, outdated filing.
“Margaret, you must be more careful,” she’d say. “Our reputation depends on accuracy.”
“I’ll try, dear.”
She did try. Double-checking figures, working late. Yet mistakes still crept in. Age was unforgiving.
“James, we need to talk,” Sophie had said one evening, unaware Margaret could hear. “About your mother. She can’t keep up. The errors, the delays—it’s harming the business.”
“Sophie, don’t exaggerate. Mum works hard.”
“Hard, but inefficiently. Business is business, James. We can’t carry dead weight, even if it’s family.”
Dead weight. The words had chilled Margaret. This from the girl she’d welcomed like a daughter.
“Mum, how’s work?” James had asked the next day.
“Fine, love. Why?”
“Just wondering. If you’re struggling, say so. We’ll help.”
She hadn’t asked for help. Sophie was right—the workload had outgrown her.
Then came the tax penalties. Sophie made sure Margaret knew whose fault it was.
“Another fine,” she’d announced coldly. “Wrong calculations again.”
“But I checked—”
“Not well enough. This is the third this month.”
James grew quiet, scanning reports with deepening frowns. Sophie’s criticism became relentless.
“We’re losing money, James. Fines, delays—this can’t go on.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A professional accountant. Young, sharp, up-to-date.”
“And Mum?”
“She could retire. At her age, it’s normal.”
Sitting alone in her office, Margaret felt the weight of it all. Once indispensable, now a burden.
“Got a minute, Mum?” James had appeared, uneasy.
“Of course, love.”
He fidgeted, struggling to begin. “The firm’s growing. Standards are higher. Maybe… it’s time you stepped back?”
She smiled sadly. “You mean resign?”
“Not resign—just take a break. You’ve earned it.”
“James, be honest. Sophie thinks I’m failing.”
He looked away. “It’s not just Sophie. The accounts need… expertise now.”
“Expertise I don’t have.”
“It’s not that—things just move so fast these days.”
She turned to the window. Below, people hurried about their lives. Needed. Useful.
“Alright, James. I’ll write my notice.”
“Mum, this isn’t us pushing you out—”
“I know, love. You’re doing what’s best for the business.”
“We’ll help with money. You know that.”
“I know.”
He left. She wrote the letter, hands shaking. Four years, reduced to a single page.
That evening, Sophie was unusually kind.
“Made your favourite roast, Margaret.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“James told me you’re retiring. Wise decision. Now you’ll have time for yourself.”
“If you say so.”
“And perhaps grandchildren? We’re thinking of starting a family soon.”
Grandchildren. Once her dream. Now it sounded like unpaid employment.
“I’d love to help.”
James avoided her eyes at dinner, guilty but resigned. She understood—he had chosen Sophie.
“Why not visit Aunt Lydia?” he suggested. “You haven’t been in ages.”
“Good idea,” Sophie chimed in. “A change of scene will do you good.”
Lydia lived in a Yorkshire village, ten years Margaret’s senior. A wise woman who’d seen much of life.
“Perhaps I will,” Margaret agreed.
The next day, she trained her replacement—Anna, twenty-five, bright-eyed. Just as Margaret had once been.
“Here’s the filing system,” she explained, hiding her trembling hands.
Anna nodded briskly. “And digital backups?”
“Not all. We used paper mostly.”
By noon, the handover was done. Margaret packed her things—the “Best Accountant” mug James had given her, photos from office parties.
“Thank you for everything,” Anna said. “James told me you helped build this firm.”
“I did. Once.”
“You should be proud.”
Proud? Perhaps. The firm thrived. That was what mattered. Even if she was no longer part of it.
James walked her to the bus stop.
“Don’t be angry, Mum. I know this hurts.”
“I’m not angry. Just… sad. Time passes too quickly.”
The bus arrived. She boarded, waving until he vanished from sight.
Home felt hollow. Sophie was out; James still working. Margaret made tea, sitting alone in her armchair.
For the first time in years, she had hours to fill. Books, walks, television—but none of it appealed.
Only silence, and thoughts of how swiftly life changes.
The phone rang. Aunt Lydia.
“Margie, why so quiet?”
“I’m fine, Lyd.”
“Liar. What’s wrong?”
She told her. Lydia listened without interrupting.
“Come stay with me,” she said finally.
“Perhaps I will.”
The next morning, suitcase packed, Margaret boarded the bus to Yorkshire. In her purse were the pounds James had pressed into her hand. A good son. Loving, but weak. Like his father.
As the bus pulled away, she took one last look at Manchester. Maybe in Yorkshire, she’d find answers.
Or simply learn to live differently. Not for work. Not for family. For herself.
At sixty, it wasn’t too late to begin.
