“What are you on about, Mum?!” Emily’s voice cracked as she gripped the back of the chair. “What do you mean, ‘no daughter of mine’? I *am* your daughter!”
“Don’t raise your voice at me!” Margaret barely glanced up from her newspaper, waving a dismissive hand. “I said what I said. And who do you think you are, telling me what to do?”
“Mum, what’s got into you?” Daniel, Emily’s husband, burst into the room. “The neighbours are banging on the walls!”
“Let them bang,” the old woman muttered. “It’s my house. I’ll say what I like.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, her legs suddenly weak. It had started with something trivial—she’d asked her mother not to throw out the leftover soup, planning to heat it up tomorrow. But the words that followed had left her reeling.
“Mum, maybe your blood pressure’s up?” Emily ventured cautiously. “Have you taken your pills?”
“What’s blood pressure got to do with it?” Margaret finally set the paper down, her gaze icy. “I meant every word. You’re no daughter of mine. Never have been.”
Daniel exchanged a glance with his wife. In thirty years of knowing his mother-in-law, he’d seen her in every mood—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. Enough of this charade—playing at happy families!”
Emily’s breath hitched. A lump rose in her throat, her mind racing: *Did she mean it? Had she resented me all along?*
“Mum, please,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ve always been here. When you were ill, I cared for you. I helped with money, brought groceries…”
“That’s just it!” Margaret stood abruptly, the paper fluttering to the floor. “Pity! You did it out of obligation. What good’s that to me?”
“Pity?!” Emily gaped. “Mum, I *love* you!”
“Liar!” Margaret turned to the window, staring into the garden. “No one loves me. Not even you.”
Daniel squeezed Emily’s hand. She was pale, shaking.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he murmured. “Give her space.”
“No.” Emily stood. “Mum, explain this. Why are you saying these things?”
Margaret turned slowly, a bitter smirk twisting her lips. “What’s to explain? You think I don’t know what you say about me? ‘Old,’ ‘sick,’ ‘a burden’—”
“I’ve *never* said that!”
“Don’t lie!” Margaret waved her off. “I heard you and Daniel whispering in the kitchen. Thought I wouldn’t notice? My hearing’s sharper than you think.”
Daniel frowned, wracking his memory. What could they have said to wound her so deeply?
“What did we say?” he asked.
“Don’t play dumb!” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “About putting me in a home. About how I’m in the way.”
Emily gasped. They *had* discussed it—but not to abandon her. Margaret had left the hob on twice last month, forgotten neighbours she’d known for years.
“Mum, we’d never send you away,” Emily pleaded. “We were worried—”
“Spare me the excuses!” Margaret cut in. “I’ve had enough of your hollow concern!”
“Margaret, we *love* you,” Daniel insisted. “Emily nursed you through pneumonia. Stayed up nights—”
“Out of *duty*!” Margaret snapped. “Not love. Never love.”
Emily’s tears welled. How could she say that? She’d sacrificed so much—time with her own children, her own exhaustion—always putting her mother first.
“Mum, what did I do wrong?” Her voice broke.
“What did you do *right*?” Margaret sank back into her armchair. “You live your life, drop by when it suits you, ask after my health like it’s a chore. Think that’s enough?”
“But I call *every day*! I manage your pills, your appointments—”
“Like a checklist!” Margaret shook her head. “Where’s your *heart*? When did you last visit just to talk? Just to *be* with me?”
Emily faltered. It was true—lately, every visit had been errands: prescriptions, bills, repairs.
“Mum, I’ve got my family, my job—”
“Exactly!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “You have everything. And I have *no one*. Just these four walls, waiting for my daughter to *grace* me with a visit!”
“Then *move in* with us! We’ve asked a dozen times!”
“And be a burden? Watch my grandchildren resent me? Hear my son-in-law sigh every time I need help?”
Daniel opened his mouth, but Margaret barrelled on.
“You think I don’t see? You rush through every visit like it’s a chore!”
Emily covered her face. The worst part? Margaret wasn’t entirely wrong.
“I *tried* to help,” she whispered.
“Help?” Margaret scoffed. “But did you ever *talk* to me? Not *at* me—*with* me? Ask how I *felt*? Share your *life*?”
“You never seemed interested—”
“*Not interested*?!” Margaret’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. “I *feel* every shift in your mood. See your joy, your pain. But you *hide* it from me.”
Emily looked up. Her mother’s eyes were desperate.
“I didn’t want to burden you.”
“What’s a mother *for*?” Margaret moved to sit beside her. “Just to be fed and medicated?”
Silence hung thick. Daniel lingered by the window, an outsider to this raw, ancient grief.
“You know what hurts most?” Margaret said quietly. “You don’t *see* me. To you, I’m just a task. A duty.”
“That’s not—”
“It *is*. When did you last ask what *I* want? What *I* fear?”
Emily searched her memory—but only logistics came to mind.
“What *do* you want, Mum?” she asked softly.
Margaret gave a wry smile. “Too late for that.”
“Better late than never.”
Margaret stared out the window. “I want to be loved. *Truly* loved. Not out of guilt. I want my daughter to visit because she *misses* me—not checks a box.”
“But I *do* miss you!” Emily grasped her mother’s hand. “I just… don’t know how to show it.”
“Or you won’t.”
“*Can’t*.” Emily’s voice broke. “No one ever taught me.”
Margaret stilled. “What do you mean?”
“Remember how you raised me? ‘Stop crying.’ ‘Don’t fuss.’ ‘Go do something useful.’ When I tried to hug you, you’d say, ‘Not now, I’m busy.’”
Margaret flinched. “I was tired. Working two jobs—”
“I know. But I grew up thinking feelings were a weakness. That you didn’t want them.”
A tear slid down Margaret’s cheek. “I *always* wanted them. I just… didn’t know how to ask.”
They sat, hands clasped. Daniel edged closer, sitting across from them.
“So we’re both daft,” Emily managed through tears.
“Seems so.”
“Mum… when you said I wasn’t yours… what did you mean?”
Margaret turned away. “Just nonsense. Spite.”
“Tell me. *Please*.”
A long pause. Then, softly: “Sometimes I look at you and think… ‘Who *is* this woman?’ Like there’s a wall between us.”
Emily squeezed her hand. “*We* built that wall. Me with my silence. You with your pride.”
“…Aye.”
“Can we tear it down?”
Margaret met her eyes. “Don’t know. But we can try.”
“Then let’s try. No pretending.”
“No pretending.”
Emily held tighter. “Mum… do you know I panic every time I come over? Terrified you’ll be ill, or—or *gone*?”
Margaret’s breath caught. “No.”
“And I’m *afraid* I’m failing you. That you’re disappointed.”
“Why?”
“Because I *love* you. And I want you happy.”
Margaret cupped her daughter’s face. “And I thought… you didn’t care.”
“I *do*. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
“You’ll learn.” Margaret’s thumb brushed her cheek. “*We’ll* learn.”
Daniel watched, struck by how much pain could come from words unspoken.
“Now,” Margaret said softly, “tell me what’s *really* in your heart.”
Emily exhaled. “Mum… I’m so *And as the teacups emptied and the evening light faded, mother and daughter sat together, no longer strangers but bound by the quiet understanding that love, after all, had always been there—waiting to be spoken.
