Margaret Whitmore gazed out the bus window at the familiar streets of Manchester sliding past. Every morning followed the same routine—the same commute, the same stops, the same faces of fellow passengers. Only today was different. Today marked the end of an era.
In her handbag lay her letter of resignation, tucked neatly beside her glasses case. Standard wording, nothing out of the ordinary. But behind those formal phrases lay a story Margaret still struggled to believe.
The bus slowed near the shopping precinct where her son’s office stood. The very firm she’d worked at as an accountant for four years. The firm her son, James, had built fresh out of university with her support.
“Mum, are you sure about this?” James had asked the night before, frowning at the letter in her hands. “Maybe take some time to think?”
“I’ve thought, love,” she’d replied. “This is for the best.”
Now, climbing the stairs to the office, Margaret felt her chest tighten. Four years of her life, four years of hard work—gone in an instant.
It had all started the day James brought Lucy home. A bright, striking young woman with a degree in finance. Margaret had adored her instantly, thrilled her son had found someone so sharp and kind.
“Mum, this is Lucy,” James had said, beaming. “My fiancée.”
“Lovely to meet you, Margaret,” Lucy had smiled, grasping her hand. “James talks about you all the time.”
They married a year later—a modest, heartfelt ceremony. Margaret had baked, decorated, and organised like a woman possessed. She wanted it perfect for them.
After the wedding, Lucy moved into their semi-detached in Stockport. Small, but enough for them all. Margaret had always dreamed of a bustling home, of grandchildren filling the rooms.
“Mum, what if Lucy joined the firm?” James had asked over Sunday roast. “She’s got the qualifications—could really help us grow.”
“Of course,” Margaret had agreed. “The more brains, the better.”
Lucy started in sales—sharp, ambitious, bringing in clients within weeks. The business thrived, profits climbed, and Margaret swelled with pride.
Then, one afternoon, Lucy appeared in her office.
“Margaret, got a minute?”
“Always, darling. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking—we should modernise the accounts. Switch to cloud software, streamline processes.”
Margaret nodded. She’d known the old ways were fading.
“You’re right, love. But at my age, new systems aren’t easy. My hands aren’t as quick, my memory—”
“Don’t worry,” Lucy interrupted smoothly. “I’ll help. We’ll figure it out.”
And she did. Patiently guiding Margaret through spreadsheets and digital ledgers. Margaret tried—oh, how she tried—but the technology refused to cooperate.
James encouraged her, praised her effort. Yet as the firm expanded, the paperwork multiplied. Late nights became routine.
“Mum, how are you holding up?” James asked one evening.
“Managing, love. Though I won’t lie—it’s getting harder.”
“Why don’t we hire another accountant?”
“Waste of money,” Lucy countered. “Margaret’s experienced—she’ll adjust. Just needs time.”
Then came the corrections—small at first. A missed deadline here, a misfiled invoice there.
“Margaret, you must be more careful,” Lucy chided. “Errors reflect badly on us all.”
“I’ll try, love.”
Margaret triple-checked everything, worked till her eyes burned. But mistakes still crept in. Age was a cruel thief.
“James, we need to talk,” Lucy murmured one night, unaware Margaret was listening.
“About?”
“Your mother. She’s falling behind. Late submissions, calculation errors—it’s affecting the business.”
“Lucy, that’s not fair. Mum works tirelessly.”
“Tirelessly isn’t the same as efficiently. We can’t carry dead weight, even family.”
Dead weight. The words carved through Margaret like ice.
The next morning, James hovered in her office doorway, guilt etched on his face.
“Mum… things are changing. Regulations tightening. Maybe it’s time you… stepped back?”
“You mean resign?”
“It’s not like that. You’ve earned a break.”
Margaret forced a smile. “Lucy thinks I’m not pulling my weight.”
James flushed. “It’s not just her. The workload’s too much now.”
And so, she wrote the letter. Hands trembling, ink smudging where silent tears fell.
That evening, Lucy was all warmth, serving Margaret’s favourite beef and ale pie.
“James said you’re retiring. Such a wise choice—now you’ll have time for gardens, books…”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh! And grandchildren! We’re trying soon.”
Margaret’s heart clenched. A consolation prize—unpaid nanny duty.
“Of course, darling. I’d love that.”
James barely spoke, avoiding her eyes. She understood: he’d chosen his wife.
“Why not visit Aunt Ethel?” he suggested. “Country air would do you good.”
Lucy nodded eagerly. “Change of scene works wonders.”
Aunt Ethel, ten years older, wiser—living in a Cotswolds cottage.
Margaret packed the next day. At the office, she trained her replacement—Anna, twenty-five, clicking through software like second nature.
“James says you helped build this place,” Anna said brightly.
“I did,” Margaret murmured, boxing up her desk. A “World’s Best Accountant” mug. Photos of team outings.
James walked her to the bus stop. “Mum… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, love. Time marches on.”
But the hurt lingered as the bus pulled away.
Home was hollow. Lucy was out; James at work. Margaret brewed tea, staring at the silent telly. All this free time—why did it feel like a sentence?
The phone rang. Aunt Ethel’s gruff voice cut through.
“Margie? You sound rough. Spill it.”
Margaret did. Ethel listened, then barked: “Get here. Tomorrow.”
Dinner that night was strained. James and Lucy chattered about expansion while Margaret picked at her food.
“Mum, excited for the countryside?” Lucy asked.
“Very.”
Morning came. Margaret wheeled her suitcase past James’s childhood photos, his graduation portrait—her life’s work, boxed into memories.
The coach rolled out, Manchester shrinking behind her. Sixty years old, starting again.
Perhaps Aunt Ethel would have answers.
Or perhaps Margaret would finally learn to live for herself.
