A Heart-to-Heart
Christmas was just around the corner, and the city buzzed with festive chaos. Shopping centres glowed warm and bright, packed with last-minute shoppers rushing to grab gifts. The same holiday tune blared from every speaker—cheerful, predictable, and slightly overplayed.
But Emily felt anything but merry. This year had been tough for her and her mother, Margaret. They’d been learning to live without her father. Emily was grown now—married, with a ten-year-old son, Oliver. She hadn’t lived with her parents for years, but the loss still weighed heavy.
Her father was gone.
A year ago, just before Christmas, he’d passed away. The grief had hit Emily so hard she hadn’t even noticed, at first, how much worse it was for her mum.
James Williamson had been kind, devoted—the sort of husband and father who set the bar impossibly high. A university economics lecturer, he treated his students like family.
“They’re all my kids,” he’d say, chuckling. “Never had a cross word with any of ’em. After all these years, not one complaint. We work through things together, and everyone’s happier for it.”
“You’ve got quite the reputation, Dad,” Emily would tease.
He loved old films, had a laugh that filled the room, and adored taking walks with her when she was little. Weekends were for family outings—cinema trips, park strolls, holidays where the three of them were inseparable.
Emily had grown up watching the way her father doted on Margaret, and she’d found a husband cut from the same cloth. Daniel was steady, kind—the sort of man who made her feel safe. They lived in a flat her parents had helped them buy. Life had been good.
Then, three years ago, James was diagnosed with cancer out of the blue. Margaret and Emily were shattered. He tried to reassure them.
“Don’t worry, my girls,” he’d say, forcing a smile. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.” But his eyes had lost their spark.
A year ago, he was gone.
“I can’t live without him.”
The memory clawed at Emily—the thud of frozen earth on the coffin, her mother’s sobs, the hollow clink of glasses at the wake.
Now, she lived in constant fear for Margaret. After the funeral, they’d returned to the empty flat, and Margaret had walked straight to James’s armchair—his spot—and collapsed into it, silent, staring. Emily had knelt beside her, gripping her cold hands.
“What can’t you do, Mum?”
Margaret had looked at her, dazed, as if the question made no sense. Then, quietly:
“Live without him. I can’t.”
That was the moment Emily realised—no matter how much she hurt, her mother’s pain was worse.
A year had passed since then. Slowly, painfully, they’d adjusted. Emily stopped expecting his voice on the phone. She missed seeing his silver hair lit by the tiple in his favourite chair. Now, there was just absence, aching and sharp. She kept waiting for the grief to dull, but instead, fear for her mother gnawed at her.
“God, just let her be okay,” she’d whisper in the dark, the thought following her everywhere.
She called Margaret constantly—not at night, but mornings, afternoons, evenings. The dread was unbearable.
“Emily, stop torturing yourself,” Daniel would soothe. “Look at you—you’re exhausted. She’ll be alright. It just takes time.”
“You’re probably right,” Emily would sigh. “But she’s not herself anymore. So quiet. Always lost in thought. I don’t know what’s going on in her head. Maybe I should invite her over.”
She’d dialled, and Margaret had answered, voice thin.
“Yes, love?”
“Mum, come stay with us. It’s Saturday—we could take Oliver to the park, or wherever you like. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“No, darling. I’d rather stay here. I’m not alone—I’m with your father, in my thoughts.”
“That’s exactly why you should come. Please.”
But Margaret refused.
Hanging up, Emily turned to Daniel.
“How do I get her out of that house? Even when I visit, she won’t leave.”
“Patience, Em. She just needs more time.”
The Worry
Today marked a year since James’s death. Christmas loomed—another milestone. Life went on.
Emily called Margaret that morning. No answer. She tried again. And again. The line rang, but her mother didn’t pick up. That wasn’t like her. Panic kicked in.
Keys in hand, she bolted out the door. The lift took too long, so she took the stairs, heart hammering.
“Please, please let her be okay,” she whispered, fumbling with the key.
The flat was eerily still. Spotless. On the kitchen table, a note:
*”My darling girl, I love you more than anything. No matter what happens, remember that.”*
Emily’s legs gave way. She slumped onto a chair, the words swimming.
*I knew it. I knew this would happen.*
A teacup sat nearby, still warm.
*She only just left. Maybe there’s time.*
She snatched the keys and ran.
Down the stairs, into the car—*where would she go? The shops? No, not with that note—*
Then it hit her.
*The cemetery.*
She sped there, ignoring the snow. The place was deserted—who visited graves on Christmas Eve? But then, in the distance, a small, hunched figure by a headstone. Margaret.
“Mum!”
Emily sprinted, tears freezing on her cheeks. She crashed into her, holding tight.
“Mum, what were you thinking? What about me?”
Margaret’s hands—warm, familiar—cupped her face, wiping the tears.
“I’m sorry, my love. So sorry. I thought I could… but I miss him, Emily. So much. But I stopped—I thought of you.”
“Don’t you ever do that. We’ll get through this—together. I can’t lose you too.”
Margaret nodded, shaky but clear. “I promise. It was madness. I won’t—never again. We’ll live. Your dad would want that.”
“Good. I believe you.”
“Now, love, let me talk to him alone. Wait for me by the gates.”
Emily trudged to a bench, brushing off snow. Shivering, she watched flakes settle on headstones, the iron gates creaking faintly.
*Let her grieve. Let it out. She needs this.*
Eventually, Margaret approached, head down. But then she smiled—small, but real.
“It’s alright, darling. We’ll be alright.”
They drove home in silence. Christmas was coming. And life, somehow, would go on.
