That day, a woman came to my door whom I hadnt seen in five years. Margaret Whitmore. In our little village of Willowbrook, people called her “the Generals Wife” behind her backnot because she was married to a military man, but for her bearing, her piercing gaze sharper than any scalpel, and the pride that could have fenced in our entire village three times over. She always walked with her back straight, chin raised, as if she werent treading on our muddy lanes but gliding across a palaces polished floors. She never made friends, just nodded over her shoulderthat was the extent of her conversations.
And there she stood on the threshold of my clinic, utterly unlike herself. Her spine was still straight from habit, but her eyes held a trapped, hunted sorrow. Shed pulled her floral scarf down to her eyebrows, as if to hide. She hesitated, unable to cross the doorstep.
“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No use letting the cold inside. I can see you didnt come for aspirin.”
She stepped in and perched on the stool by the hearth, folding her hands in her lap. They were always well-kept before, but now the skin was dry and cracked, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. She stayed silent, and I didnt rush her. I poured her teamint and lime blossomand set it before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm your soul.”
She took the cup, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. They didnt fallher pride wouldnt allow itbut they shone like still water in a well.
“Im all alone, Eleanor,” she finally whispered, her voice broken and strange. “I cant bear it. I twisted my wrist yesterdaydidnt break it, thank Godbut the wretched thing aches. Cant fetch firewood or water. And my back its agony. Cant breathe, cant even sigh.”
Her complaints flowed like a bitter, muddy spring stream. I listened, nodding, but in my mind, I saw not her present misery but what had happened five years ago. I remembered laughter in her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, Edwardhandsome, hardworkinghad brought home a bride. Lucy.
She was a quiet angel. Edward had brought her from the city. Clear, trusting eyes. Thick blond braid down her back. Slender hands, but no stranger to work. Anyone could see why Edward loved her. What no one understood was why Margaret despised her.
But she did, from the very first day. Nothing Lucy did was right. Wrong way of sitting, wrong way of looking. Her soup wasnt red enough; her floors werent clean enough. If she made compote: “Wasted all the sugar, spendthrift.” If she weeded the garden: “Pulled up the nettles for soup, useless girl.”
At first, Edward defended her, but soon he wilted. A mothers boy, always sheltered under her wing. He wavered between them like an aspen leaf in the wind. And Lucy? She never spoke. Just grew thinner, paler each day. Once, I met her by the well, her eyes brimming.
“Why do you put up with it, dear?” I asked.
She gave me a bitter smile. “Where else would I go, Aunt Ellie? I love him. Maybe shell grow used to me take pity.”
She never did. The last straw was an embroidered tablecloth, a family heirloom from Margarets mother. Lucy washed it carelessly, and the pattern faded. Oh, the scene that followed The whole street heard the shouting.
That same night, Lucy left. Quietly, without a fuss. Edward woke to find her gonesearched frantically, then turned on his mother, his eyes dry and terrible.
“You did this,” was all he said. “You killed my happiness.”
And he left too. Rumor had it he found Lucy in the city, married her, had a little girl. But he never visited his mother. No letters, no calls. As if cut off.
At first, Margaret held her head high. “Good riddance,” she told the neighbors. “That girl was never good enough, and if my son chooses a skirt over his mother, so be it.” But she aged overnight, withered. Alone in her spotless house, cold as an operating theatre. And now she sat before me, all her Generals Wife pride stripped away like onion skin. Just an old, sick, lonely woman. A boomerang doesnt fly with maliceit just circles back to where it was thrown.
“No one needs me, Eleanor,” she whispered, a single tight-lipped tear sliding down. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont say such wicked things,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not ending. Let me give you an injectionease your back. Then well see.”
I gave her the shot, rubbed her spine with strong-smelling balm. She seemed to revive a little, shoulders straightening.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” she murmured. “Never thought Id see kindness again.”
She left, but my heart stayed heavy. I can treat illnesses, but some have no cureno pill, no injection. This ones called loneliness. And the only medicine is another person.
For two days, I agonized. Then I found Edwards number through friends in town. My hands shook as I dialed. What would I say?
“Edward, hello,” I began. “Its Aunt Ellie from Willowbrook. Am I interrupting?”
Silence. Then, at last: “Hello, Aunt Ellie. Is everything all right?”
“Its your mother, lad. Shes failing. Ill, but too proud to show it.”
Another pause. I heard Lucy in the background, then her voicegentle but firm now: “Let me talk.”
“Hello, Aunt Ellie! How bad is she?”
I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Lucy listened without interrupting.
“Thank you for calling,” she said firmly. “Well come. Expect us Saturday. But dont tell her. Let it be a surprise.”
What a heart that woman had. Cast out, insulted, yet not an ounce of bitterness left. Just pity. A mighty force, stronger than any grudge.
Saturday came, gray and damp. I visited Margaret under the pretense of checking her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring blankly. The house was immaculate, but lifelesscold as a tomb.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked.
“Whod visit me?” she muttered. “Only Death, if shes polite.”
Yet her eyes kept flicking to the road. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.
I left, watching the clock. After lunch, a car pulled upnot the grocers van, but a proper motor. My heart leapt. Edward stepped out, broader now, more grown. He opened the back door, and out came Lucy, holding a little girl of about four in a pink coat, fluffy as marshmallow.
Edward hesitated, jaw tight. Lucy took his arm, whispered something, and they walked to the gate. Its creak sounded like rusted time shifting.
I didnt see what happened inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from the chimneythick, hearty. The stove was lit. By evening, warm yellow light glowed in the window. So homely, it brought tears.
Next day, I visited under the same excuse. The house was alivesmelling of cabbage pies and something faintly childish. Edward chopped wood outside; Lucy bustled in the kitchen. By the hearth, their daughter, Sophie, played with a kitten.
And Margaret? Wrapped in a shawl, watchingnot glaringbut really *seeing*: Lucys deft hands, Sophies earnest face, Edwards strong back through the window. Her expression as if someone had peeled off a hard, icy mask, leaving just a tired womans facewrinkled, but alive.
She saw me and smilednot with her lips, but her eyes.
“Come in, Eleanor. Lucys spoiling us with pies.”
Lucy turned, smiling as if I were family. “Join us, Aunt Ellie. Teas almost ready.”
We sat together. No awkward silence, no old grudges. Just warmth from the stove, the scent of baking, and a childs quiet laughter. Edward came in, sat beside his mother, and simply laid his big hand over her thin one. She didnt pull away. Just shivered and went still.
They stayed a week. In that time, the house woke upfilled with noise, smells, bustle. Edward chopped enough wood for winter; they cleared the cellar, fixed what had broken over the years.
On their last day, Margaret stood on the porch to see them off, small and bent. Sophie hugged her knees.
“Grandma, will you visit us?”
Margaret broke then. She crouched, hugged the girl, and weptsoftly, like autumn rain.
“Forgive me Forgive this foolish old woman”
Lucy embraced them both. “We
