**Diary Entry – 18th March, 2023**
That afternoon, a woman I hadnt seen in five years stood at my door. Margaret Whitmore. In our little village of Willowbrook, folks called her “the Duchess” behind her back. Not because she married into nobilityno, but for her bearing, that sharp gaze sharper than any surgeons blade, and pride enough to fence our whole village three times over. She carried herself straight-backed, chin high, as if she walked not on our muddy lanes but on palace parquet. She kept to herself, nodding curtly over her shoulderthat was the extent of her conversations.
And there she was, on the threshold of my clinic, a shadow of herself. Her spine was still rigid from habit, but her eyeshunted, hollow. Shed pulled her floral scarf low over her brow, as if hiding. Hesitated, unable to cross.
“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No use letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for aspirin.”
She stepped inside, perched on the stool by the hearth, hands folded on her knees. Always immaculate hands, but nowdry, cracked, fingers trembling. Silent. I didnt rush her. Poured her teapeppermint and lime blossomset it before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm your soul.”
She took the cup, eyes glistening. No tears fellpride held them backbut they pooled like still water in a well.
“Im all alone, Dr. Bennett,” she whispered at last, voice frayed. “I cant bear it. Sprained my wrist last weekthank God its not brokenbut it aches like the devil. Cant fetch wood or water. And my back”
Her words spilled out, murky and bitter as a spring brook. I listened, nodding, but saw not her present miserybut the past. Five years ago, when laughter filled her house, the finest in Willowbrook. Her only son, Edward, tall and capable, brought home a bride. Emily.
A quiet girl, an angel. Edward found her in London. Clear, trusting eyes. Honey-blonde hair in a thick braid. Hands slender but skilled. Any man wouldve loved herbut why Margaret loathed her, no one understood.
Loathed her from day one. “Sits wrong, looks wrong.” The roast wasnt brown enough, the floors not scrubbed enough. “Wastes sugar in the compote.” “Pulled up the nettles for soup, useless girl.”
Edward defended her at first, then wilted. A mothers boy, always under her wing. Tossed between them like a leaf in the wind. Emily never fought back. Just grew thinner, paler. Once, by the village well, I caught her eyes brimming.
“Why endure it, dear?” I asked.
She smiled bitterly. “Where would I go, Dr. Bennett? I love him. Maybe shell soften…”
She didnt. The last straw was an heirloom tablecloth, hand-stitched by Margarets mother. Emily washed it carelessly; the embroidery faded. Oh, the scene that followedshouts heard clear down the lane.
That night, Emily left. No fuss, no drama. By dawn, Edward was frantic. Found her in London, they saymarried, a daughter born. Never visited his mother. Not a word. As if cut away.
Margaret pretended indifference. “Good riddance,” shed snap. “Useless girl, and a son who trades his mother for a skirt.” But she aged overnight. Withered. Alone in her spotless house, cold as an operating theatre. Now she sat before me, pride stripped like husk from an onion. Just an old, sick, lonely woman.
Boomerangs dont fly from malicethey circle back to where theyre thrown.
“No one needs me, Dr. Bennett,” she whispered, a single tear trailing. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont say such things,” I chided, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living. Let me give you an injectionease your back.”
I did. Rubbed her spine with liniment. She straightened slightly.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Never thought kindness would find me.”
She left, but a stone sat in my chest. I treat ailments, but somelike lonelinesshave no pill or needle. Their cure is another heart.
For days, I agonized. Thenthrough contacts in townI found Edwards number. My hands shook dialing. What would I say?
“Edward, hello. Dr. Bennett from Willowbrook. Am I interrupting?”
Silence. Then
“Hello, Dr. Bennett.” Older now, voice roughened. “Is something wrong?”
“Your mothers failing. Alone. Too proud to admit it…”
More silence. Then Emilys voice, gentle but firm: “Let me.”
“Dr. Bennett, how bad is she?”
I told her. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Emily listened.
“Thank you for calling. Well come. Saturday. Dont tell herlet it be a surprise.”
Such a heart. Cast out, scornedyet no bitterness. Only pity. A force stronger than pride.
Saturday dawned grey and damp. I visited Margaret under pretense of checking her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring. House pristine, but lifeless.
“Waiting for the grocers van?” I teased.
“Waiting for death,” she mutteredyet her eyes flicked to the lane.
Afternoon brought a carnot the van, but a sedan. Edward stepped out, broader now. Opened the rear door: Emily, holding their four-year-old, Lucy, in a pink coat like marshmallow.
Edward hesitated, jaw tight. Emily touched his arm, whispered. They walked to the gate. Its creak seemed to shift time itself.
I didnt witness the reunionbut an hour later, smoke curled from Margarets chimney. Thick, hearty. By evening, golden light glowed in the window. Warm. Alive.
Next day, I visited. The house brimmedpies baking, childs laughter. Edward chopped wood outside. Emily bustled in the kitchen. Lucy played by the hearth with a kitten.
Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl, watching. Not glaring*seeing*. Her mask had cracked, revealing just a tired woman with laugh lines.
She smilednot with lips, but eyes. “Come in, Dr. Bennett. Emilys made pies.”
Emily hugged me like family. “Join us for tea.”
We sat. No awkwardness, no old wounds. Just warmth, pastry scent, and a childs giggle. Edward sat beside his mother, laid his calloused hand over hers. She didnt pull away. Just trembled.
They stayed a week. Mended the house, stocked firewood. On leaving, Margaret stood on the step, frail. Lucy hugged her knees.
“Granny, will you visit us?”
Margaret broke. Bent, clutched the girl, weeping softly as autumn rain. “Forgive me silly old woman…”
Emily embraced them both. “Well come back, Mum. I promise.”
**Lesson learned:** Pride builds the highest wallsbut love holds the only key.
