Theresa was neatly folding the brand-new tea towelssoft linen ones with little rosebudswhen her phone buzzed. She sighed. Three missed calls from Fiona, her colleague from the bookshop. Probably just gossip. Theresa went back to stacking cups, but the phone buzzed again.
“Tess, why arent you picking up?” Fiona blurted. “Did you know Margarets throwing a big do for her diamond anniversary on Saturday?”
Theresa froze, clutching a tea towel.
“Whose anniversary?”
“Margaret! Shes turning eighty. Susan rang meshes going with Dave. Says Margaret sent out invites weeks ago.”
The towel slipped from Theresas fingers. Thirty years married to Nigel, and shed never missed a family event. But now, Margarets milestoneand not a word.
“Maybe it slipped their minds?” Theresa murmured, though she didnt believe it.
“*Slipped*? Susan says theres a seating plan for thirty! Nigels brothers are going, their wives, even the old couple from number twelve.”
Theresa sank onto a kitchen stool. Memories flashed: nursing Margaret through shingles, cancelling her Cornwall trip to help with her hip replacement, babysitting the grandkids when no one else could.
“Listen,” Fiona went on, “its all because of that trifle last Christmas. Remember how you brought the shop-bought one?”
“Fiona, the trifles got *nothing* to do with it. Shes just never really thought of me as family.”
The front door clickedNigel was home. Theresa hastily ended the call.
He wandered in, shaking rainwater from his coat like a spaniel. She studied his familiar face, the crinkles at his eyes. Thirty years. And stillan outsider.
“Nigel, is your mum having a party on Saturday?” she asked, voice steady.
He paused mid-fridge-raid.
“Just a small thing.”
“Why wasnt I told?”
Nigel inspected a yoghurt pot as if it held state secrets.
“Mum wanted it low-key. Just immediate family.”
“*Immediate* family,” Theresa repeated. “And Im not?”
“Tess, dont start. You know how she is.”
“How she *is*?” Theresas fingers tightened around the towel. “Thirty years of her quirks, Nigel! Thats not quirksits its” She flapped a hand, lost for words.
The kettle whistled. Neither moved.
“I looked after her when you were in Birmingham for work. Gave up my holiday so she could get those new teeth. Minded the grandkids when Lucy swanned off to Spain. Thirty years trying. And *this* is the thanks?”
Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Must we tally every favour? Its not a *spreadsheet*, Tess.”
“Im not tallying!” Her voice cracked. “I just want to *belong*. Is that mad?”
He sighed and slumped into a chair.
“Youre overreacting. Mums just set in her ways.”
“Set in her ways? For *thirty people*?” She snatched up a sponge, scrubbing the spotless counter. “Even the Smiths from down the road are invited!”
“How dyou?”
“Does it *matter*? Thirty years, Nigel! What more must I *do*?”
He reached for her hand. She tugged away.
“Tess, you know she still thinks you stole me.”
“*Stole* you?” She barked a laugh. “You were twenty-eight! Not a *teddy bear*!”
She remembered her first visit to Margarets, baking a Victoria sponge from her nans recipe. Margaret had sniffed. “We use *buttercream* in this family.”
“All my life,” Theresa whispered, “Ive bent over backwards. And whats she done? Told the WI I spoilt Oliver. Said my parents raised me common. And youyouve *never* stood up for me.”
“What dyou *want*?” Nigels voice sharpened. “A row with my eighty-year-old mum over *canapés*?”
“Not the *canapés*!” She slammed the sponge down. “The *principle*! That after thirty years, Im still that woman Nigel married!”
Outside, rain streaked the window like tears.
“Tess, dont be dramatic,” Nigel muttered, draping an arm over her stiff shoulders. “Dyou want me to talk to her?”
“Talk?” She shrugged him off. “No, Nigel. If this were the first time, maybe. But this? Its a *gut punch*.”
The next days passed in a fog. At work, Theresa smiled mechanically. At home, silence. Nigel tiptoed around, making tea she didnt drink.
“You know she took *offence* to that trifle,” he ventured over shepherds pie on Thursday. “Thinks you did it *deliberately*.”
“*Deliberately*?” Her fork clattered. “I traipsed to *three* supermarkets for gluten-free custard!”
“But you *know* she only eats jelly on top.”
“Because *Marks was out of sprinkles*!” Her eyes burned. “You honestly think Id sabotage a *trifle*?”
Nigels silence was answer enough.
Friday evening found her in Olivers old room. He was visiting, glued to his phone.
“Ollie, Grandmas do is tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said, thumbs flying. “Dad mentioned.”
“Youre going?”
He finally looked up.
“She *asked* me. Not gonna be rude, am I?”
Theresa swallowed a lump. Even her son didnt see it.
“Of course,” she said softly. “Give her my love.”
Saturday dawned hollow. Nigel and Oliver left in a flurry of wrapped gifts and M&S bouquets. Theresa wandered the empty house. In every photo, Margaret sat slightly apartlips pursed, as if someone had put salt in her tea.
She traced the frame of Ollies wedding photo. There she was in cornflower blue, Nigel beaming beside her, the happy couple radiant. Margaret looked like shed bitten a lemon.
“Even then,” Theresa whispered to the photo. “Even on *his* day.”
She remembered Margaret pulling Nigel aside, loud enough for the vicar to hear: “*At least our Olivers married properly, not like some.*” And Nigel, as ever, saying *nothing*.
That night, they returned tipsy, reeking of Margarets Chanel No. 5.
“Smashing time!” Nigel flopped onto the sofa. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen her face when” He caught her expression. “Er sorry, love.”
Oliver scuttled upstairs.
Nigel fiddled with his cufflinks. “Mum said to say hello.”
“*Hello*?” Theresas nails bit her palms. “She *remembers* I exist?”
“Tess, dont”
“*No*, Nigel!” Her voice shook. “Stop pretending this is *normal*! Your mother *snubbed* me. *Again*. And you just *let it happen*!”
“Im *trying* to keep the peace!”
“*Whose* peace?” She jabbed a finger at him. “Not *mine*! Thirty years, Nigel. Thirty years of her digs, her snubs, her *rules*and youve *never once* had my back!”
She stormed to the bedroom, door rattling in its frame.
Ten days passed. Their conversations became transactional: *Milks low. Posts here.* Oliver left. Life resumedyet something had shifted.
Theresa stopped her Sunday calls to Margaret. Stopped asking after her bunions. Oddly, guilt didnt come. Just relief. Like shrugging off a too-tight coat.
On the eleventh day, her phone lit up: *Margaret Hadley*. Theresa stared. The phone rang. And rang. Finally, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Theresa, darling,” Margaret crooneda tone Theresa had *never* heard. “How *are* you?”
*Darling*. Thirty years, and now *darling*.
“Im well, Margaret. You?”
“Oh, *dreadful*,” Margaret sighed. “Since the party, my sciaticas *agonising*. Doctor says I need hydrotherapy. Nigel mentioned youve savings?”
The penny dropped.
“We were saving for Norfolk,” Theresa said carefully.
“*Dearest*,” Margaret oozed, “you know I think of you as my *own*. Id *never* ask, but”
*Own*. Not once in thirty years. Until *now*.
“Does Nigel know youre asking?”
“Oh, *heavens*, no!” Margaret tittered. “Men fret so. But we *girls* understand, dont we?”
Theresas grip tightened on the phone. Images flashed: handing
