“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned — “These clothes belong to my mum. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, sounding like a stranger. “We need to get rid of them, Dave. They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for our winter duvets and spare pillows—everything’s scattered everywhere.” Olga continued, practically, pulling modest jumpers, skirts, and summer dresses belonging to her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Margaret Ferguson had always hung up her clothes with care to keep them neat—something she’d taught her only son. Olga, on the other hand, forever had chaos in her wardrobes, diving in each morning to hunt for the right blouse, always complaining she had nothing to wear, then furiously attacking the crumpled clothes with her steamer; everything looked like it had been chewed up and spat out. It had only been three weeks since Dave said his final goodbye to his mum. Margaret had needed care—mostly palliative by that point—and peace and quiet. Stage four cancer had taken her in just a month after Dave brought her home. That evening, coming back from work, he found her things strewn in the hallway like unwanted junk, and he froze. Was that it? Was this how his mother’s memory would be treated? Dumped and instantly forgotten? “Why are you staring at me like I’m the enemy, Dave?” Olga shot back. “Don’t touch these things,” Dave hissed through gritted teeth, so furious he lost feeling in his hands for a moment. “What do we want with all this old rubbish?” Olga snapped, growing aggravated. “Want to turn the house into a museum or something? Your mother’s gone, accept it! You should’ve looked after her like this when she was alive—maybe visited more, actually known how ill she was!” Her words hit Dave like a whip. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice trembling. Olga scoffed, “Yeah right. Madman…” Everyone who disagreed with Olga was automatically ‘mental’. Still in his coat, Dave marched to the corridor cupboard, pushed open the top doors, climbed onto a stool, and fetched one of their checkered moving bags—there were about seven from their last move. Carefully, he folded and packed all his mum’s belongings: her jacket, her shoes, each piece handled with care, placed just so. His three-year-old son toddled alongside, dropping his toy tractor into the bag for good measure. Finally, Dave rummaged in the hall drawer, found a key, and pocketed it. “Daddy, where are you going?” Dave smiled sadly, gripping the front door handle. “I’ll be back soon, mate, go to mummy.” “Wait!” Olga called, suddenly anxious. “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, but I’m full up on your attitude towards my mum,” he shot back. “Oh come off it, Dave,” Olga grumbled. “Where are you off to at this hour?” Without responding, Dave left, bag in hand. He started the car, leaving the drive, heading towards the motorway. The stream of cars drowned out every other thought: work stress, holiday plans, the silly Facebook pages he liked to read to unwind. Everything shrank before the heavy, slow-moving thought sludging through his head like a tortoise: only a few things really mattered—his kids, his wife, and his mum. He blamed himself for her death—always busy, always something getting in the way. She’d never wanted to trouble him, so he’d postponed visits, called less, listened less and less. Three-quarters of the way there, he stopped at a roadside diner for a bite, then drove the next three hours straight. Once, he noticed the sunset—a blood-red split in the western sky, like the sun fighting not to slip off the edge of the world. In darkness, he reached the quiet village, dented lanes, and eventually pulled up outside his childhood home. In the dark, everything was unfamiliar. Dave fiddled with the gate, lighting the way with his phone; five missed calls from his wife. Not tonight. Let the mobile stay on silent. Blossoms from the dying cherry tree gave off a sweet, heavy smell, night moths flitting through its ghostly pale petals. Cloudy windows reflected the night sky. Dave unlocked the first door, groped for a switch, and a dusty bulb flickered on. By the door, his mum’s old garden slippers waited. By the next door, leading into the house, her battered blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—the ones he’d bought her for Christmas eight years ago. He paused, staring at them, then shook himself, opened the door, and stepped inside. Hi Mum, were you waiting for me? No—no one in this house waited for him any more. The air held the smell of old pine furniture and a trace of damp. The house was quick to get musty; you had to light the fire constantly, or mould crept in. On the dressing table: her hairbrush, a plain set of cosmetics, a bag of value pasta. In the lounge, the only new thing stood out—a sofa Dave had bought with the telly for his mum. The kitchen fridge, wide open, was empty—no one left to live here now. Mum’s old bedroom opposite—her bed piled with pillows, covered with a crocheted throw. Dave sat on the edge. Once, that had been his room. Mum and Dad used the bigger room down the hall. His brother’s bed had been tucked against the wall, with a desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine occupied that space—Mum adored sewing. She’d swapped the spare bed for a wardrobe, her wardrobe. Dave sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe like a ghost. His eyes glazed over. He put his head in his hands, hunched over, face on his knees, and began to sob—huge, choking, hidden sobs. He sobbed for all the words he’d never said as he sat beside her, holding her hand on her last day. He’d been struck dumb, a statue, watching her fade, a thousand unspoken words stranded in his throat. Mum had whispered, “Don’t look at me like that, Dave… I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her—for his carefree childhood, for her kindness, for sacrifices and love, for always being there, for that feeling of being safe, always welcome, no matter what mistakes he’d made. But he’d just sat, stone-faced, unable to find the words. Sometimes it’s impossible—everything sounds dated, overblown, clumsy to a modern ear. Our times have lost the language for real emotion; it’s all cynicism and sarcasm these days. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep on her bed without undressing, careful not to disturb the neatly made sheets. He found a blanket on the chair. He hadn’t expected sleep to be so easy. In the morning, as always, he woke at seven on the dot—no matter how late he’d stayed awake. Dave collected the bag from the car. Birches lined the lane, dressed in new green leaves, standing like young debutantes of spring. Their branches soaked up the sun, ready to warm the earth. He breathed in the birdsong, the fresh air—so lucky to have grown up here, not in the city. He stretched, loosened up, and hauled the bag to his mum’s wardrobe. One by one, Dave unpacked his mother’s clothes, carefully laying them on the shelves. Hung the dresses and blouses, her shoes lined up below. When he finished, he stepped back. For a moment, he saw her right there, beaming at him, dressed in one of those blouses. She always smiled with that mum’s smile, saying “I love you” without words. He ran a hand over the hanging row of clothes, then hugged the whole lot, breathing in that familiar scent… Stood there, lost. He had no idea what would happen to these things—just that for now, they stayed. Eventually, he remembered the present and rang work. “Hi, Tony, I can’t make it today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a brief message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home this evening. Love you.” Flowers edged the garden path; daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, lilies of the valley near the gooseberry bushes. He gathered a bunch of each, splitting them into three bouquets—there were three waiting for him at the churchyard. Popping by the village shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten. Grabbed some milk, a roll, and a chocolate bar. “Oh, morning, Dave! Back again already?” said the shop lady. “Yeah…just visiting Mum,” he said, looking away. “Right. Want any crumbly cheese? Fresh in from the farmer. Your mum always had some.” He looked at her. Was she having a go? No, just a kind-hearted soul. “Erm, go on then. And you—how are you, Irene?” She waved it off. She’d been Margaret’s mate. “Don’t ask, love. My Terry’s a lost cause—he drinks and drinks.” He ate his breakfast at the graveyard, dividing the bouquets over three gravestones: daffodils, lilies, tulips; brother, father, mother. Brother went first—a fall from a roof, just twenty years old. Dad, five years ago. Now Mum. He left them chocolate, broke off some cheese for Mum. Their faces smiled at him from the photographs on the headstones. He talked to them in his mind. Remembered the mischief with his brother. Remembered going fishing at dawn with Dad, expertly casting the line. Remembered Mum yelling across the lane, “Daaave! Dinner!” in a voice that carried for miles—how he used to cringe in front of his mates. How he wished she’d call him like that now. Dave stood, stroked the wooden cross on his mother’s grave, the earth still fresh and new. “Mum, I’m sorry… I didn’t look after you well enough. We were living our own lives, but without you, it’s just empty. There’s so much I want to say to you, and to you too, Dad. You were the best parents in the world—I’m so grateful… How did you do it? Me and Olga, we’re just selfish. Me, me, me, mine, I want… Thank you for everything. And you too, Charlie, mate, thank you.” Time to go. Dave walked down the path, picking wild grass and chewing the soft stalks. On the first street, he ran into Terry, Irene’s son. Already drunk and down on his luck. “Oi, Dave! Back again?” Terry slurred. “Yeah… Came to see the folks. You still drinking?” “’Course, it’s a holiday.” “What holiday?” Unexpectedly, Terry pulled a tiny page-a-day calendar from his shorts, torn to yesterday’s date. He flipped it. “World Turtle Day! See?” he said proudly. Dave smirked, “Right. Listen, Terry… Look after your mum, she’s a diamond. And she won’t be here forever. Remember that.” He walked on, leaving Terry looking confused. After a moment, Terry called out, “Yeah, alright, mate. Take care, Dave!” “Yeah, goodbye,” Dave replied, not looking back.

“Don’t you dare touch my mum’s things,” said my husband.

“These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth have you packed them up?” asked James, his voice oddly cold and distant.

“We’re throwing them out. Why keep them, James? They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need some space. I want to put the winter duvets and spare pillows in hereits chaos in this house, things everywhere!”

Emily kept on pulling plain cardigans, skirts and light dresses from the hangers, belongings of her late mother-in-law, Jean Parker. Jean used to carefully hang up every piece of clothing, keeping everything neat and tidy. Shed even trained her son to do the same. Emily, on the other hand, had total chaos in her cupboards; every morning was a mad dive for the right top, then shed grumble about having nothing to wear, furiously steaming out the creases from the tops that looked like a cow had chewed them.

It had only been three weeks since James said his last goodbye to his mum. Jean had needed medical careit was really a lost cause by the endand a bit of peace at last. Stage four cancer had taken her quickly, so James brought her home. She faded away in just a month. Now, walking in from work, he found her clothes dumped in the hallway like bags of rubbish, and he just froze. Was that it? Is that all his mum meant here? Chucked out and forgotten straight away?

“Why are you looking at me like Churchill at the House of Commons?” Emily snapped, stepping aside.

“Dont touch those things,” James hissed between clenched teeth. He could actually feel the blood pounding in his head, his hands and legs going a bit numb.

“For heavens sake, its just a load of old tat!” Emily growled back, on the edge now herself. “You want to turn the place into some sort of museum? Your mums gone, face up to it! Youd have done better to care so much when she was alivevisited more, and then you might’ve realised how ill she really was!”

Those words stung James worse than a slap.

“Leave, before I say something I can’t take back,” he managed, voice shaking.

Emily scoffed. “Suit yourself, you nutter…”

Anyone who didnt share Emilys opinions automatically became mental in her eyes.

Still in his work shoes, James headed to the hall cupboard, yanked open the high doors, clambered up on a kitchen chair and found one of their old Tesco shopping bagsthe sturdy checked sort, left from the house move. Theyd got about seven. He carefully folded up all his mums clothes, not just chucking them in but making little neat rectangles. Jeans coat and a bag with her shoes went on top. His three-year-old son, Charlie, tried to help, even throwing in his toy tractor for good measure. Finally, James rifled in the hall drawer, found the right key, and slipped it in his jeans pocket.

“Dad, where are you going?” Charlie chirped.

James forced a sad little smile, grabbing the door handle. “Back soon, mate. Go see Mummy.”

“Wait!” Emily burst in from the lounge doorway, voice tense, “Youre not leaving, are you? What about dinner?”

“Dont worry, Ive lost my appetiteespecially after the way youve treated my mums things.”

“Oh, come on, stop being so dramatic. Get your coat off. Where are you even going at this hour?”

Not replying, James stepped outside with the bag. He started his car, pulled out onto the road, then onto the ring road, barely noticing anythingFacebook, work emails, holidays and all the background noise of life just faded out. All that mattered now was running through his head, slow and heavy, like a tortoise. He could only think of his family: the kids, his wife…and his mum. He blamed himselfhe wasnt there enough, always busy with work, errands, a bit of fun. His mum never wanted to bother him, so hed stopped calling so often, didn’t go round as much, called less, and their chats became even shorter.

A third of the way down the motorway, he pulled over at a service station, grabbed a quick bite, and then drove three more hours straight. The only time he took anything in was at sunset: the clouds suddenly split apart, deep red cracks, like the sun was clutching at the land with its last tired fingers. He finally pulled into his old village at night, weaved down uneven roads to the last house, and stopped outside his childhood home.

It was pitch black. He wobbled with the old gate, lighting the way with his phonefive missed calls from Emily. He wasnt going to answer tonight. The phone might as well stay on silent. The night air was thick with the scent of apple blossom, drawing out the moths. The windows reflected the black night sky back at him. He found the right key and stepped in, flicking on the dusty porch light.

His mums garden shoes sat by the door, and against the next, leading into the living room, her blue house slippersworn, with two faded red bunnies embroidered on the front. James had bought her those about eight years ago. He froze, staring at them, then shook it off and unlocked the next door.

Hello, Mum, were you expecting me?

No, no one in this house was waiting anymore.

The air was thick with the musty smell of old upholstery and the faint dampness of a house left empty. You had to keep heating the place up or the mould would start. On the dressing table was her comb, a sad row of cheap make-up, and on the hook a clear bag of Tesco Value pasta. The sofa in the lounge looked oddly newJames had bought it for his mum, with the telly. The fridge stood open and empty, making it plain no one lived here now. His mums little room was opposite, with the bed and the usual pyramid of pillows, all covered with a crocheted throw. James perched on the edge.

This had once been his room, with the tiny bed pushed against the wall and his brothers bed next to it. Thered been a desk by the window. Now a sewing machine sat therehis mum loved sewing. She’d put in a wardrobe for her own things.

James sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe like it might open and she would walk out. He clutched his head in his hands, doubled over, face on his knees, shoulders heaving. He collapsed onto the white throw on the pillows…and sobbed.

He cried for not answering when she squeezed his hand that last day. Sat there uselessly, like a statue, watching her fade, a thousand words caught, unspoken. His mum had whispered, “Don’t, James. Don’t look at me like that…I was happy with you all.” And he had desperately wanted to thank herfor childhood, for warmth, for always making him feel that here he was safe, his island, could come home, didnt matter if hed messed up. Just thank youfor the foundation, for always being wanted and loved no matter what.

But he just sat like a rock, the right words refusing to come. Sometimes, out of the whole English language, you just can’t pick one that fits. Everything sounded so overdramatic, or old-fashioned, or just wrong. The right words just dont seem to exist these daysjust sarcasm and hard language.

He switched off the lights and fell asleep fully clothed, barely disturbing the neat bed. He found an old woollen blanket on the chair, covered himself, and drifted off. He didnt expect sleep to come so easy. He woke at seven, like alwayshis body clock never let him down, no matter what time he got to bed.

He went out to the car to fetch the bag. Through the slats of the fence, birch trees stood in a neat line, their young leaves shining bright green in the morning sunlike little debutantes of spring. He stretched, breathed deep, loving the birdsong, the fresh air. How lucky hed been, growing up here, not in a city of concrete. Then he headed back inside, dragged the bag to the wardrobe in his mums old room.

One by one, James took out his mums things, laying them carefully on the shelves, hanging them on the hangersnever hangers, always shoulders, just as she called them. Her shoes and boots went at the bottom. He took a step back. It all looked just like shed have wanted. He could picture herwearing those very clothes, always with that warm, motherly smile that said everything without a word. James ran his hand over the soft blouses and dresses, finally embracing them all, breathing in the familiar scent, unable to move away. He had no idea what to do with these clothes now. Eventually, he snapped back to the present and took out his phone.

“Hi, Mr. Turner. I won’t make it into work todaysomethings come up, family stuff. Will you be all right without me? Thank you.”

He texted Emily, too: Sorry I lost my temper, Ill be home this evening. Love you.

Down the old garden path, flowers were starting to bloomdaffodils going strong, tulips just breaking open, and little patches of bluebells by the gooseberry bushes. James gathered a handful of each, made them up into three little scruffy bunches. He knew hed need three at the churchyard. As he passed the local shop, he remembered he hadnt eaten. He popped in and grabbed milk, a bread roll, and a bar of chocolate.

Oh, James! Back again, are you? Mrs. White, the shopkeeper, looked surprised.

Yeah, just visiting Mum, James muttered, not meeting her eye.

I get it. Fancy some fresh cheddar, love? Got it from a lad at the farm up the road. Your mum swore by it.

He glanced at her. Was she being awkward on purpose? No, she was just simple.

No, Im alright. Well, actually, why not. And you, Auntie Liz, how are you bearing up?

She waved her hand. She and his mum had been mates for years. Oh, dont ask, love. My Simons a waste of space, drinking all the time these days.

He ate breakfast right there at the churchyard by their gravesthe flower bunches laid carefully out: daffodils, bluebells, tulips. His brother, dad, and mumhis brother first, fell from the roof replacing tiles, just a broken neck. Barely twenty. Dad went five years back. And now, mum. James set out the chocolate, broke off a bit of cheddar for mum, too. Their faces smiled back at him from old photos on the stones. He talked to them in his mind.

He remembered all the mischief with his brothercaught every sunrise of their fishing trips with Dad: Dad flinging the line out with a wild, cowboyish flick.

And Mum! Shed holler: Jaaames, dinnertime! across the whole village. Her voice could carry for miles. Hed be dying of embarrassment, but oh, to have her call him like that now.

James stood and smoothed his mums new gravea black mound under the sun, earth still unsettled.

“Mum, Im sorry. I didnt do enough. We thought we were grown up, independentbut its so empty without you. Theres so much I want to say to you, and you too, Dad. You were the best parents I couldve asked for, thank you so much. How did you make it all work? Emily and I, were not in the same league. Were selfish, always me, me, me… Thank you for everything, and you too, Will, little bro.

It was time to go. He walked the field path back, plucking a few sweet blades of grass to chew, a taste of childhood. On the first street, he ran into Simon, Lizs son. Already well gone, stinking of boozelooked worn out, down and out.

Oi, James! You back again? Simon slurred, grinning idiotically.

Yeah, just stopping by the folks. Still at it, are you?

O course, mate. Special occasion.

Oh yeah? What for?

Simon suddenly yanked a tatty calendar from his pocket, pages falling off, flipped it around.

World Turtle Day, mate! Look! he declared, confident as anything.

Righto, James smirked. Look, Simon, look after your mum, yeah? Shes a diamond. And she wont be around forever. Remember that.

He carried on walking, leaving Simon looking blank behind him. Simon finally called after him,

Alright, alright… Take care, James.

Yeah, goodbye, James called over his shoulder, not looking back.