“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Said — “Those clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth did you pack them up?” my husband demanded, his voice suddenly so unfamiliar. — “We should just throw them away, Steve. We don’t need them cluttering half the wardrobe! I need the space for winter blankets and spare pillows — you know how everything’s always scattered about.” With brisk determination, Olivia kept pulling her late mother-in-law’s modest cardigans, skirts, and light dresses off their hangers, while Valeria’s things had always been neatly arranged to keep everything tidy — a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. Olivia, on the other hand, was forever lost in the chaos of overflowing wardrobes each morning, sighing about having “nothing to wear” and then frantically steaming out the creases from tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve had said his last goodbye to his mum. Valeria had needed treatment — mostly hopeless by then — and peace. Her cancer was already at stage four and progressing without mercy. Steve had taken her in, but she’d faded away in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her clothes tossed in a pile like unwanted rubbish in the middle of the hallway. He felt frozen in shock. Was that it then? Was this how his mother was to be remembered — thrown out and instantly forgotten? — “Why are you staring at me like that, as if you’re the ghost of Christmas past?” Olivia retorted, shifting to the side. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Steve hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely he momentarily couldn’t feel his hands or feet. — “We don’t need that old tat!” Olivia snapped, losing her temper. “What do you want, a museum at home? Your mum’s gone — deal with it! You should’ve cared more while she was alive. Visited more, then you might have realised how ill she was!” Steve flinched at her words, as if she’d lashed him across the face. — “Leave before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice shaking. Olivia snorted: — “Please do. Psycho…” To Olivia, anyone with an opinion different from her own was automatically “mental.” Not bothering to take off his shoes, Steve marched to the hallway wardrobe, flung open the top doors and, balancing on a step-stool, grabbed one of their checkered shopping bags — the ones that had been so handy for their move. He carefully folded all of Valeria’s things into it, not just tossing but folding each into a neat rectangle. Her old coat and a bag of shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son toddled round, helping Daddy — even dropped his toy tractor into the bag to keep Grandma company. When Steve was done, he rummaged through the drawer, found the keys, and slipped them in his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Steve gave a sad smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, matey. Go find Mum.” — “Hold on!” Olivia called, appearing in the doorway. “Are you leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “I’ve had enough of how you treat my mum’s memory, thanks.” — “Oh, come on, what’s got into you now? Take your coat off. Where are you off to at this time?” With his back to her, Steve stepped out with the bag, started his car, pulled out of the drive, and headed for the M25. He drove, letting the motorway roar drown out his thoughts. Everything else receded — work projects, summer holiday plans, even the funny posts he used to love online. Only one thought crept, slow and heavy, through his mind, eclipsing everything: of all that filled his days, what truly mattered were his kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for her death — for not noticing, not making time, for always being too busy. She’d never wanted to be a burden, so he visited less, called less. Now it was too late. He made a brief pit stop at a roadside café for a snack, then drove the next three hours without a break. Only the sunset distracted him for a moment: a burst of crimson split the grey sky as if the sun clung desperately to the edge of the world. It was full dark when he arrived at his childhood village, shuffling along unpaved lanes until he pulled up outside his childhood home. Artist: Shaun Ferguson He couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Fumbling with the gate, using his phone for light — five missed calls from his wife, no, he couldn’t talk to anyone now. The air was sweet and heavy with blossom, attracting night moths. The chalk-white flowers glimmered ghostly in the dark. The old windows mirrored the night sky. Steve let himself in, feeling his way to the light switch in the hall. His mum’s gardening slippers waited by the door. By the inner door, her blue house shoes, worn out, with two red bunnies by the toe. Steve had bought them for her eight years ago. He paused, stared, shook his head, and opened the next door. Hello, Mum. Have you been waiting? No, no one waited for him in this house anymore. Inside, it smelled of old furniture and damp, musty as if the cellar breathed up from below. The house needed constant heating to keep off the mould. Her hairbrush and little collection of cosmetics still sat on the dresser; near the door, a see-through bag marked “Value” brimmed with pasta. The only new thing in the lounge was the sofa and telly he’d bought her. The fridge was open, a reminder no one lived here now. In her room — her side of the bed piled high with neatly covered pillows. Steve sat on the edge. This had once been his room, with a brother sharing the other bed, desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine stood in its place — Mum had loved her sewing. The second bed replaced by a wardrobe for her things. He sat in perfect silence, staring at the wardrobe as if a ghost might step out. His eyes glazed. He cupped his head in his hands, bent double, and sobbed into his knees. He wept for never having replied when she squeezed his hand that last day. He’d sat, numb, mute, seeing her fade, swallowing all the words he’d never say. “Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t look at me like that… I was happy with you.” And he’d so badly wanted to thank her for his carefree childhood, for every sacrifice, every bit of love, for the safe home she’d built — a place to return, no matter how badly you’d messed up. But he’d sat speechless, unable to find the words. Sometimes, all you can think of sounds so stilted, so old-fashioned, you’re embarrassed even to try. Ours is an age that hasn’t come up with words for real emotion — we’re excellent at cynicism and banter, not much else. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep, fully clothed, careful not to crush the made-up bed. Woke at seven, as always, amazed at his body’s routine. Out to the car for the bag. The birch trees across the lane, fresh in green, stood like spring bridesmaids. Morning sun warmed the branches to life. He stood on the porch a minute: birdsong, crisp air — how lucky to have grown up here and not in some concrete city. A stretch, a deep breath, then back inside to unpack his mum’s things. One by one, he placed them carefully back on the shelves and hangers, her shoes neatly below. When everything was in order, he stepped back to check — was it tidy enough? He half-saw her, floating in those outfits, always smiling that warm, wordless “I love you.” Running a hand along the hanging blouses and dresses, he hugged the row, breathed in the old familiar scent… and just stood there. He had no idea what to do next. Eventually, remembered the present: found his phone. — “Hi, Mr Thompson. I won’t make it in today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a quick message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” Along the garden, flowers crowded the path. Daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, and near the gooseberry bushes — lilies of the valley. Strange bouquet… He split it in three: at the cemetery, he’d visit three graves. When he passed the shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten, bought milk, a bread roll — and a chocolate bar. — “Oh, Steve! You’re back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs Harris, was surprised. — “Yeah… Came to see Mum,” Steve mumbled, looking away. — “I understand. Want some cheddar? Just in, special delivery. Your mum always bought it.” He blinked — was she having a dig? No, she was just a simple soul. — “No, it’s fine. Well, actually — why not. And you, Mrs H., are you alright?” — “Oh!” she waved it off. She and Valeria had been best friends. “Don’t ask. My Terry’s gone completely off the rails. Always drunk.” Steve ate breakfast right there at the cemetery, laid out the flowers: daffodils, lilies, tulips. Brother, dad, mum. His brother had been first — fell off the roof fixing tiles. Just twenty. Five years later, dad died. Now mum. A bit of chocolate for each, and for mum, a piece of cheddar. He chatted with them in his head. He remembered the mischief he and his brother got up to. How at dawn he’d go fishing with Dad — his cast was wild, cowboy style. And Mum! How she’d belt out “Ste-e-eve! Dinner!” across the whole village — her voice carried for miles, and he’d squirm in front of his mates. Oh, if only she’d call him in now. He touched the temporary cross on his mother’s grave. The earth still fresh, the mound dark in the sun. “Mum… forgive me. I should’ve done more. We lived apart, but why does life feel so empty without you? There’s so much I want to tell you — and you, Dad. You were amazing, the very best parents. Thank you… How did you do it? Me and Olivia — we’re so much worse, so selfish. All I ever think is me, me, my… Thank you for everything. You too, Tom.” Time to go. Steve walked back by the fields, pulling up grass to chew. On the first street, he bumped into Terry, Mrs Harris’s son — drunk already, looking a mess. — “Oi, Stevo! Back again?” Terry slurred. — “Yeah… Visiting the family. You still drinking?” — “Of course. It’s a special day!” — “Oh really? What’s that then?” Terry fished a calendar from his shorts, flicked a page. — “World Turtle Day! See?” he declared wisely. — “Right…” Steve smirked. “Terry, look after your mum. She’s a gem, you know. And she won’t be around forever.” He walked on, leaving Terry baffled. Only after a moment did he call out: — “Yeah, alright… Cheers, Steve.” — “Yeah, take care,” Steve replied, not looking back.

Author Emily TaylorReading 10 minViews 2

Dont you dare touch my mums things, Tom says.

These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth are you packing them up? Toms voice rings out, distant and cold.

We should just throw them out. Why keep them, Tom? Hannah replies, sorting through the collection. They take up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for the winter duvets and spare pillows. Everythings scattered everywhere.

Hannahs tone is practical as she pulls her late mother-in-laws cardigans, skirts, and simple dresses from the hangers. Margaret Davies always insisted on hanging her clothes neatly, instilling the same habits in her son. But Hannahs own wardrobe is a realm of chaos. Every morning, she plunges into its depths, searching for a top or blouse, always grumbling that she has nothing to wear, then painstakingly steams the creased jumble to life, only for them to look as though theyve been chewed up and spat out.

It has been just three weeks since Tom said his last goodbye to his mother. Margarets treatmentby then more of a hope than a planhad failed, and the cancer raced through her. Tom had brought her to live with them in London, and shed faded away in under a month. Now, coming in after a day at work, he finds her things tossed in the hall as if they were just rubbish. Is that really it? Is that how little she means? Chucked out and forgotten?

Why are you staring at me like Ive trashed the Queens jewels? Hannah retorts, stepping back.

Dont touch them, Tom hisses, jaw clenched. Hes so furious that his hands and feet are numb.

What are we supposed to do with all that old tat? Hannah snaps, now irate herself. Do you want to turn our home into a museum? Your mums gone, face it. Youd have done better to be there for her when she was alivevisited her more. Maybe then youd have known how ill she was!

A stinging lash, those words. Tom flinches as if struck.

Go, before I say or do something Ill regret, he replies, his voice breaking.

Hannah snorts. Right. Drama queen

For Hannah, anyone who disagrees with her is instantly unhinged.

Still in his shoes, Tom walks down the hallway to the cupboard. He pulls open the high doors, climbs on a stool, and drags out one of the massive tartan shopping bags left over from their move last year. He carefully folds every one of Margarets clothesnothing just chucked in, everything neatand places her jacket and a carrier with her shoes on top. His youngest, Oliver, nearly three, helps by popping in his toy tractor. Tom rummages in the drawer for a key and slips it into his pocket.

Daddy, where are you going? Oliver asks.

Tom gives a sad smile, hand on the door. I wont be long, mate. Go back to your mum.

Hannah appears, worried now: Where are you off to? What about dinner?

No, thanks. Ive had enough after what you said about my mum.

For heavens sake, Tom, theres no need to get in a strop. Take your coat off. Where are you going at this hour?

Without another word, Tom leaves. He starts up his old Ford, drives out of the estate and towards the M25. The road rushes by; everything elsework projects, summer plans, Twitter jokes hed usually scroll through to unwindrecedes into nothing. Only one thought moves, slow and weighty, through his mind. The only things that last: children, wife and mum. Tom blames himself for not doing more, not noticing sooner, for all the business that got in the way. She didnt want to be a burden, never complained, but he began calling less, visiting less, snipping their short chats ever shorter.

After a third of the journey, Tom pulls into a service station, grabs a sandwich, and then drives for another three hours, only glancing once at the sky, where the sunset splits the clouds with shafts of red. By the time he pulls up at the cottage at the villages far end, its pitch-black. The cottage where his childhood and teenage years passed.

He fumbles with the gates latch by phone-lightfive missed calls from Hannah. Not answering tonight. The sweet scent of fading cherry blossoms mixes with the heavy air, drawing in moths. His mothers slippers sit by the kitchen door; her blue indoor shoes, worn with age and red bunnies sewn on the toes, rest by the bedroom door. He bought those for her eight years ago. He stares at them, then shakes his head, unlocks the next door, and steps inside.

Hello, Mum. Were you waiting for me?

But no one is awaiting him in this house anymore.

The air smells of old wood and just a hint of damp. The place always needed heating or it grew musty. Her hairbrush and a worn little clutch of make-up lay on the sideboard; above, an emergency bag of pasta marked with a red sale tag. In the living room, the new sofahe and Hannah bought it for her, along with the TVstands out awkwardly. The fridge door, propped open, makes it clear no one has lived there for weeks. In her old roomonce Tomsher bed is neatly made, pillows piled high and topped with a white lacy throw. Tom sits on the edge.

Years ago, this was his room, with a second bed for his brother and a desk under the window. Now a sewing machine fills its placeMums pride. The second bed was swapped for a wardrobe full of her things. Tom sits in silence, staring at this wardrobe as if his mothers ghost stands before it. His hands tangle in his hair; he bends double over his knees, shoulders shaking, and then he collapses fully onto the quilt and sobs.

He cries for not replying to her, not finding any words when she squeezed his hand that last day. He just sat there, silent as a stone, watching her fade, choked by things unsaid. Dont, Tom, dont look at me like that I was happy with you all, she whispered. Hed wanted to thank her: for his carefree childhood, for every sacrifice, for making their house a true home, for that sense of always being safe. Just a thank you for the unshakeable ground she gave them, for the haven where youd always be welcomed back, no matter your mistakes.

But hed sat, speechless. Sometimes words just failthe ones that come seem heavy, old-fashioned, embarrassing. Modern life gives you cynicism, nothing for real feeling.

Tom switches off the lights and falls asleep on top of the covers, not wanting to mess up her made bed. He uses a woolly blanket from a chair and knocks out almost instantly, not expecting a sleep so sweet. By seven, hes upjust like always. Amazing, the way the body knows. No matter the hour he goes to bed, he always wakes at seven, as if it were a workday.

He steps out to fetch the bag from the car. Birch trees, already fully green, stand in parade behind the fencelike the young maids of spring, bathed in sunlight. Tom stands on the doorstep. The smell of the garden, the birdsonghe feels lucky to have grown up somewhere so green. After a stretch and a breath of the clean air, he drags the bag inside and tucks everything back into Mums wardrobe. Each of her things gets hung up or folded just so, shoes lined neatly below. When hes done, he steps back to see it with critical eyes, as she would. Mums smile comes to himwarm and kind, the smile that said I love you without a word. Tom strokes his hand over the blouses and dresses, then hugs them all, breathing in her familiar scent.

He stands there for ages, lost. What next? At last, he remembers the present, pulls out his mobile, and makes a call.

Morning, Mr. Patterson. I wont be in today. Family business. Will you manage without me? Cheers.

He texts his wife, too: Sorry I snapped. Ill be home tonight. Love you.

Flowers line the garden path: daffodils in bloom, tulips just opening, and lily-of-the-valley by the gooseberry bushes. Tom picks a bit of everything. He decides on three bouquetshell need them. He remembers he hasnt eaten, so nips to the village shop for milk, a roll, and a bar of chocolate.

Oh, Tom! Youre back again? greets Mrs. Fisher, the shopkeeper.

Yeah Just here for Mum, Tom answers, avoiding her eyes.

I get it, love. Fancy some fresh Wensleydale? I get it from a farmer. Your mother always bought it.

For a second Tom bristles, then sees she means well. Oh, go on then. And you, Auntie Iris, keeping well?

She sighs, Oh dont ask, love. My Gary is hopeless, always in the pub.

Tom eats his breakfast at the burial ground, by the graves. The bouquets go in turn: daffodils, lilies, tulips. His brothergone at twenty after a fall off a roof. Dad, five years later. Now Mum. He leaves chocolate for each of them and some cheese for Mum. They smile at him from the glossy gravestone photos. Tom speaks to them silently.

He remembers the tricks he and his brother played. He recalls in sharp detail early fishing trips with Dad, casting lines like cowboys. And Mum! How shed yell from the garden: T-o-m! Teaaa! You could hear her halfway across the village. How mortifying, he remembers. If only she could call for him now.

He pats the makeshift wooden cross on Mums gravethe soil still freshly heaped under the sun.

Mum, Im so sorry I didnt do enough. We all live our own lives, and yet, without you, its so empty. Theres so much I want to say to you, and to you, Dad. You were the best parents, and I cant thank you enough. How did you do it? Hannah and Iwere just selfish sometimes. Thank you for everything. And you, Jamiemy brotherthank you too.

Time to go. Tom walks the footpath, nibbling new grass. On the first street, he bumps into Gary, Mrs. Fishers son, already a mess, red-eyed and slurring.

All right, Tommy? Back again? Gary mumbles.

Yeah Just seeing my family. Still drinking?

Course. Special occasion!

Oh yeah, whats that?

Gary pulls out a battered pocket calendar and squints.

Its World Turtle Day! he announces, like its news.

Tom smirks. You take care of your mum, Gary. She wont always be around, you know. Dont forget.

He walks on, leaving Gary standing, unsure. After a moment, Gary shouts after him, Yeah, all right! See yer round, Tom.

Tom doesnt turn, only raises a hand in farewell.