“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned Me — “Those clothes belonged to my mother. Why did you pack them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly that of a stranger. “We should throw them out. Why keep them, Steve? They take up half the closet, and I need space for the winter duvets and spare pillows. Everything’s a mess,” I replied, all practicality as I cleared his late mother’s neat blouses, skirts, and summer dresses from their hangers. Valerie Ferguson always hung her clothes with care, a habit she’d instilled in her son. Meanwhile, my own wardrobes were chaos — every morning a dive for something to wear, complaining there was nothing suitable, frantically steaming creased jumpers that looked like they’d been chewed up and spat back out by a cow. Only three weeks had passed since Steve laid his mum to rest. Valerie needed help — palliative care by the end — and peace and quiet at home. Stage 4 cancer took her quickly. Steve had brought her to live with us, and she faded in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her things dumped in the hallway like rubbish and stood dumbstruck. Was that it? That’s how things were to be — his mum cast aside and forgotten? “Why are you looking at me like Karl Marx at a factory owner?” I shot back. “Don’t touch those things,” Steve hissed through gritted teeth, the blood pounding in his head. “What do we need with all this old junk?” I snapped, losing my temper. “You want to start a living museum for your mother? She’s gone, Steve. You need to accept it! If only you’d shown this much care when she was alive. Maybe if you’d visited more, you’d have known how ill she’d become.” Steve flinched at my words as if struck. “Go. Just go, before I do something I regret,” he managed. I snorted. “Fine. Psycho.” Anyone who dared disagree with me, in my book, always had to be a bit touched. Still in his shoes, Steve marched to the wardrobe in the hall, climbed on a stool, and took down one of those old tartan bags — we had seven from our last house move. Carefully he folded every item of Valerie’s, stacking them neatly. Her coat and a bag of shoes on top. Our three-year-old son bustled around, ‘helping’, tossing his toy tractor in the bag too. At last, Steve fished out a key from the hallway drawer and slipped it in his pocket. “Where are you going, Daddy?” Steve smiled bitterly, hand on the door. “I’ll be back soon, mate. Go to Mummy.” “Wait!” I called from the lounge. “You’re leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” “No thanks. I’ve had enough of how you’ve treated my mum.” “Oh, come off it. Why the drama? You’re going out at this hour?” He was already gone, firing up the car and pulling away, aimlessly following the dull traffic of the North Circular, his mind crowded with grief, everything else — work, holidays, silly memes — shrinking away. Only a single thought trudged across his mind like a great, heavy tortoise: what mattered most — his children, his wife… and his mum. All his regrets poured down: not visiting enough, always distracted, always busy — and his mum never asking for help, never wanting to trouble him. He put calls off, cut conversations short. And now, it was far too late. He stopped at a roadside café, wolfed down something quick, then drove three more hours to his old village. By nightfall, he parked outside his mum’s house — the home of his childhood. Nothing was visible in the darkness. Fumbling with the gate lock by phone light, he saw five missed calls from me. He switched to silent and left it there. The air smelled sweet and thick, heavy with the last of the lilacs, moths fluttering in the darkness. He unlocked the door; the porch lit dimly. By the second door: his mum’s battered slippers, ones he’d gifted years ago — navy blue, with two red bunnies on the toes. He stood still for a moment, staring. Hello, Mum, are you waiting for me? No, she wasn’t. The house smelled of old furniture and damp. The lounge gleamed with a newer sofa he’d bought her, a television, the fridge left open. Nobody lived here now. Her bedroom, small, neat, her bed made with a pyramid of pillows, a white throw. Steve sat on the edge, remembering this was once his room, then his brother’s. His mum had moved her things in after they left. He sat in silence, staring at the wardrobe as if expecting his mother to step out. His vision blurred with tears. He doubled over, face pressed to his knees, and sobbed. All that was left were unsaid words from her last day, memories and a thousand thank-yous that stuck in his throat, too late to utter. “Don’t look at me like that, Steve,” she’d whispered. “I was so happy with you.” He’d wanted to thank her — for his childhood, for sacrifices, for love, for the security she’d given. He’d wanted to say, “Thank you for the safe harbour you made. Thank you, for always bringing me back home, no matter how many mistakes I made.” But he’d sat there, too clumsy for the words, feeling everything he might say sounded grandiose and outdated; our modern age has no language for proper gratitude — only for cynicism and empty words. He slept on top of the made bed, wrapped in a woollen blanket from the chair. He woke at seven. Always seven, no matter what. He fetched the bag from the car. The birches lining the garden across the road shimmered in pale-green spring, like young ladies at a garden party. Steve stood and breathed in the birdsong, the freshness, feeling lucky for having grown up here, not in a concrete block. He stretched and started carefully putting his mum’s clothes back in her wardrobe, one by one, folding, hanging, arranging her shoes below. At last, he stepped back and saw her there, in those same outfits, smiling that soft, motherly smile, wordlessly saying “I love you.” He rested his hand on her dresses, hugging them close, breathing her scent. What to do with them now, he still didn’t know. Finally, he returned to the present and called work, then texted me: “Sorry I got angry. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” The garden paths burst with daffodils and tulips, and he picked a handful plus some lily-of-the-valley from behind the gooseberry bush — a strange bouquet for the graves. There were three waiting: brother, father, mother. Flowers laid, chocolate for each, and a piece of cheese for his mum — the cheese she’d always asked for from the village shop. Their smiles beamed from the gravestones as he remembered childhood mischief, dawn fishing trips with his dad, his mother’s voice calling his name across the fields. He stood and smoothed the dark soil of his mother’s grave. “Mum, I’m sorry… I should have done more. Life’s so empty now you’re gone, no matter how independent we thought we were. Thank you for everything. You and dad were the best parents. How did you do it? Olya and I… we’re selfish. Thank you, for everything, and you too, little brother.” Heading home along the footpath, nibbling on stalks of fresh grass, Steve ran into an old mate, already drinking and looking worse for wear. “Hey, Steve, back again?” “Yeah, just visiting,” Steve replied. “You ought to look after your mum; she’s a diamond — she won’t be here forever,” he said, brushing past. “Alright, fair enough. Take care, Steve,” the drunk mumbled after him. “Goodbye, mate,” Steve called, not looking back.

Dont you dare touch my mothers things, my husband said.

This clothing belongs to my mother. Why are you packing it up? His words sounded so unfamiliar, his tone hard.

Well toss it out. What do we need it all for, David? Her things take up half the wardrobe, and I need the space. I want to put the winter duvets and the spare pillows hereeverything is topsy-turvy around the house.

Margaret, ever practical, kept pulling down the modest cardigans, skirts, and light dresses that had once belonged to her late mother-in-law. Mrs. Violet Turner had always hung up her clothes with care, ensuring everything kept its proper shape and teaching her only son to do the same. But Margarets cupboards were in a perpetual state of chaos; every morning shed rummage frantically through the shelves in search of the right jumper or blouse, grumble that she had nothing to wear, and then furiously steam the rumpled garmentsleaving them looking as though a dog had chewed them up.

It had only been three weeks since David had laid his mother to rest. Mrs. Turner needed caremostly hopeless at that pointand peace. Cancer at its cruelest, closing in fast. David had taken his mother home, and disease swept her away in a month. Now, returning after work, he saw her things strewn across the hallway as if they were little more than rubbish, and a sick feeling seized him. Was that really it? Was that how theyd simply sweep aside the memory of his mother? Thrown out and forgotten?

Why are you staring at me like youre judging all mankind? Margaret scoffed, sidestepping.

Dont you dare touch those things, David hissed through gritted teeth. His blood surged to his head; for a moment, his hands and feet tingled with numbness.

Oh, why on earth are we keeping all this old tat? Margaret barked, losing her composure. You want to turn our home into a museum? Your mothers gone, David. Accept it! Maybe if youd cared so much when she was alive, visited more, youd have known how ill she was!

Her words lashed at him, leaving him reeling.

Go, before I do something Ill regret, he managed in a raw, uneven voice.

Margaret scoffed.

Please do. You always were a bit unstable.

Anyone disagreeing with Margaret on anything inevitably became unstable in her eyes.

Still wearing his shoes, David walked to the hallway wardrobe, flung open the top cupboard, balanced on a stool, and retrieved one of their checkered shopping bags. Theyd had about seven of them from when theyd moved to the flat. He packed all Violet Turners clothes away, folding each item with care rather than tossing them in. Her old raincoat and a bag of shoes went on top. His youngest son, just three, fluttered about, helping Dad by pitching his toy tractor into the bag as well. At last, David fished a key from the hall drawer and slipped it into his pocket.

Dad, where are you going?

David forced a sad smile as he reached for the door.

Ill be back, my love. Go to Mummy.

Wait! Margarets alarmed voice carried from the living room as she blocked his path. Are you leaving? Where? What about supper?

No, thanks. Ive had enough of your attitude toward my mother.

Oh, for goodness sake! Why do you always have to go off the deep end about nothing? Where do you think youre going, anyway, at this hour?

David didnt turn round. Bag in hand, he stepped out, shut the door, got in his car, and drove off towards the A406. He merged into the stream of traffic, the hum of the road blotting out stray thoughts: work, summer plans, even the silly social pages he scrolled through for a laughall faded into the background. Now there was only the ache, slow and steady, crawling through his mind. Of all the things that filled his days, only what truly mattered remained untouchedhis children, his wife and his mother. He blamed himself for her passinghe hadnt kept a close enough watch, hadnt made it in time, always too many chores, worries, distractions. Shed never wanted to trouble him, never wished to be a burden, and so he put off visits more and more, seldom called, listened lesscondensing their short conversations till nothing was left.

After a third of the drive, he pulled into a roadside café, hurriedly ate, then carried on through the next three hours without another stop. Only once did David notice the sunseta crimson crack in the western sky, spilling over a dome of grey as if the sun were clawing at the brink, desperate not to fall away. It was fully dark when he reached the village, winding through unpaved lanes all the way to the old house. The house where his childhood and youth had passed.

It was pitch black all around. David fumbled with the garden gate, lighting his way with the dull glow of his phone. Five missed calls from his wife. No, he wouldnt ring anyone tonight. Let the phone stay silent a little longer. The sweet, sickly scent of spent lilac hung in the air, drawing out night-moths; the flowers glowed pale in the darkness. The windowpanes reflected back a muddled version of the night sky. David found his keys, unlocked the front door and, half by memory, found the light switchspilling a weak, dusty circle into the hall.

By the doorstep, his mothers old slippers sat just where shed leave them for pottering in the garden. By the door to the living area were her faded blue house shoes, the ones with two little red rabbits on them. David had bought those for her eight years ago. He paused, staring; then, shaking himself, he slid his key into the next door.

Hello, Mum. Do you remember me?

But in truth, there was no one left to remember him here.

The air was thick with the scent of old English furniture and the faint tang of damp, the kind that seeps up from the cellar. The old house needed constant warmth or the mildew would set in. On the sideboard were her hairbrush and a sparse collection of cosmetics, alongside a transparent bag of pasta marked Best Value. In the lounge the only newish itema settee and television David had bought her, his last presents. An open fridge in the kitchen cast a chillreminding him, painfully, that no one lived here now. Opposite, her tiny bedroomher neatly-made bed topped with a pyramid of pillows and their coverlet. He sat at the edge.

This room used to be his. His parents took the bigger one; for years, another bed stood pressed to the wall for his brother. A small writing desk by the window. That spot, now home to her sewing machine; his mother had always loved to sew, stitching and embroidering whenever she could. Shed replaced his brothers bed with a wardrobe for her own things.

David sat there, surrounded by silence, eyes fixed on her old wardrobe as if confronting her ghost. His gaze was empty, and he clutched his head in his hands, curling in on himself, face buried in his knees. His shoulders shook, then finally gave way. He staggered onto the white pillow cover and weptlike a child.

He cried because hed never answered her, that final day when she squeezed his hand. Hed sat dumbstruck, a stone statue, watching her fade, a thousand unsaid words burning in his throat. His mother had whispered, Dont, David. Dont look at me like that. I was happy with you. And how hed wanted to tell her! To thank her for a carefree childhood, for love, for sacrifice, for a safe and steady home, for being the shelter to come back to, no matter how badly hed gone astraya place where youre wanted, loved, always forgiven, regardless of all your mistakes.

But hed sat there, locked in stone, unable to find the words. Sometimes, with all the richness of the language, its impossible to choose the right ones. Everything he could think of sounded so pompous, so out of place it shamed him into silence. Those words belonged to other times, too grand and stiff for today. Our age hadnt invented its own way to speak of these thingsit only excelled in hard-edged banter and cynicism.

David switched off the lights, lay down fully clothed, careful not to disturb the tidy bed. He found a woollen blanket on the chair, pulled it around himself and drifted off. The sleep, for once, was deep and sweet. He woke with the dawn at seven, as if by habit. Strange, what the body remembersyou could sleep at any hour, and still wake at the same time, primed for work.

David stepped outside to collect the bag from the car. The birch trees along the lane by the wooden fence were dressed in fresh, green leaves, standing like young maids at the start of spring. Sunlight settled gently on their branches, ready to warm the land. He stood on the doorstep, listening to the birds and breathing in the clean air. How lucky he was, he realised, to have grown up beyond the citys stone. He stretched, working the stiffness out of his back, and carried the bag inside to his mothers wardrobe.

One by one, he unpacked her things, gently setting them on the shelves or hanging them carefully, just as shed done. He arranged her shoes below, taking his time. When everything was in its place, he stepped back to see if it looked neat enough. In his minds eye, his mother appeared, wearing her favourite outfit, her gentle smile warm as ever. She always had a way of saying I love you without a word. He ran his hand over the row of blouses and dresses, then hugged them all together, breathing in the scent that was still hers. He stood there, lost for what felt like ages, not knowing what to do with her thingsnow, or ever. At last, he remembered the world outside, dug out his mobile, and dialled.

Morning, Mr. Hamilton. I wont be in today. Family matterurgent, Im afraid. Will you manage without me? Thank you.

He messaged his wife: Sorry I snapped. Ill be home this evening. Love you.

Around the garden grew flowers. The daffodils were in full bloom, and the tulips had just begun to open. David gathered both, along with some lilies of the valley that grew near the old gooseberry bushes. It made for a peculiar buncha village bouquet. He decided to split it into threeafter all, the churchyard would have three waiting for him.

He realised he hadnt eaten. Passing the shop in the village, he popped in for a pint of milk and a fresh roll, plus a bar of chocolate.

Oh, David! Back again? The shopkeeper, Mrs. Briggs, looked up in surprise.

Yes Came to see Mum, David answered, glancing away.

I understand. Fancy some cheddar? Its fresh from the farm. Your mum always bought some.

He looked at her. Was she mocking him? No, just plain-speaking.

Right then, yes. Ill have some. And how are you, Mrs. Briggs?

Oh, dont ask, she sighed, waving her hand. She and Mrs. Turner had always been close. My Tonys hopeless, always at the bottle.

David ate his breakfast at the cemetery, in front of all three of their graves. The bouquet was divided between them: daffodils, tulips, and lilies of the valley in turn. His brother, his father, his mother. His brother, gone firstfallen from a roof while shifting tiles. Not a great height, but a crackand he was gone at twenty. Five years later, his father had followed. And now, his mother. David placed a bit of chocolate on each grave; for Mum, a corner of cheese as well. They smiled silently from their photos on the gravestones. David talked to them all in his mind.

He recalled all the mischief he and his brother had gotten into.

He pulled to the surface memories of dawn fishing trips with his father, reeling for perch and pike, watching him flick the line with a flourish.

And his motherhow she used to call out, the whole village could hear: Daviiid! Teas ready! She really had a voice on heryou could hear her miles away. How mortifying it had been before his mates. How different hed feel if she were to call him like that now.

He stood, touched the wooden cross at his mothers new grave. The fresh soil was still damp below the sunlighta stark, black mound.

Mum, Im sorry I didnt do better by you. We thought we were managing, living apart, on our own. Why does it all feel so empty without you? Theres so much I want to say to you now, and to you too, Dad. You really were the best, both of youthe very best parents. How did you do it? Margaret and I arent half as good. Were selfish. Me, me, mine, want, take Thank you, Mum. Thank you, Dad. And you too, Tommy. Thank you, little brother.

Time to be off. David walked along the grassy verge, pulling young shoots to chew, their sweetness sharp. On the high street he was greeted by Tony, Mrs. Briggs son. He was clearly worse for wear, shabby and slurredhed fallen far.

Oh, Davo! Here again, are you? Tony mumbled.

Yeah visiting my lot. Still drinking, are you?

Course, its a holiday!

What holidays that, then?

Tony, with an air of conspiratorial delight, pulled out a dog-eared pocket calendar from his shorts, flipping the pages.

World Turtle Day! See? He grinned.

Right David couldnt help but smirk. Look, Tonymind your mum. Shes a gem, you know and she wont be here forever. Dont forget that.

He walked on, leaving his old mate bemused. Tony eventually called after him:

Alright then All the best, Davo.

Yes. Goodbye, David replied over his shoulder, not stopping.