**A Fair Bargain**
Margaret was slipping away slowly and painfully. Her body, exhausted from endless chemotherapy, no longer fought the illness. And truth be told, Margaret herself longed for relief from the agony that had gripped her for months. The painkillers kept her in a drowsy haze, only surfacing now and then, like a swimmer gasping for air, before she sank back into the merciful fog that dulled her mind.
Little Emily would come home from school, step into the room thick with the scent of sickness, and stare at her mum for a long, quiet moment. This wasn’t the laughing, lively mum she remembered. She lay still, eyes shut, and Emily would focus on the faint rise and fall of the blanket—waiting, always waiting.
“Mum? Mummy, can you hear me?” Emily would call.
Margaret’s eyelids might flicker, but she hadn’t the strength to open them. Then Grandma would come in, gently guiding Emily out.
“Come, love, let’s get you some dinner, then homework. Let your mum rest.”
“But she’s always sleeping! When will she get better? I want things to go back to how they were.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I wish that too.” Grandma would set a bowl of steaming beef stew in front of her, blinking back tears. “Sleep’s the best medicine, you know.”
*What a rotten thing—me still here, my daughter so young, and nothing to be done. Prayers, church visits, candles lit… What did I do to deserve this?* She sighed.
Margaret passed just before dawn. Rose, her mother, had gotten up around three for the loo, peeking into the room. Her daughter lay motionless but breathing—she was sure of it. Then she tossed and turned for hours before finally drifting off. In her dreams, she saw little Maggie, grinning, waving, running ahead, glancing back. *Wait! Come back!* Rose jolted awake.
She went straight to Margaret’s room. The bed held only stillness now. Rose closed the door softly. In the kitchen, she boiled the kettle, warmed up some pancakes for Emily, and only then woke her.
Emily ate, buttoned up her school blazer, and headed to her mum’s room—always a goodbye before school.
“Don’t go in, love, let her sleep,” Rose called. “Here, take an apple.” She handed Emily a bright red one.
On the walk to school, Rose listened absently to Emily’s chatter.
“You’re quiet today,” Emily said.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Rose lied.
At home, she called an ambulance.
“Time of death? Why’d you wait so long?” the sharp-voiced doctor pressed.
“Had to get my granddaughter to school. No need for her to see—”
The body was taken quickly, thankfully before Emily returned. Rose spent the walk back agonising over how to explain it, but no words came. Then, in her exhaustion, she fumbled—Emily burst straight into the bedroom.
“Where’s Mum?” She turned to Rose.
Rose, drained from questions, from grief, blurted the first thing in her head: “They took her to hospital.” She looked away.
Maybe the girl guessed, maybe she just sulked for not being told, but she refused dinner, curling into the sofa corner, facing the window. Rose hadn’t the strength to comfort her. Who’d comfort *her*? Locked in the loo, water running to muffle it, she rang Daniel, Margaret’s ex. She’d found his number in her daughter’s phone.
“What do you want?” he snapped, thinking it was Margaret calling.
“It’s Rose, Margaret’s mum. She’s gone. Could you take Emily for a few days? I told her Mum’s in hospital. There’s so much to sort, and I can’t—I can’t tell her yet.”
“Right. I’ll come now,” he said, calmer.
Half an hour later, he was at the door. Emily, still cross with Rose, brightened when she saw him.
“Alright, squirt?” He plopped onto the sofa. “School treating you well?”
“Yeah,” Emily mumbled. “Mum’s in hospital. Gran won’t even visit.”
“Probably not allowed yet,” Daniel said smoothly. “Fancy a day out? Park, ice cream, maybe a film?”
“Really?”
Rose packed Emily’s things and shoved a bag at Daniel as they left.
The funeral arrangements wiped Rose out. By evening, she was dead on her feet, too tired even to cry. Her heart ached dully. *Just hold on. Don’t break now.* Pills helped, one after another.
After the service, Daniel rang. “When should I bring Emily back?”
“She worn you out already?” Rose meant to sound sharp, but it came out pathetic.
“She’s homesick. We’ll come now. Need to talk.”
Her chest tightened. *Now what?* She forced herself up, put the kettle on, laid out leftover sandwiches, blinis, and an unfinished bottle of whisky. Let him toast her, ex or not.
Seeing Emily, Rose burst into tears. Emily clung to her.
“Come on, I made pancakes.”
At the table, Daniel immediately went for the whisky. He raised his glass, caught Rose’s warning glare, and drank in silence. Then Rose sent Emily out, shutting the kitchen door firmly.
“Well? Spit it out.”
“Don’t look at me like that, Rose. I’m trying to help.”
“Like you helped Margaret?”
“Oi, none of that. She wasn’t perfect either.”
“Keep her name out of your mouth,” Rose hissed.
“Fine.” He downed another shot. “Here’s the thing. Emily’s young. You’re pension age. One word to the right people, and—”
“You’d *dare*?”
“You’re not getting younger. They won’t let you keep her. But I’m her dad.”
“And?” Rose’s pulse thudded unevenly.
“I’ve no proper place. Move around a lot.”
“With whichever bird’ll have you. You had everything and blew it.”
“Watch it,” he growled.
Rose waved him off. “Get to the point.”
“If we lived together, no one could take her.”
“So *that’s* it.”
“Or we swap flats. She’s legally with me but stays here. Better yet, we *all* live together. I’m her father.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Call it what you like. But it keeps her out of care.”
Rose struggled for air, opened the window, and turned to face him.
“You don’t love her. You want the flat. Admit it.”
“Suit yourself.” His voice turned icy.
Rose couldn’t believe it. She’d always known he’d try something. But Emily—she couldn’t lose her too.
“Fine. I need time.”
“Three days.” He stood, eyeing the empty bottle. “I’ll call.”
When he left, Emily drifted in.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not a baby.”
“Tell you what?”
“That I’m living with him.”
Rose sighed.
That night, she didn’t sleep. *Who do I turn to?*
Next morning, she stopped by Mr. Dawson from downstairs—retired police. She told him everything.
“Blimey, Rose. Tough spot.” He rubbed his chin. “Here’s the plan. Call Daniel, say you’ve decided, invite him over. Buy whisky—two bottles, one won’t cut it. Snacks, nothing fancy. I’ll ‘drop by.’ We’ll see.”
Three days later, Daniel swaggered in, saw the spread, and smirked. Then the doorbell rang.
“Who’s this?” Mr. Dawson boomed, eyeing the whisky.
“My ex-son-in-law. Celebrating the flat swap,” Rose said, slipping out.
Mr. Dawson discreetly hit record.
Later, listening to the playback, Rose clutched her chest.
*”He wants the flat, for sure, then off she goes to care,”* Daniel slurred. *”But better to move in. Rose is old—flat’ll be mine soon enough.”*
*”Brilliant. Wife was always a burden, eh?”* Mr. Dawson played along.
*”Could always make it look accidental…”*
Rose gasped.
Next day, Mr. Dawson grinned. “Dug up enough dirt on him. He’ll keep quiet—or it’s prison.”
Daniel never came back.
Years later, Emily, graduating, twirled in her dress.
“You look just like your mum,” Rose murmured. “Now I can go in peace.”
“Gran! What about my wedding? Kids? You’re not allowed to die!”
Rose chuckled. “Fair enough.”
Emily brought every boyfriend home for Gran’s verdict. After all, Gran had a knack for spotting the bad eggs. And she didn’t get it wrong.
As for Rose? She took to church—lighting candles for Emily, forAnd so, with a heart full of memories and a life stitched together by love, she whispered one last prayer of thanks—not for an easy journey, but for one worth taking.
