The Fair Agreement
Emily slipped away slowly, painfully. Her body, exhausted from endless chemotherapy, no longer fought the illness. And Emily herself longed to be free from the agony that had plagued her for months. The painkillers kept her in a drowsy haze, surfacing now and then like a gasp for air before sinking back into the numbing fog that cradled her mind.
Lucy came home from school, stepping into the room heavy with the scent of sickness. She stared at her mother, who no longer resembled the laughing, cheerful woman she remembered. Now, Emily lay with closed eyes, and Lucy watched anxiously for the rise and fall of the blanket—proof she was still breathing.
“Mum. Mum, can you hear me?” Lucy called.
Emily’s eyelids fluttered, but she lacked the strength to open them. Grandmother Margaret would then usher Lucy out.
“Come, love, let’s get you some dinner, then we’ll do your homework. Let your mum rest.”
“But she’s always sleeping now. When will she get better? I want things to go back to normal.”
“Oh, darling, I wish they would, too,” Margaret murmured, setting a steaming bowl of beef stew in front of Lucy, blinking back tears.
*What a cruel twist of fate—me, old and alive, while my daughter slips away. And there’s nothing I can do. How many prayers, how many church visits? What did I do to anger God?* she wondered, sighing.
Emily died just before dawn. Margaret had risen at three to use the loo, peering into her daughter’s room—still alive then, she was certain. She had tossed in bed before finally drifting off, only to dream of little Emily. Laughing, waving, running ahead, glancing back over her shoulder. *Wait, where are you going? Come back!* Margaret cried out in her sleep, jolting awake.
She hurried to Emily’s room. The stillness told her everything. Closing the door softly, she boiled the kettle, reheated pancakes for Lucy, and only then woke her.
Lucy ate, dressed in her school uniform, and went to say goodbye, as always.
“Don’t disturb her,” Margaret called. “Here, take an apple.” She handed Lucy a bright red one.
Walking to school, Margaret barely registered Lucy’s chatter.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Lucy asked.
“Bad night’s sleep,” Margaret lied.
Back home, she rang for an ambulance.
“When did she pass? Why call so late?” the brisk doctor demanded.
“I had to take my granddaughter to school. She shouldn’t see this…”
The undertakers arrived quickly, thank God. Emily was gone before Lucy returned. On the walk back, Margaret rehearsed how to break the news but found no words. At home, distracted, she didn’t stop Lucy from bursting into her mother’s room.
“Where’s Mum?” Lucy spun around.
Exhausted, Margaret said the first thing that came to mind: “They took her to hospital.” She looked away.
Lucy must have guessed or resented the secrecy—she refused supper, curled into the sofa’s corner, facing the window. Margaret had no energy to comfort her. Who would comfort *her*? Locking herself in the bathroom, she turned on the tap and rang Edward, Emily’s ex-husband. She’d found his number in Emily’s phone that morning.
“What do you want?” Edward snapped, mistaking the call for Emily.
“It’s Margaret. Emily died this morning. Could you take Lucy for a few days? I told her they’ve taken her mum to hospital. There’s so much to arrange—I can’t tell her yet.”
“Yeah, I’ll come now,” Edward said, calmer.
Within half an hour, he was at the door. Lucy brightened at the sight of him, still cross with Margaret.
“How’s life?” He sat beside her on the sofa. “School treating you all right?”
“Fine,” Lucy mumbled. “Mum’s in hospital. Gran won’t visit,” she complained.
“Probably not allowed yet. Fancy a day out? Park, ice cream, maybe a film?”
“Really?” Lucy perked up.
Margaret packed Lucy’s things, thrusting the bag at Edward as they left. Then she went to the hospital. So much to do, so much to remember.
The funeral arrangements drained her. By evening, her legs trembled with fatigue. She hadn’t even the strength to cry. Her heart ached. *Just hold on. Don’t break now.* She swallowed pill after pill.
After the funeral, Edward rang. “When should I bring Lucy back?”
“Had enough already?” Margaret meant to sneer, but it came out pitiful.
“She wants to come home. We’ll be over. Need to talk.”
Dread gripped her. *What now? What fresh hell?* Forcing herself up, she put the kettle on, laid out leftover sandwiches and scones, set out a half-finished bottle of whisky. Let him toast her, ex-husband or not.
Seeing Lucy, she wept, realising how much she’d missed her. Lucy clung to her.
“Come on, I’ve made scones.”
At the table, Edward immediately poured whisky, filling his glass to the brim. He raised it, but Margaret’s warning glance silenced him. He downed it neat, not spilling a drop. Later, she sent Lucy to her room—adults needed to talk. Lucy sulked out, and Margaret shut the door firmly.
“Well?” she asked wearily.
“Don’t glare at me, Margaret. I’m trying to help.”
“You’ve done *so* much already,” she spat.
“Don’t blame me for everything. Your daughter wasn’t a saint either,” Edward snapped.
“Quiet,” Margaret hissed. “Get to the point. And don’t you dare say her name.”
“Fine.” He drank again, unfazed. “Here’s the thing. Lucy’s young. You’re a pensioner. One word to the authorities, and they’ll take her.”
“You’d do that?” Margaret flared.
“You’re not getting younger. They won’t let you keep her. I’m her father—alive and well.”
“And what’s your solution?” Her vision darkened, her heart thudding. She longed for this to end, to lie down.
“I’ve no place of my own. Drifting from one woman to the next.”
“Another gullible hen. You had everything and squandered it.”
“Watch your mouth,” Edward hissed, but Margaret waved him off.
“Here’s the deal. If I live with my daughter, no one will dare take her.”
“So that’s it.” She fought to keep her voice steady.
“Exactly. Don’t want me here? Fine—we’ll swap your flat. Lucy stays with you, but legally, she’s mine. Or better yet, we live together. I *am* her father.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Call it what you like. But it’s the best solution. Unless you want her in care?”
Margaret struggled to breathe. She stood, opened the window, drew in air, and turned. Edward watched her closely.
“You don’t love Lucy. You don’t want her. You want the flat. You’d dump her with me so you can carry on,” Margaret said coldly.
“Fine. No deal.” Edward’s voice turned menacing.
Margaret refused to believe this was happening. Yet part of her had always expected it. But Lucy… She couldn’t lose her too.
“I need time to think,” she said hastily.
“Good.” He eyed the empty bottle, set it down, and stood. “Three days. I’ll call. Lucy, bye!”
When the door shut, Lucy walked in.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not a child.”
“Tell you what?” Margaret turned from the sink, startled.
“That I’d be living with him.”
Margaret sighed.
Exhausted beyond measure, she lay awake all night, thoughts gnawing at her. *Who can I turn to? Take him in, and he’ll throw you out. Swap the flat, he’ll sell his share, blow the money, and come crawling back. Oh, Emily, why didn’t you listen?*
The next day, after dropping Lucy at school, Margaret visited Peter, the retired policeman from the second floor. She told him everything.
“Help me, Peter. I’ve no one else. What do I do?”
“You’ve set me a task, Margaret.” He thought long. “Ring Edward. Say you’ve decided and want to talk. Buy two bottles of whisky—one won’t cut it. Prepare a little food. I’ll ‘drop by.’ We’ll see. Three days, you said? Enough time.”
Relieved, Margaret went home. At least there was hope. Peter was decent—he’d helped neighbours before.
Three days later, Edward arrived. Seeing the set table, he smirked, certain Margaret had surrendered. Before she could speak, the doorbell rang. She let Peter in.
“Who’s this? A celebration?” Peter asked cheerilyMargaret smiled faintly as Peter’s warm laughter filled the room, knowing she had finally outmaneuvered the shadows of the past, and the future—though uncertain—now held a fragile light for her and Lucy.
