A Fair Agreement
Charlotte was slipping away slowly and painfully. Her body, exhausted from endless rounds of chemotherapy, no longer fought the illness. Truthfully, Charlotte herself longed for relief from the agony that had haunted her for months. The painkillers kept her in a drowsy haze, surfacing now and then like a swimmer gasping for air before sinking back into the merciful fog engulfing her mind.
Emily came home from school, stepping into the bedroom thick with the scent of sickness, and studied her mother’s face for a long moment. Mum didn’t look like the laughing, cheerful woman she once was. She lay still, eyes closed, and Emily would watch the faint rise and fall of the blanket over her chest—still breathing, just barely.
“Mum? Mum, can you hear me?” Emily would call.
Charlotte’s eyelids twitched, but she didn’t have the strength to open them. Then Gran would step in, gently leading Emily out of the room.
“Come on, love. Let’s get you fed, then we’ll do your homework. Let your mum rest.”
“But she’s always asleep now. When is she going to get better? I want things back the way they were.”
“Oh, sweetheart, so do I,” Gran would say, forcing a steady voice as she set a bowl of steaming stew in front of Emily, blinking back tears.
*Why is this fair?* she thought. *I’m the one who’s lived a full life—why her?* She had prayed, lit candles, begged—but nothing had changed.
Charlotte passed just before dawn. Margaret had woken at three to use the loo, peeking into her daughter’s room as she did every night. Charlotte was still then, but alive—Margaret knew it. She lay back down, tossing and turning before finally drifting into a fitful sleep. She dreamed of little Lottie, her younger self, laughing and running ahead, glancing back before vanishing into the distance. *Wait! Come back!* Margaret shouted in her dream—and woke with a start.
She hurried to Charlotte’s room. Her daughter lay still, peaceful—gone. Margaret quietly shut the door, boiled the kettle, reheated some pancakes for Emily, and only then woke her.
Emily ate, pulled on her school uniform, and moved to say goodbye to Mum—she always did before school.
“Leave her be,” Margaret called softly. “Here, take an apple for your bag.” She handed Emily a shiny red one.
As they walked, Margaret barely registered Emily’s chatter.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Emily asked.
“Didn’t sleep well, that’s all,” Margaret lied.
Once home, she called the ambulance.
“When did she pass? Why wait so long?” the doctor asked sternly.
“I had to get Emily to school first. She shouldn’t see this.”
The body was taken before Emily returned. All day, Margaret wrestled with how to break the news—but when Emily burst into the empty room, panic flaring in her eyes, the words wouldn’t come.
“Where’s Mum?”
“At the hospital,” Margaret said, looking away.
Emily must have sensed the truth—or maybe she was just angry Gran hadn’t told her sooner. She refused supper, curled into the corner of the sofa, and turned her face to the window. Margaret didn’t have the energy to comfort her. She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the tap, and called Daniel—Charlotte’s ex. She’d found his number in her daughter’s phone that morning.
“What do you want?” he snapped, thinking it was Charlotte.
“It’s Margaret. Charlotte passed this morning. Could you take Emily for a few days? I told her Mum’s in hospital. There’s so much to arrange—I can’t tell her yet.”
A pause. Then, calmer: “Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”
Within half an hour, he was at the door. Emily’s face lit up—she was still cross with Gran.
“How’s school?” He sat beside her. “Not too boring?”
“It’s fine,” she mumbled. “Mum’s in hospital. Gran won’t take me to see her.”
“Probably not allowed yet.” He forced a smile. “Fancy a day out? The park, ice cream, maybe a film?”
“Really?”
Margaret packed Emily’s things, thrusting the bag at Daniel as they left. Then she went to the hospital, buried in lists of arrangements.
The funeral drained the last of her strength. By evening, she swayed on her feet, too exhausted even to cry, her chest tight with grief. *Just hold on. Don’t break.* She swallowed another pill.
That night, Daniel called. “When should I bring her back?”
“Had enough already?” The words came out thin, not sharp.
“She’s homesick. We’ll come now. Need to talk.”
Dread coiled in her chest. *What now?* She forced herself up, boiled the kettle, set out leftovers from the wake—sliced meats, blinis, an unfinished bottle of whiskey. Let him toast her, ex or not.
Seeing Emily, she wept—she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed her. Emily clung to her.
“Come on, love. I made pancakes.”
They sat at the table. Daniel grabbed the whiskey, pouring himself a stiff measure. He opened his mouth—but Margaret’s warning glare silenced him. He knocked it back neatly. Gran sent Emily out, shutting the kitchen door firmly.
“Well?” she asked flatly.
“Don’t glare at me. I’m trying to help.”
“You’ve *helped* enough.”
“Don’t pin this on me. Your daughter was no saint—”
“Quiet,” she hissed. “Get to the point.”
He drank again. “Emily’s young. You’re not. If social services catch wind of this—”
“You’d report me?”
“Just stating facts.” His smile was oily. “I’m her father. They’d give her to me. Unless—”
“Out with it.”
“I’ve no place of my own, but if we lived here…”
Margaret’s pulse roared. “You want my flat.”
“Call it what you want. But think—would you rather she went into care?”
She couldn’t breathe. Her hands shook as she stood, wrenching open the window for air. His smirk made her nauseous.
“You don’t love her. You want the flat. You’d shove her into care to be rid of her.”
“Suit yourself,” he said coldly. “But think it over.”
Margaret stalled him—three days to decide.
That night, she didn’t sleep. *Who can help me?* She’d seen his kind before—he’d bleed her dry, leave them both with nothing. *Oh, Lottie, why didn’t you listen?*
Next morning, she visited their neighbour, retired police sergeant Tom Harris. She told him everything.
Tom listened, then laid out a plan. “Invite him back. Say you’ve decided. Get two bottles—he’ll need it. I’ll ‘drop by.’”
Relieved, Margaret agreed.
Three days later, Daniel swaggered in, eyeing the set table—thinking he’d won. Before he could speak, the doorbell rang.
“Who’s this?” Tom boomed, spotting the whiskey with exaggerated delight. “Celebrating something?”
“The flat’s being sold,” Margaret said smoothly, then excused herself.
Tom, with a hidden recorder, got Daniel talking—and drinking. The threats spilled out: Margaret was *old*, the flat would be *his* soon, Emily could be *dealt with* if she was trouble.
Margaret listened to the recording later, clutching her chest.
Tom wasn’t fazed. “Got enough on him now. He’ll stay off your backs.”
Daniel never returned.
***
Years later, Emily graduated—slender, bright-eyed, so like her mother.
“You can let go now,” Margaret murmured.
“Don’t you dare,” Emily scolded gently. “Who’ll help me when I have children?”
And so Margaret lived on. Emily brought every boyfriend to meet Gran, watching how he treated elders. After hearing of Mum’s mistake, she trusted Gran’s instincts.
She chose well—a good man.
As for Margaret? She found peace in church, lighting candles for Emily’s health—and Charlotte’s soul. Standing before the cross, she whispered fiercely,
“You took my daughter. But let me stay—for her. I’m not bargaining. Just asking for what’s fair.”
