**A Fair Bargain**
Natalie slipped away slowly, painfully. Her body, weary from endless treatments, no longer fought the illness. Natalie herself longed for release from the agony that had plagued her for months. The painkillers kept her in a hazy half-sleep, surfacing occasionally like a breath snatched from deep water before sinking again into the numb embrace of oblivion.
Little Emily came home from school, stepping into the room thick with the scent of sickness, staring at her mother for long, silent moments. This wasn’t the same laughing, lively mum she remembered. Her mother lay motionless, eyes shut, and Emily’s gaze clung to the rise and fall of the blanket—still breathing, still there.
“Mum. Mum, can you hear me?” Emily called.
Natalie’s eyelids fluttered, but she hadn’t the strength to open them. Grandma Margaret would always come then, steering Emily away.
“Come, love, let’s get you fed, then we’ll do your homework. Let Mum rest.”
“But she’s always sleeping,” Emily protested, voice small. “When will she get better? I want things like they were before.”
“Oh, darling, so do I. Rest is the best medicine for healing.” Margaret set down a bowl of steaming beef stew, blinking back tears.
*It’s not fair—I’m still here, and my daughter’s slipping away. And nothing can be done. All the prayers, all the candles lit… What did I do to anger God?*
Natalie died just before dawn. Margaret, up to use the loo at three, had peered in—still alive, still breathing. She knew it. Then she’d tossed and turned until sleep took her. In her dream, little Natalie laughed, waved, and ran off, glancing back. “Wait—where are you going? Come back!” Margaret cried out, bolting awake.
She hurried to Natalie’s room. The woman lying there was still, strange, already gone. Margaret shut the door quietly, put the kettle on, warmed up pancakes for Emily, and only then woke her.
Emily ate, pulled on her school uniform, and moved toward her mother’s room.
“Don’t go in—let her sleep,” Margaret called. “Here, take an apple for break.” She handed Emily a rosy fruit.
On the walk to school, Emily chattered while Margaret barely listened.
“You’re quiet today,” Emily said.
“Didn’t sleep well,” Margaret lied.
Back home, she called the ambulance.
“When did she die? Why wait so long?” the stern doctor pressed.
“Had to get my granddaughter to school. She shouldn’t see this…”
The mortuary van came quickly, thank God. Natalie was gone before Emily returned. All morning, Margaret wrestled with how to tell her, but no words came. At home, distracted, she didn’t stop Emily from darting into the empty room.
“Where’s Mum?” Emily spun around.
Exhausted, Margaret spoke the first thing that came to mind: “They took her to hospital.” She couldn’t meet Emily’s eyes.
Maybe the girl guessed or felt betrayed—she refused supper, curled into the sofa corner, faced the window. Margaret hadn’t the strength to comfort her. Who’d comfort *her*? Locked in the bathroom, water running, she rang Oliver, Natalie’s ex, whose number she’d found in Natalie’s phone.
“What do *you* want?” Oliver snapped, thinking it was Natalie calling.
“This is Margaret. Natalie passed this morning. Could you take Emily for a few days? I told her they’ve hospitalised her mother. I’ve arrangements to make… I can’t tell her the truth yet.”
A pause. Then, calmer, “Yeah, I’ll come now.”
Within the half-hour, he was at the door. Emily brightened seeing him—still cross with Margaret.
“How’s life?” Oliver sat beside her. “School treating you all right?”
“Yeah. Mum’s in hospital. Gran won’t go see her,” Emily muttered.
“Probably not allowed yet. Fancy a day out? Park, ice cream, maybe a film?”
“Really?”
Margaret packed Emily’s things, thrust the bag at Oliver as they left. Then she went to the hospital. So much to do, so much to remember. By evening, the funeral chaos left her shattered. Not even tears came—just a crushing weight in her chest. *Hold on. Don’t break.* She swallowed pill after pill.
After the funeral, Oliver rang. “When should I bring her back?”
“Had enough already?” Margaret meant to snarl, but it came out pleading.
“She’s homesick. We’re coming over. Need to talk.”
Dread gripped her. *What now? What fresh torment?* She forced herself up, boiled the kettle, laid out leftover sandwiches, sausage rolls, and half a bottle of whiskey. Let him toast her, for what it was worth.
Seeing Emily, she wept—how she’d missed her. Emily clung to her.
“Come, I’ve made pancakes.”
They ate. Oliver seized the whiskey, filled his glass to the brim. He started to speak, but Margaret’s warning look silenced him. He downed it neat. Then Margaret sent Emily away, shut the door.
“Out with it,” she said wearily.
“Don’t glare at me, Margaret. I’ve an offer. Emily’s young, you’re retired. One word to social services, and they’ll take her. I’m her father—alive, healthy.”
“And?” Her vision darkened, her heart thudded irregularly. She just wanted to lie down.
“I’ve no place of my own. Drifting between places.”
“Mooching off some poor woman. You had everything and wasted it.”
“Watch it,” Oliver hissed. Margaret waved him off. “Point is, if I live with my own kid, no one can take her.”
“Aha.” Her voice shook.
“Don’t want me here? Fine—sell this place, split the money. On paper, she’s with me, but stays here. Or better yet, we all live together. I’m her dad, after all.”
“Blackmail, is it?”
“Call it what you like. But it’s fair. You don’t want her in care, do you?”
Margaret sucked in air, opened the window, turned back. He watched her like a hawk.
“You don’t love her. You want the flat. You’d dump her on me to chase women.”
“No deal, then?” His tone turned dangerous.
Margaret couldn’t believe this was happening. Yet part of her had always expected it. Not Emily—she couldn’t lose her too.
“Give me time to think,” she said quickly.
“Three days.” Oliver stood, eyeing the empty bottle. “I’ll call.”
When the door shut, Emily came in.
“You should’ve told me. I’m not a baby.”
“Told you what?” Margaret turned from the sink, startled.
“That I’m going with him.”
Margaret sighed.
Exhausted as she was, sleep wouldn’t come that night. *Who can I turn to? Let him move in, and he’ll swindle me out of everything. And why, Natalie, why didn’t you listen?*
Next morning, she walked Emily to school, then knocked on her neighbour Peter’s door. A retired policeman. She told him everything.
“Help me, Peter. I’ve no one else.”
“That’s a tough one, Margaret.” He rubbed his chin. “Ring him. Say you’ve decided and invite him over. Buy whiskey—two bottles. Simple snacks. I’ll ‘drop by.’ We’ll see.”
Three days later, Oliver arrived, saw the spread, smirked—thought he’d won. Before Margaret could speak, the doorbell rang.
“Who’s this? A party?” Peter boomed, eyeing the whiskey.
“My ex-son-in-law. We’re celebrating selling my flat,” Margaret said.
“Selling? Why?”
“Pour him a drink, Oliver.” She left them.
Peter had started recording on his phone. Later, Margaret listened in horror—Oliver’s plans laid bare.
*”Get the flat, dump the kid in care if she’s trouble…”*
*”Better yet, move in. She’s old—flat’ll be mine soon.”*
*”Could’ve offed the wife, but tricky…”*
Margaret gasped.
Next day, Peter returned. “Dug up enough dirt to bury him. He breathes a word, he’s in cuffs.”
Oliver never came back. At first, Margaret jumped at every phone ring, then slowly relaxed.
One day, she asked Peter, “What scared him off?”
“Best you don’t know. Man’s a coward and a crook. Live in peace. If he bothers you, call me.”
Years later, Emily, graduating, looked just like Natalie.
“I can die happy now,” Margaret mused.
“Gran! Who’ll help me marry? Have kids? Don’t you dare!” Emily laughed.
Margaret lived on. Emily brought every beauAnd so, with a heart full of quiet strength, Margaret whispered her gratitude into the flickering candlelight, knowing that life—with all its twists and turns—would always find a way, as long as love endured.
