When the phone rang at dawn, Emily could hardly tell if she was awake or still dreaming. The screen flashed—*Mum*. Sleep vanished at once. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful:
*Still lazing in bed, lazybones? I’ve already got the pies in the oven. Expect an invitation tomorrow—you and Alfie. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About my will! I won’t have you two tearing each other apart over the house and pennies at my funeral. Both of you, no excuses!*
Emily froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing seemed pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret Thompson, Emily and Alfie’s mother, sat at the kitchen table, adjusting her woolen shawl. Beside her, their neighbor Mabel fidgeted, eyes wide with worry.
*Maggie, are you ill? Why this grim talk? You’re frightening me…*
*Don’t fret, Mabel dear. I just want to see my children. It’s been a year. Each of them off in their own world, like strangers. If something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll set things straight? And I want to test them. See who truly cares.*
With that, Margaret shut the door behind Mabel and went to rest. Tomorrow would be a busy day.
The morning was gray, as if matching her plan. She tidied the house, changed into an old dressing gown, washed her face, and settled into her armchair, holding her breath. An hour later, a knock came.
Emily burst in first—flushed, frantic.
*Mum! What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?* she wailed, rushing to her mother.
Alfie followed, more restrained.
*You gave us a proper scare, Mum. Planning an early exit, are you?*
*Sit down, both of you,* Margaret said calmly. *And call your other halves in. Sarah, Tom, don’t lurk in the doorway.*
Once seated, she began.
*Listen, and don’t interrupt. I need to say this. Old age isn’t a joy, and I’m alone. Illness doesn’t ask permission. So I’ve decided—I’ll speak while I can. But first, chores. Who helps an old woman if not her own? Firewood to chop, dinner to cook…*
Emily and Sarah nodded and set to work. Margaret watched carefully—dough stuck to fingers, potatoes were cut too thick, pans clattered. *City folk, hopeless,* she thought sadly but didn’t scold. That wasn’t the point.
After the meal, she asked Tom and Sarah to step outside, leaving just her children.
*Now listen close. The house you grew up in—I’m leaving it to Mabel. She’s here, she’d help if needed. Alfie, you get the shed, the tools, the land. Do as you like. Emily, I leave my savings. Pension money, barely touched.*
Heavy silence filled the room.
*The house—to a neighbor?* Alfie finally spat. *You’re joking.*
*Why not? A year without a visit. Mabel checks on me daily. And you, Alfie—ashamed to invite your mum to your wedding, were you? Too country for your posh lot? And you, Emily—haven’t seen you since you married that second bloke, Tom. Still cross I said he wasn’t right? I was correct, wasn’t I?*
*Mum, please…* Emily whispered.
*I’m not well. Need to lie down,* Margaret sighed, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, voices rose.
*This is your fault!* Alfie hissed. *Should’ve visited. Now the house goes to Mabel!*
*Oh, sure! I work all hours! What’s your Sarah doing? Could’ve popped round!*
They shouted over each other. Margaret sat by the window, listening, tears pricking her eyes. Where were the children who ran barefoot through the garden? Where was their kindness?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—just sitting, composed, though her eyes gleamed.
*Mum, you alright? You were ill…* Alfie started.
*Better now,* she said softly. *I see clearly. I’m not needed. A will, you ask? There’ll be one. Later. When you decide—do you want this house to love or to squabble over?*
Breakfast passed in silence, just the scrape of chairs and clink of spoons. Emily spoke first.
*We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit. We’re family…*
Margaret nodded. Warm quiet settled over the table.
After that, things changed—and didn’t. Alfie barely visited but sent money. Emily came more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. But no one mentioned the will again.
No one knew it already lay in the bottom drawer, signed and stamped. Everything split evenly. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
