Emily Taylor

Staying Human: A Chilling December Evening at a Small Town Coach Station Reminds Margarita of the Value of Simple Compassion Amid Anonymous Faces and Passing Strangers

Remaining Human Mid-December in the town of Norley was biting and blustery. A thin dusting of snow barely

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“Don’t You Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Said — “Those clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth did you pack them up?” my husband demanded, his voice suddenly so unfamiliar. — “We should just throw them away, Steve. We don’t need them cluttering half the wardrobe! I need the space for winter blankets and spare pillows — you know how everything’s always scattered about.” With brisk determination, Olivia kept pulling her late mother-in-law’s modest cardigans, skirts, and light dresses off their hangers, while Valeria’s things had always been neatly arranged to keep everything tidy — a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. Olivia, on the other hand, was forever lost in the chaos of overflowing wardrobes each morning, sighing about having “nothing to wear” and then frantically steaming out the creases from tops that looked as if they’d been chewed up and spat out by a cow. It had only been three weeks since Steve had said his last goodbye to his mum. Valeria had needed treatment — mostly hopeless by then — and peace. Her cancer was already at stage four and progressing without mercy. Steve had taken her in, but she’d faded away in just a month. Now, coming home from work, he found her clothes tossed in a pile like unwanted rubbish in the middle of the hallway. He felt frozen in shock. Was that it then? Was this how his mother was to be remembered — thrown out and instantly forgotten? — “Why are you staring at me like that, as if you’re the ghost of Christmas past?” Olivia retorted, shifting to the side. — “Don’t you dare touch those things,” Steve hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely he momentarily couldn’t feel his hands or feet. — “We don’t need that old tat!” Olivia snapped, losing her temper. “What do you want, a museum at home? Your mum’s gone — deal with it! You should’ve cared more while she was alive. Visited more, then you might have realised how ill she was!” Steve flinched at her words, as if she’d lashed him across the face. — “Leave before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, his voice shaking. Olivia snorted: — “Please do. Psycho…” To Olivia, anyone with an opinion different from her own was automatically “mental.” Not bothering to take off his shoes, Steve marched to the hallway wardrobe, flung open the top doors and, balancing on a step-stool, grabbed one of their checkered shopping bags — the ones that had been so handy for their move. He carefully folded all of Valeria’s things into it, not just tossing but folding each into a neat rectangle. Her old coat and a bag of shoes went on top. All the while, their three-year-old son toddled round, helping Daddy — even dropped his toy tractor into the bag to keep Grandma company. When Steve was done, he rummaged through the drawer, found the keys, and slipped them in his pocket. — “Daddy, where are you going?” Steve gave a sad smile, hand on the door. — “I’ll be back soon, matey. Go find Mum.” — “Hold on!” Olivia called, appearing in the doorway. “Are you leaving? Where to? What about dinner?” — “I’ve had enough of how you treat my mum’s memory, thanks.” — “Oh, come on, what’s got into you now? Take your coat off. Where are you off to at this time?” With his back to her, Steve stepped out with the bag, started his car, pulled out of the drive, and headed for the M25. He drove, letting the motorway roar drown out his thoughts. Everything else receded — work projects, summer holiday plans, even the funny posts he used to love online. Only one thought crept, slow and heavy, through his mind, eclipsing everything: of all that filled his days, what truly mattered were his kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself for her death — for not noticing, not making time, for always being too busy. She’d never wanted to be a burden, so he visited less, called less. Now it was too late. He made a brief pit stop at a roadside café for a snack, then drove the next three hours without a break. Only the sunset distracted him for a moment: a burst of crimson split the grey sky as if the sun clung desperately to the edge of the world. It was full dark when he arrived at his childhood village, shuffling along unpaved lanes until he pulled up outside his childhood home. Artist: Shaun Ferguson He couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Fumbling with the gate, using his phone for light — five missed calls from his wife, no, he couldn’t talk to anyone now. The air was sweet and heavy with blossom, attracting night moths. The chalk-white flowers glimmered ghostly in the dark. The old windows mirrored the night sky. Steve let himself in, feeling his way to the light switch in the hall. His mum’s gardening slippers waited by the door. By the inner door, her blue house shoes, worn out, with two red bunnies by the toe. Steve had bought them for her eight years ago. He paused, stared, shook his head, and opened the next door. Hello, Mum. Have you been waiting? No, no one waited for him in this house anymore. Inside, it smelled of old furniture and damp, musty as if the cellar breathed up from below. The house needed constant heating to keep off the mould. Her hairbrush and little collection of cosmetics still sat on the dresser; near the door, a see-through bag marked “Value” brimmed with pasta. The only new thing in the lounge was the sofa and telly he’d bought her. The fridge was open, a reminder no one lived here now. In her room — her side of the bed piled high with neatly covered pillows. Steve sat on the edge. This had once been his room, with a brother sharing the other bed, desk by the window. Now, a sewing machine stood in its place — Mum had loved her sewing. The second bed replaced by a wardrobe for her things. He sat in perfect silence, staring at the wardrobe as if a ghost might step out. His eyes glazed. He cupped his head in his hands, bent double, and sobbed into his knees. He wept for never having replied when she squeezed his hand that last day. He’d sat, numb, mute, seeing her fade, swallowing all the words he’d never say. “Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t look at me like that… I was happy with you.” And he’d so badly wanted to thank her for his carefree childhood, for every sacrifice, every bit of love, for the safe home she’d built — a place to return, no matter how badly you’d messed up. But he’d sat speechless, unable to find the words. Sometimes, all you can think of sounds so stilted, so old-fashioned, you’re embarrassed even to try. Ours is an age that hasn’t come up with words for real emotion — we’re excellent at cynicism and banter, not much else. He turned off all the lights and fell asleep, fully clothed, careful not to crush the made-up bed. Woke at seven, as always, amazed at his body’s routine. Out to the car for the bag. The birch trees across the lane, fresh in green, stood like spring bridesmaids. Morning sun warmed the branches to life. He stood on the porch a minute: birdsong, crisp air — how lucky to have grown up here and not in some concrete city. A stretch, a deep breath, then back inside to unpack his mum’s things. One by one, he placed them carefully back on the shelves and hangers, her shoes neatly below. When everything was in order, he stepped back to check — was it tidy enough? He half-saw her, floating in those outfits, always smiling that warm, wordless “I love you.” Running a hand along the hanging blouses and dresses, he hugged the row, breathed in the old familiar scent… and just stood there. He had no idea what to do next. Eventually, remembered the present: found his phone. — “Hi, Mr Thompson. I won’t make it in today. Family emergency. Will you manage without me? Thanks.” And a quick message to his wife: “Sorry I lost my temper. I’ll be home tonight. Love you.” Along the garden, flowers crowded the path. Daffodils in full bloom, tulips just opening, and near the gooseberry bushes — lilies of the valley. Strange bouquet… He split it in three: at the cemetery, he’d visit three graves. When he passed the shop, he remembered he hadn’t eaten, bought milk, a bread roll — and a chocolate bar. — “Oh, Steve! You’re back again?” the shopkeeper, Mrs Harris, was surprised. — “Yeah… Came to see Mum,” Steve mumbled, looking away. — “I understand. Want some cheddar? Just in, special delivery. Your mum always bought it.” He blinked — was she having a dig? No, she was just a simple soul. — “No, it’s fine. Well, actually — why not. And you, Mrs H., are you alright?” — “Oh!” she waved it off. She and Valeria had been best friends. “Don’t ask. My Terry’s gone completely off the rails. Always drunk.” Steve ate breakfast right there at the cemetery, laid out the flowers: daffodils, lilies, tulips. Brother, dad, mum. His brother had been first — fell off the roof fixing tiles. Just twenty. Five years later, dad died. Now mum. A bit of chocolate for each, and for mum, a piece of cheddar. He chatted with them in his head. He remembered the mischief he and his brother got up to. How at dawn he’d go fishing with Dad — his cast was wild, cowboy style. And Mum! How she’d belt out “Ste-e-eve! Dinner!” across the whole village — her voice carried for miles, and he’d squirm in front of his mates. Oh, if only she’d call him in now. He touched the temporary cross on his mother’s grave. The earth still fresh, the mound dark in the sun. “Mum… forgive me. I should’ve done more. We lived apart, but why does life feel so empty without you? There’s so much I want to tell you — and you, Dad. You were amazing, the very best parents. Thank you… How did you do it? Me and Olivia — we’re so much worse, so selfish. All I ever think is me, me, my… Thank you for everything. You too, Tom.” Time to go. Steve walked back by the fields, pulling up grass to chew. On the first street, he bumped into Terry, Mrs Harris’s son — drunk already, looking a mess. — “Oi, Stevo! Back again?” Terry slurred. — “Yeah… Visiting the family. You still drinking?” — “Of course. It’s a special day!” — “Oh really? What’s that then?” Terry fished a calendar from his shorts, flicked a page. — “World Turtle Day! See?” he declared wisely. — “Right…” Steve smirked. “Terry, look after your mum. She’s a gem, you know. And she won’t be around forever.” He walked on, leaving Terry baffled. Only after a moment did he call out: — “Yeah, alright… Cheers, Steve.” — “Yeah, take care,” Steve replied, not looking back.

Dont you dare touch my mums things, Tom says. These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth are you packing them up?

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Marrying a Disabled Man: A Heartfelt Story Thank you all for your support, your likes, your thoughtful comments and reviews, for subscribing, and a MASSIVE thank you from me and my five cats for every donation. Please share any stories you enjoy on social media too—it means a lot to the author! My daughter came home late from the hospital, where she works as a nurse in the A&E. She spent ages in the shower and then shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown. “There are meatballs and pasta in the frying pan,” I offered, looking into her face, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Tired, Lucy? What’s up with you tonight?” “I’m not eating. I already look horrible, and if I stuff my face, no one will look twice at me,” muttered Lucy, pouring herself a cup of tea. “Don’t be silly!” I protested. “You’ve got a lovely face, intelligent eyes, a normal nose and lips—don’t talk rubbish, Lucy!” “How can I not? All my friends have been married for ages, and I’ve got no one! The only men who seem interested are total losers. The ones I like don’t give me a second glance. What’s wrong with me, Mum?” Lucy frowned, waiting for an answer. “You simply haven’t met the right person. It’s just not your time yet,” I tried to comfort her, but Lucy only got more upset. “Exactly! My eyes are small, my lips are thin, and look at my nose! If we had money, I’d get plastic surgery, but we’re skint! So I’ve decided I’ll just marry someone disabled—there are blokes at the hospital whose girlfriends dumped them after an accident or injury. What else can I do? I’m thirty-three—no more time to wait!” “Oh, Lucy, don’t say that. Your dad’s not the best with his legs either. I just thought maybe your husband would help out at the allotment—that would be a big help. How else are we supposed to get by?” I blurted out, quickly trying to explain myself: “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy, but not everyone lives like kings. Why do you need a disabled man? Look, there’s Alex from next door—he’s a good lad, been eyeing you up for ages. Strong, would have healthy kids, and—” “Mum, please! That Alex can’t hold down a job, loves a drink, and what would we even talk about?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Never mind talking! I’ll send him to dig over the garden, then we’ll have lunch, or I’ll get him to pop to the shops. He’s a good boy, hardworking, maybe you two could make it work?” I suggested hopefully, but Lucy just shoved her nearly full cup away and got up. “I’m off to bed, Mum. I thought at least you saw me as a person. Turns out you, like everyone else, just think I’m ugly…” “Lucy, darling, don’t!” I tried to follow her, but Lucy waved me away: “That’s enough, Mum!” She shut the bedroom door right in my face. Lucy lay awake for ages, thinking about a young man they recently brought in—a guy in his late twenties who’d lost his leg below the knee. A wall had pinned his leg in a derelict house due for demolition where he’d gone for some reason. By the time they got him out, it was too late to save his leg. No one visited. At first, he’d held her hand and looked at her pleadingly after the surgery. When the reality sank in, he would just silently stare at the ceiling, more alone than any other patient, maybe because no one came for him. “Do you think I’ll be able to walk?” he asked her the other day, not meeting her eyes. Lucy answered firmly and confidently, “Of course you will. You’re young—everything will heal.” “Everyone says that. I’d like to see you live with one leg—what kind of life is that?” he snapped, turning to face the wall, as if it was her fault. “Why did you go in there anyway?” she retorted, suddenly annoyed. “It’s your own fault!” “I thought I saw something,” he barely muttered. After that, whenever she walked in, he’d turn away. Lucy looked him over: icy blue eyes, but a kind face. It was a real shame what had happened to him… “Are you pitying me?” he caught her staring once. “I can see it—you pity me. That’s all people like me get now. No one will ever love me.” “No one loves me either, even though I’ve got all my limbs—because I’m not pretty enough! No one even bothers to pity me. Maybe I’d get more sympathy if I lost a leg,” Lucy shot back, on the brink of tears. For the first time, Misha smiled at her, looking right into her eyes. “You’re daft! Not pretty? Are you having a laugh? I’d give anything for the man you pick to be me, you know that?” Lucy stared at him, and the strangest thing was—she really believed him. Suddenly, she blurted out what had been on her mind for days: “What if I pick you, Misha? Will you marry me? Or are you just pretending? If you’re quiet, I know you’re lying!” Lucy stood up and headed to the door, looking wounded. But Misha, propping himself up on his elbows as best he could, sat up in bed like he was about to chase after her. Realising he couldn’t, he called out, “Marry me, Lucy! I swear, soon nobody will even notice about my leg. I’ll get back on my feet—I promise! Don’t go, Lucy…” Lucy paused in the corridor, almost crying—yet somewhere inside, she suddenly felt that he was THE ONE. It didn’t matter anymore that her nose was “wrong” or her eyes too small, or that he’d lost his leg. They’d met at last. The time had come, just like Mum always said… Misha threw himself into rehab with energy and determination. He had a reason now: he wanted to marry the wonderful girl who’d stolen his heart, and he needed to be back on his feet for their future. He wanted Lucy to smile again and believe that she meant the world to someone—that she meant everything to him. “You’ve finally fallen in love, haven’t you, love?” her mum asked slyly a little later. “Look how you’ve blossomed—you said you were plain!” Lucy didn’t even bother to deny it. She floated around the house as if on wings. Her only wish was that Misha would soon walk confidently and get used to his prosthesis. Slowly their walks together got longer—first in the hospital courtyard, then out along the snow-covered, Christmas-lit city streets… “That building there—that’s where I got trapped. They’ve knocked it down now,” Misha pointed out one evening. “Why’d you sneak in there anyway? What did you see? You never told me,” Lucy remembered. “You’ll laugh—a puppy, black with white spots, shivering and skinny. I thought I’d take him home, so I wouldn’t be lonely,” Misha explained. “Look, there’s a scruffy dog over there, watching us but too scared to come close,” Lucy pointed. “That’s him, isn’t it?” Misha rejoiced, and the dog trotted over and tag-teamed them all the way home… “Wow, Lucy lucked out—snagged a handsome husband, younger than herself, who’s even got a flat and no mother-in-law!” her friends joked at the wedding. Lucy’s mum got teary when Misha started calling her “Mum” too. He’d grown up in a children’s home—no family at all. A good lad, with real warmth in his heart. Most importantly—they loved each other. May they always be happy. And as for the allotment—who cares! Misha cheerfully found ways round anything, and everything worked out in the end. For now Lucy, Misha, and their dog Kuzma make three—but soon, they’ll be four. Lucy and Misha are about to welcome a daughter. Never lose hope—otherwise, your happiness could pass right by and you’ll never know it. After all, that’s the beauty of life’s unpredictability…

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