“Don’t Dare Touch My Mum’s Things,” My Husband Warned “These clothes belong to my mum. Why on earth have you packed them up?” my husband asked, his voice suddenly unfamiliar. “We’ll get rid of them. Why do we need this stuff, Mark? They’re taking up half the wardrobe, and I need space for winter duvets and spare pillows—the house is a mess as it is.” With purposeful efficiency, Olga continued stripping the modest jumpers, skirts, and light dresses of her late mother-in-law from their hangers. Mrs. Valerie Harris had always hung her clothes neatly, maintaining their good condition—a habit she’d instilled in her son, too. But Olga’s wardrobes were chaos; every morning, she’d dive among the shelves searching for a top, complain there was nothing to wear, and then attack crumpled shirts with her steamer—the clothes always looking as though a cow had chewed and spat them out. It had only been three weeks since Mark laid his mum to rest. Valerie had required medical care—though it was already a lost cause—and peace. Stage four cancer took her frightfully fast. Mark brought his mother home; she faded within a month. Returning from work that day, he found her belongings tossed carelessly in the hallway, as if they were useless rubbish. Stunned, he wondered—was that it? Was this how his mum would be treated? Thrown out—forgotten without a second thought? “Why are you staring at me like Thatcher at the miners?” Olga retorted, stepping back. “Don’t touch those things,” Mark hissed through clenched teeth. The blood pounded in his head so fiercely, he momentarily lost feeling in his hands and feet. “Oh, for goodness’ sake—what do we need this tat for?” Olga snapped, her temper rising. “What is this, a shrine? Your mum’s gone—face it! Maybe if you’d cared that much when she was alive—visited a bit more—you’d have known how ill she was!” Mark recoiled at those words as if whipped. “Leave, before I do something I’ll regret,” he forced out over the tension in his throat. “Whatever. Loony.” Olga scoffed. In Olga’s mind, anyone who dared to disagree with her was automatically mad. Mark, still in his shoes, went to the hallway cupboard, opened the top doors, and climbing on a stool, fetched one of their checkered moving bags—of which they had about seven. He packed all Valerie’s things, not haphazardly, but folded each item into tidy rectangles. Her coat went on top, and her shoes in a separate bag. Their three-year-old son bustled around helping, even tossing his toy tractor into the bag. Mark rummaged for a key in the hall drawer and dropped it in his pocket. “Daddy, where are you going?” Mark managed a bitter smile as he grasped the door handle. “I’ll be back soon, champ. Go to your mum.” “Wait!” Olga called, appearing in the lounge doorway, “Are you leaving? Where? What about dinner?” “Thanks, I’m full up with your attitude towards my mum.” “Oh come on, there’s no need for this drama. Take your coat off—where do you think you’re off to at this hour?” Without looking back, Mark left with the bag, got in his car, and drove towards the ring road. He kept his mind blank, let the motorway drone drown his thoughts—work, summer holiday plans, those funny Facebook pages he browsed to relax—all shrank to insignificance. Only one slow, heavy thought crawled through his mind: the real priorities. Everything else burned away. The only things remaining untarnished were the kids, his wife… and his mum. He blamed himself—hadn’t seen enough, never home in time, always some excuse. His mum hadn’t wanted to be a burden, so he’d postponed visits, rang less, cut their chats short. After driving for some hours, Mark pulled up along a country lane by the family home where he’d grown up. Artist: Shaun Ferguson It was pitch black. He fumbled with the garden gate, used his phone screen to light the way—five missed calls from Olga. No, not tonight. The night air was heavy and sweet with the dying scent of cherry blossom, luring moths in the dark. Old slippers stood by the porch, and, by the inner door, Valerie’s worn blue house shoes with two red bunnies on the toes—he’d given them to her years ago. The air inside smelt faintly damp, the sort of musty old furniture scent you never forget. In the lounge, the new sofa and telly he’d bought her stuck out, the fridge door ajar reminded him nobody lived here anymore. Her bedroom—his old one as a boy—was just across. He sat on the bed. The wardrobe there was once his brother’s. Now, the rail held his mum’s things. Mark stared at it as if expecting his mother to appear. He dropped his head in hands, crumpling onto the pillows—and he wept. He wept for the words he never said, for the last time her hand squeezed his, for all the “thank yous” he never voiced—for love, for sacrifices, for making him feel safe and secure. For the strength she gave him. And now, at the moment for words, he’d found none. All he thought of seemed pompous and outdated; nothing would do. Today, people had a vocabulary for cynicism and bravado, not for real feelings. Mark crashed out on the bed, not undressing, not wanting to disturb her orderly world. Miraculously, he slept soundly and woke with the dawn, just as he always had. He put everything back in her wardrobe, folding things neatly the way she liked, hung up her dresses, arranged her shoes. He stepped back, pictured her in this room, in these outfits, that warm, loving smile. He hugged her blouses, breathed in their scent, and stood there, lost in memory. Only later did he fish out his phone. “Morning, Steve. Can’t come in today—family emergency. Will you manage? Thanks.” And to Olga he texted: “Sorry I snapped. Will be home tonight. Love you.” Outside, daffodils and tulips flowered along the garden path. Mark picked them, plus a bunch of lilies of the valley, and made three small posies—for the cemetery, for his brother, dad, and mum. He grabbed breakfast at the village shop. “Mark! Back again?” the shopkeeper called. “Just visiting mum,” he mumbled. “Want some fresh Lancashire cheese? Your mum’s favourite.” He wavered, then nodded, “Alright, thanks, Mrs. Harris. How’s your lot?” She waved him off—her son was still a dead loss, always drinking. Mark ate at the gravesides—flowers and chocolate laid for each loved one. His brother had died young, his father five years ago, and now his mum. He broke off some cheese and chocolate for each stone, smiling to their photos. Recalling mischief with his brother, fishing at dawn with his dad, and his mum calling him in for tea—her voice unmistakable for miles. Oh, to hear it again. Standing by Valerie’s grave, its earth still fresh, he whispered: “Sorry, Mum. I should’ve done more. Life was meant to go on—but without you, it feels so empty. I wish I’d told you just how great you both were, and how lucky I am to be your son. Thank you for everything. I wish I’d been better—forgive me.” Soon it was time to go. Heading home, Mark ran into his old mate on the lane, already half-cut. “Oh, Mark! You back again?” the lad slurred. “Yeah. Family visit. You still drinking?” “Course I am—it’s World Turtle Day!” he exclaimed, waving a calendar scrap. Mark smirked, “Take care of your mum, mate. She’s gold—and she won’t be around forever.” He left his friend standing there, speechless, calling after him, “Alright, Mark. Take care, pal.” “Goodbye,” Mark replied, not looking back.

Dont you dare touch my mothers things, my husband said

These clothes are my mothers. Why have you packed them up? Davids voice sounded harsh, almost like someone else.

We need to throw them out, dont we, Dave? Theyre taking up half the wardrobe, and I need the space for the winter duvets and spare pillowsthe whole place looks like a jumble sale.

Emily went on pulling simple cardigans, skirts, and light dresses belonging to her late mother-in-law, Mary, from the hangers. Mary had always hung her clothes up neatly, making sure nothing got creaseda habit shed passed on to David. Emily, on the other hand, lived out of a wardrobe that resembled the aftermath of a storm. Every morning, shed be up to her elbows in clothes, moaning she had nothing to wear, then steaming any shirt she managed to findthose blouses always looked as though a cow had chewed and spat them out.

It had only been three weeks since David had watched his mother to her final rest. There had been talk of treatmentmostly hopelessshe needed peace, that much was clear. The cancer was brutal in its final stage. David brought her to stay with them, and within a month, she was gone. Now, coming home from work, David found her clothes heaped like rubbish in the hallway. He was dumbstruck by shock. Was that itso quickly forgotten? Just tossed away with the next lot of unwanted stuff?

Why are you looking at me like thatlike Winston Churchill staring down his opposition? Emily said, stepping aside.

Dont touch those clothes, David hissed through gritted teeth. His head throbbed so much he couldn’t feel his hands or feet.

Its just old clutter! Emily snapped, starting to lose her cool. What do you want, a museum for your mum? Shes gone, Dave, accept it. If you cared this much, you couldve visited her more, maybe then youd have realised how ill she was!

David flinched; her words stung like a whip.

Go, before I do something Ill regret, he said, voice shaking.

Emily scoffed, Oh, fine. Youre losing it

Anyone with a different opinion automatically went into Emilys unhinged box.

Not bothering to take off his shoes, David headed into the hall, throwing open the wardrobe at the top, and climbed onto the stool for one of those old tartan bagsthe sort you only used on moving day. They had about seven of them, all from when they moved into the new place. He packed all Marys things carefully, folding them into neat rectangles, not just shoving them in. On top was her blue coat and a bag of her sensible shoes. Next to him, their three-year-old son, Tom, was underfoot, insisting on helping, even tossing in his toy tractor. When hed finished, David rummaged in the key drawer and slipped the front door key into his trouser pocket.

Daddy, where are you going? Tom looked up.

David managed a sad smile, hand on the door. Just out for a bit, champ. Go to Mummy.

Wait! Emilys anxious voice came from the lounge. Are you leaving? Where are you going? What about dinner?

No thanks. Ive had enough of your attitude toward my mum.

Oh, come on! What are youjust sulking for nothing? Take your coat off. Where do you think youre going at this hour?

Without a backward glance, David stepped out. He started the car, pulled out of the drive, and set off for the ring road. The traffic merged around him, the white noise of the road drowning out everything tired and unimportantthe petty projects at work, holidays to be booked, even his favourite comedy podcasts. A single, heavy thought lumbered about in his head: his mum. Everything else was charred and irrelevant in the blaze of that truth. Only his children, his wife and his mother truly mattered. He blamed himself, of coursewhy hadn’t he made time, why hadn’t he called more, why had she never wanted to bother him, why had he put off every visit?

After a third of the drive, he stopped at a service station, grabbed a bite, and drove straight on for the next three hours. He only noticed the sunset once, with a dull sort of awe: a sudden red split in the grey English sky, as if the sun was clawing desperately at the horizon, not wanting to fall away. Night had swallowed the village by the time he pulled up outside his childhood home.

The darkness swallowed details. He fiddled with the latch under the porch, lighting his way with his phone. Five missed calls from Emilyhe ignored them, thumbed the sound off. The heavy scent of the hawthorn blossoms filled the air, thick with the coming of night and fluttering moths drawn to their ghostly whiteness. In the windows, only blackness looked back. David fitted the key in the first door by touch, found the dusty old light, and flicked it on.

By the step were Marys house slippers, the ones she wore for her garden. By the living room door, her favourite indoor shoesfraying blue things with two red bunnies stitched on top. Hed bought them for her eight years ago. He froze, staring, then shook himself and unlocked the inner door.

Hello, Mum, are you waiting for me?

Of course not. No one waited for him here now.

The must of old furniture and a hint of damp clung to the air. The place always needed a good blast of heat if it was to keep the mould at bay. Her comb and a little clutch of cosmetics sat on the chest of drawers, and a clear bag of budget pasta hung from a hook, Value marker still visible. The front room looked oddly new, thanks to the sofa and telly hed bought her. The kitchen fridge stood open and empty, saying more than words could about the absence. Her room: neat bed, pyramids of pillows, a white throw. David sat.

This room had been his as a boyhis parents had the big room at one time, back when his brother still slept on a second bed against the wall. Thered been a desk by the window. Now, her sewing machine sat thereshe’d loved sewing. His old bed replaced long ago by her wardrobe, where she kept her things.

He sat there, staring at that wardrobe, as though his mothers ghost had stepped from its doors. His eyes glazed. He ran his hands through his hair, doubled forward, face in his knees. His shoulders shook. He sank onto her bedspread and sobbed.

David cried for not managing to reply the way he wanted on her final day. When she squeezed his hand, he just sat, statue-still, seeing her slip away while thousands of words choked him silent. Shed whispered, Dont, Dave. Dont look at me like that Ive been so happy, you know. Hed wanted to thank herfor every carefree day of his childhood, for love, for every sacrifice and safe moment, for the foundation shed given him, for that one place you could always return to, no matter how many mistakes you made. That simple thank youfor the island she built for him.

But he sat, stone-faced, tongue-tied. Its odd, he thought, how sometimes the right words just seem impossible. Everything he could think of sounded mawkish and awkward, as though borrowed from another century. Our age hadnt bothered to make up its own words for love and loss. It had only mastered cynicism and sarcasm.

He turned off the lights and slept, still clothed, hoping not to crease her bed. He found a woolen blanket, covered himself, and was surprised at how deeply he slept.

He woke at seven, as alwayshow odd, the body just knows. Time to get up for work, whatever the hour you went to bed.

He stepped outside to retrieve the bag. The birch trees across the lanegreen with the newness of springstood neatly in line, like the Queens ladies-in-waiting. The sun threaded through their branches, working up the warmth to touch the ground. David breathed the birdsong, felt the fresh air. How lucky he was, he thought, to have grown up somewhere green, not in a city of stone. Stretching out muscles stiff from the night, he brought the bag inside and took it to his mothers wardrobe.

One by one, he took out her belongings and put them back on the shelves. Or rehung them on hangersMary always called them shoulders. He arranged her shoes and boots at the bottom. When he finished, he stood back, checking for tidiness. In his mind he saw her, dressed in those same outfits, always smilingher warm, gentle smile, the mothers smile that said I love you without words. He ran his hand down the row of blouses and dresses, then hugged them all, breathing in that dear scent. He stayed there for some time, no idea what hed eventually do with it all. At last, he returned to himself, remembering his phone.

Hello, Mr Carter? I wont make it in today. Family emergency. Youll cope without me? Thanks.

A quick text to Emily: Sorry for snapping. Be back tonight. Love you.

Flowers bordered the garden pathnaricssi abloom, and the tulips barely opening. David gathered both, andwhy notthe lilies-of-the-valley from behind the old gooseberry bushes. Not your usual bouquet, but it would have to do. He split them into three: at the cemetery, there were three he had to visit.

By the shop, he remembered hed not eaten. He bought some milk and a crusty roll, and on impulse, a bar of chocolate.

Oh, Davidwhat are you back for this time? the shopkeeper, Mrs Pritchard, said.

Just visiting Mum, David replied, awkwardly avoiding her eyes.

I see. Want some fresh Stilton? Got it from the farm. Your mum always bought some when she came.

He hesitated. Was she teasing? No, she was just being her simple self.

No, thank you. Wellalright, go on. And you, Mrs P? You keeping well?

She waved her hand. She and Mary had been friends. Best not to ask. My Nathans a hopeless case. Still boozing.

He had breakfast at the graves, laying the tulips, lilies, and narcissi in linebrother, father, mother. His brother went firsta fall off the roof, fixing tiles; not high, but neck broken, just like that. Only twenty. Then, five years ago, Dad. Then Mum. A bit of chocolate for each, a slice of Stilton for his mother. They smiled at him from their headstones, and David had a quiet conversation with them all.

He remembered getting up at dawn for fishing with his father, the rod swooshing out across the river like a cowboys lasso; the games he played with his brother. And his motherher voice booming across the village, Daaaave! Teaaaa! Shed bellow so loud his friends would laugh, and hed burn with embarrassment. What wouldnt he give for that voice, calling him home, just once more.

He touched the wooden cross on Marys grave, the soil still black and unsettled under the sharp daylight.

Mum forgive me. I didnt take care of you the way I should. We were living our own lives, doing fine, but why does it feel so empty without you? Theres so much I want to tell you, and you too, Dad. You were the best parentsthe best anyone could ask for. How did you do it? Me and Emselfish as ever. Me, me, I, want, mine Thank you for everything. And you, Benthanks, little brother.

It was time to go. David walked back along the path, plucking the soft wild grass and chewing on its sweet stems. On the main lane, he ran into Nathan, Mrs Pritchards son, already halfway drunk by midday, unkempt and lost.

Oh, Davey! What brings you round here again? Nathan slurred, staggering.

Just visiting the family, mate. And you, drinking again?

Course! Its a special day!

What, for what?

Nathan fumbled in his shorts for a creased tear-off calendar, flicked past yesterdays date.

World Turtle Day, see? he said, as if it was obvious.

Right, David snorted, smiling. Listen, Natelook after your mum. Shes a gem. She wont always be there, you know?

He walked on, leaving Nathan scratching his head, confused, who finally called after him, Alright, fair enough Take care, Dave!

Yeah, goodbye, David replied, not looking back.