**A Saturday with the Family**
“Don’t start with the diet rubbish again!” snapped Sophie, waving her fork with a slab of Victoria sponge still skewered on it. “I already know I’m fat!”
“Soph, no one said that,” sighed her sister Emily, trying to soothe her. “Lucy only meant to share a recipe—”
“I didn’t ask for it!” Sophie cut in. “I’m sick of it! Every weekend, it’s the same—my figure’s wrong, my hair’s outdated, my husband’s useless!”
Lucille sighed deeply and set down her teacup. These Saturday gatherings at her house had become an endurance test. All three daughters and their families were here—grandchildren tearing about the flat, the adults bickering instead of talking properly.
“Girls, enough,” she said wearily. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Let them!” Sophie huffed. “Maybe then they’ll see what a *lovely* family I’ve got!”
Tamara, the eldest sister, pursed her lips and pushed her plate away sharply.
“We’re only trying to help,” she said coolly. “But if you don’t want it…”
“I *don’t*! I’m fine as I am!”
Lucille studied her daughters, struck—not for the first time—by how different they’d turned out. Tamara, at forty-eight, was stern, immaculate, even at home in her mother’s flat. An accountant for a large firm, married to an engineer, their son at university. Picture-perfect, at least on the surface.
Emily, thirty-nine, the middle child, softer, always smoothing things over. A nursery teacher, married to a plumber, two school-aged kids. Modest but happy.
And Sophie, the baby at thirty-five, still acting like a moody teen. Permanently disgruntled, always picking fights. Married late—thirty-two—had a daughter, and now endlessly lamented her life.
“Mum, where’s Grandad’s photo album?” asked Matthew, Tamara’s son, peering into the lounge. “I want to show Ollie.”
“On the shelf, in the big album,” Lucille said. “Be careful with it.”
Matthew nodded and dashed off to his cousins. Lucille watched him go, smiling faintly. At least the grandchildren were a joy—unlike their mothers.
“Listen, why don’t we talk about something nice?” Emily offered.
“What’s *nice*?” Sophie sneered. “How Tam’s got her perfect life? Three-bed house, new car, kid at uni…”
“What’s *that* got to do with anything?” Tamara snapped. “I work my fingers to the bone for it!”
“Do you?” Sophie drawled. “Must be nice. *I* don’t have time to work—I’ve got a *child*.”
“Poppy’s *five*,” Tamara retorted. “Hardly a toddler!”
“Oh, and five’s ancient to you, is it? *Matthew* was tying his own shoes at ten!”
Lucille felt a headache creeping in. Every Saturday, the same thing. They came round for “family time,” and it turned into *this*.
“Girls,” she said quietly, “your father wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.”
At the mention of him, all three fell silent. Arthur had passed three years ago, and since then, these gatherings had turned brittle—as if he’d been the glue holding them together.
“Mum, don’t,” Emily whispered.
“I *must*,” Lucille said firmly. “He wanted you to *support* each other. Is this what he’d see?”
Sophie looked down, picking at her cake. Tamara adjusted her hair, staring out the window.
“Mum, we’re not *trying* to argue,” Emily said. “It’s just… we’re different.”
“Different!” Sophie scoffed. “*Her* idea of ‘different’ is lecturing everyone!”
“I *don’t* lecture!”
“You *do*! Always know best, don’t you?”
Lucille stood and walked to the kitchen. Chaos awaited—dirty dishes, crumbs everywhere, leftovers abandoned. She turned on the tap and scrubbed a plate, trying to steady herself.
Footsteps behind her.
“Mum, let me help,” Emily said.
“I’m fine.”
“Come on. We’ll do it faster together.”
Emily took a tea towel and started drying. Tamara followed.
“Mum, sorry we—”
Lucille waved her off. “It’s nothing new.”
“You *say* that,” Tamara muttered, “but we see how it weighs on you.”
Sophie hovered in the doorway, wordlessly brushing crumbs off the table.
They worked in silence. Lucille washed, lost in thought. How different Saturdays used to be—Arthur telling stories to the grandchildren, playing chess with them while the girls helped and chatted. No shouting. No spite.
“Mum, remember when Dad took us to Hyde Park on Saturdays?” Emily asked suddenly.
Lucille smiled. “The swings. Ice creams.”
“And photos by the fountain,” Tamara added. “‘Smile, girls—for the memory!’”
Sophie looked up.
“Remember when he put me on his shoulders? I was too tiny for the swings.”
“Oh, you’d shriek with joy,” Lucille said, eyes stinging. How she missed him—especially now.
“Gran, why’re you all in here?” Poppy, Sophie’s daughter, peered in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Of course, love.” Lucille handed her the tin. “Where are the boys?”
“Matthew’s showing Grandad’s photos. Says he was *really* strong.”
Sophie blinked.
“Pops… do you remember him?”
“A *bit*,” Poppy mused. “He called me ‘Bear’ and gave me sweets.”
“‘*Bear*’?” Sophie frowned. “Why?”
Lucille chuckled. “You were always tousled. He’d say, ‘Look—our little bear’s awake.’”
Poppy giggled and scampered off. The kitchen fell quiet again.
“Girls,” Lucille said softly, “your dad always said: ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff. Life’s hard enough without hurting each other.’”
“We *know*,” Tamara murmured. “It’s just… hard to bite our tongues.”
“Why? You’re grown women. *Educated*.”
Tamara shrugged. Sophie stayed silent. Emily twisted the tea towel.
“Maybe… we all think our problems matter most?” Sophie said at last.
“Maybe,” Lucille agreed. “Or maybe we’ve forgotten how to *listen*.”
From the lounge, children’s laughter erupted—cousins playing, perfectly content. Why couldn’t the adults manage that?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad,” Emily asked. “Something we don’t know.”
Lucille thought a moment.
“He *dreaded* you girls growing up and drifting apart. These Saturdays—he *planned* them. ‘Luce,’ he’d say, ‘they need to *stay* family.’”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “*Really*?”
Tamara sniffed. “I thought it was just… tradition.”
“No, love. He wanted you close. Wanted the grandchildren to grow up knowing each other.”
“Mum, I’m sorry,” Sophie burst out. “I know I’m awful. But sometimes I’m just… *angry*.”
“At *who*, darling?”
“Myself, mostly. Tam’s got *everything*. Em’s so *kind*. And me? I’m a mess.”
“Soph,” Emily hugged her. “You’re a *brilliant* mum. Poppy adores you.”
“But that’s not *enough*,” Sophie whispered. “I want to be… *more*.”
Lucille finally understood—Sophie wasn’t *trying* to be difficult. She was *miserable*.
“Love, what makes you think *Tom’s* only with you for Poppy?”
“It’s *obvious*! He barely *looks* at me.”
“Do you *talk* to him?”
“About *what*? Work? The house?”
“And then you wonder why he’s quiet,” Lucille said gently.
“She’s right,” Tamara added. “Men don’t *guess*. You have to *say* it.”
“Easy for *you*,” Sophie muttered. “Your *Richard’s* posh.”
“Posh doesn’t mean *psychic*,” Tamara retorted. “I’ve been married twenty years, and *still* spell things out.”
Emily nodded. “Same with *Steve*. He’s lovely, but blunt as a spoon.”
Sophie hesitated. “What if… he won’t *change*?”
“What if he *does*?” Lucille smiled. “You’ve not tried yetAs the last of the family stepped out into the evening, the faint scent of Arthur’s old pipe tobacco lingered in the air, as if he’d been there all along, quietly stitching them back together.
