**A Saturday with the Family**
“Don’t you start on me about diets!” snapped Sophie, waving her fork with a slice of cake. “I know I’m overweight!”
“Sophie, no one said that,” her sister Emma tried to calm her. “Lucy just wanted to share a recipe—”
“I didn’t ask!” Sophie cut in. “I’m sick of it! Every weekend—it’s either my figure, my hair, or my useless husband!”
Lucy sighed and set down her teacup. These Saturday family gatherings at her home were becoming exhausting. All three of her daughters were there with their families—grandchildren running wild, and the adults bickering instead of enjoying each other’s company.
“Girls, that’s enough,” she said wearily. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Let them!” Sophie shot back. “Maybe they’ll finally see what a *wonderful* family I’ve got!”
Tamara, the eldest sister, pressed her lips together and pushed her plate away. “We’re just trying to help,” she said coolly. “But if you refuse—”
“I refuse your *help*! I live how I live, and that’s fine!”
Lucy watched her daughters, each so different. Tamara, at forty-eight, was stern, immaculate—always polished, even at home. An accountant at a prestigious firm, married to an engineer, with a son at university. Picture-perfect, from the outside.
Emma, the middle, thirty-nine—gentle, always mediating. A nursery teacher, married to a mechanic, with two school-aged children. Modest, but warm.
And Sophie, the youngest, thirty-five but acting fifteen. Permanently dissatisfied, permanently at odds with the world. Married late, had a daughter at thirty-two, and now constantly complaining.
“Mum, where’s Grandad’s photo album?” Tamara’s son, Max, poked his head into the room. “I want to show James.”
“On the shelf, love,” Lucy said. “Just be gentle with it.”
Max disappeared, and Lucy smiled. At least the grandchildren brought joy—unlike their mothers.
“Can we *please* stop arguing?” Emma pleaded. “Let’s talk about something nice.”
“Nice? Like how perfect Tamara is?” Sophie sneered. “Three-bed house, new car, son at uni…”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Tamara snapped. “I work day and night for that!”
“Oh, sure,” Sophie drawled. “*I* don’t have time—I’ve got a *small child*.”
“Jessica’s *five*!” Tamara shot back.
“And in your world, five isn’t young? Max was cooking for himself at ten!”
Lucy rubbed her temples. Every Saturday—the same chaos. Supposedly a family gathering, really just stress.
“Girls,” she murmured, “your father wouldn’t have wanted this.”
Silence. Robert had passed three years ago, and since then, these meetings had soured. He’d been the glue.
“Mum, don’t—” Emma whispered.
“He *wanted* you to be close,” Lucy said firmly. “To support each other. Look at you now.”
Sophie looked down, picking at her cake. Tamara adjusted her hair.
“We’re not *trying* to fight,” Emma said. “It’s just… different personalities.”
“Personalities!” Sophie huffed. “*Hers* is just bossing everyone about!”
“I’m not bossing! I’m just saying what’s best!”
“That’s the *point*! No one *asked* you!”
Lucy stood and walked to the kitchen—a mess of dirty dishes, crumbs, and leftovers. She ran the tap, scrubbing plates, trying to steady herself.
Footsteps behind her.
“Mum, let me help,” Emma said.
“No, I’m fine.”
Emma took a towel. Tamara followed.
“Mum, sorry we—”
“Don’t,” Lucy waved her off. “I’m used to it.”
“Not used to it. *Putting up with it*,” Tamara said. “We know.”
Sophie quietly swept crumbs.
For a while, they worked in silence. Lucy thought of how things had changed. When Robert was alive, Saturdays were *happy*. He’d tell stories, play chess with the kids—no shouting, no bitterness.
“Mum, remember how Dad took us to the park on Saturdays?” Emma asked suddenly.
“Of course,” Lucy smiled. “Ice cream by the fountain.”
“And how he’d make us pose for photos!” Tamara added.
Sophie looked up. “Remember when he carried me on his shoulders? I was too small for the swings.”
“You *squealed* with joy,” Lucy said, blinking back tears.
“Granny, why are you all in here?” Sophie’s daughter, Jessica, peered in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Lucy handed her the tin. “What are the boys doing?”
“Max is showing Grandad’s photos. Says he was *really* strong.”
Sophie froze. “Jess… do you remember him?”
“A little,” Jessica frowned. “He called me ‘Teddy’ and gave me sweets.”
“Teddy?” Sophie blinked.
“Because you were always scruffy,” Lucy chuckled. “He’d say, ‘Our little teddy’s awake.'”
Jessica giggled and ran off. The kitchen fell quiet.
“Girls,” Lucy said softly, “your father always said family shouldn’t fight over silly things. Life’s hard enough.”
“We know,” Tamara murmured. “But sometimes it just… happens.”
Sophie sighed. “Maybe because we all think *our* problems are the biggest.”
“Or because we stopped *listening*,” Lucy said.
Children’s laughter floated in from the living room. The grandkids got along so easily—why couldn’t the adults?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad we don’t know,” Emma asked.
Lucy thought. “He worried when you all moved out. Started these Saturdays so you wouldn’t drift apart.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“He wanted you to stay close. Dreamed of grandkids growing up together.”
Tamara sniffed. “I thought it was just… tradition.”
“No, love. It was love.”
Sophie wiped her eyes. “Mum… I’m sorry. I know I’m awful. But I’m just… *angry*.”
“At who, darling?”
“Myself. Tamara’s perfect, Emma’s sweet—and I’m just… a mess.”
Emma hugged her. “You’re a *brilliant* mum. Jess adores you.”
“But it’s not *enough*,” Sophie whispered. “I want to be pretty, clever—for Mark to *want* me, not just stay for Jess.”
Lucy understood then—Sophie wasn’t being difficult. She was *lonely*.
“Sweetheart, who says Mark doesn’t love you?”
“I *see* it. He comes home, eats, watches telly—barely looks at me.”
“Do you *talk* to him?”
“About *what*? His job? The house?”
“There you go,” Lucy said. “Men can’t read minds, love.”
Tamara nodded. “Twenty years with David, and I *still* have to spell things out.”
Emma agreed. “Steve’s the same. If I don’t say it, he won’t know.”
Sophie bit her lip. “What if I say it… and nothing changes?”
“What if it *does*?” Lucy smiled.
A crash and wail came from the living room.
“What now?” Emma rushed out.
Photos were scattered, Emma’s youngest, James, clutching a scraped knee.
“He tripped!” Max explained. “Jess told him off!”
“I *didn’t*!” Jess protested. “I just said *be careful*!”
Sophie gathered the photos—some bent, but mostly unharmed.
“Mum, we can fix the album,” she said.
“Photos are what matter,” Lucy said softly.
Later, they all sat together, flipping through memories. Robert in uniform, laughing with baby Sophie, teaching them to ride bikes—each story knitting them closer.
“Granny, was Grandad strict?” Max asked.
“Kind, but fair,” Lucy said. “Your mums *certainly* got told off.”
“*Mum* got told off?” Jess gasped.
“Oh yes!” Lucy laughed. “Aunt Sophie pulled boys’ hair, Aunt Tamara played war with her dolls—”
“*Mum!*” Tamara flushed.
“—and Aunt Emma smuggled stray cats home!”
The kids howled with laughter; the sisters flushed but smiled.
As dusk fell, Lucy hugged them goodbye—each taking a photo, each carrying warmth.
Robert had been right. Family wasn’t just blood—it was *choosing* each other, every day. And today, they’d remembered how.
