**Saturday with Family**
“Don’t start with the diet talk again!” snapped Emily, waving her fork, a slice of cake wobbling precariously. “I already know I’m overweight!”
“Em, no one said that,” her sister Charlotte tried to soothe her. “Lucy just wanted to share a recipe—”
“I didn’t ask!” Emily cut her off. “I’ve had enough! Every weekend it’s the same—my figure, my hair, my useless husband!”
Margaret sighed heavily, setting down her teacup. Saturday family gatherings at her home had become exhausting. All three daughters and their families were there, the grandchildren racing through the flat, while the adults bickered instead of catching up properly.
“Girls, please,” she said wearily. “The neighbours will hear.”
“Let them!” Emily huffed. “Maybe then they’ll see what a *lovely* family I’ve got!”
The eldest sister, Beatrice, pressed her lips together and pushed her plate away.
“We’re only trying to help,” she said coolly. “But if you don’t want it—”
“I don’t! My life’s fine as it is!”
Margaret studied her daughters—so different, even now. Beatrice, forty-eight, stern and polished even at home, an accountant married to a civil engineer, their son at university. Picture-perfect, at least on the surface.
Charlotte, thirty-nine, gentle and eager to please, worked as a nursery teacher, married to a plumber, two school-aged kids. A modest, close-knit little family.
Then there was Emily, thirty-five but acting half her age—always discontent, always picking fights. Married late at thirty-two, now with a daughter, yet constantly complaining.
“Mum, where’s Grandad’s photo album?” asked Simon, Beatrice’s son, peeking into the lounge. “I want to show Ollie.”
“On the shelf in the big album,” Margaret said. “Be careful with it.”
Simon nodded and dashed off. Margaret smiled faintly. At least the grandchildren were a joy.
“Listen, can we stop arguing?” Charlotte suggested. “Let’s talk about something nice.”
“Like what?” Emily sneered. “How Beatrice has the perfect life? Big house, new car, kid at uni—”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Beatrice shot back. “I work tirelessly for all of it!”
“Oh, sure, *you* work. *I’ve* got a toddler—”
“Sophie’s five! Hardly a toddler!”
“Five’s nothing to you? Simon was making his own breakfast at ten!”
Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. Every Saturday, the same. They came for family time, and it always turned into a battleground.
“Girls,” she said quietly, “your father wouldn’t have wanted this.”
The room fell silent at the mention of Edward. He’d passed three years ago, and since then, these gatherings had grown tense—as if he’d been the glue holding them together.
“Mum, don’t,” Charlotte whispered.
“I must,” Margaret insisted. “He wanted you to support each other. Is this what he’d see?”
Emily stared at her plate, crumbling a biscuit. Beatrice adjusted her hair, eyes fixed on the window.
“We don’t mean to argue,” Charlotte said. “It’s just… personalities clash.”
“Personalities!” Emily scoffed. “*Her* personality is lecturing everyone!”
“I’m not lecturing! I’m giving advice!”
“Oh, and who *asked* for it?”
Margaret stood abruptly and walked to the kitchen, where chaos reigned—dirty dishes, crumbs everywhere. She turned on the tap, scrubbing a plate to steady herself.
Footsteps behind her.
“Mum, let me help,” Charlotte offered.
“I’m fine.”
“Come on—four hands are quicker.”
Charlotte grabbed a tea towel. Beatrice followed.
“Mum, sorry we… again,” she began, but Margaret waved her off.
“It’s nothing new.”
“You shouldn’t have to put up with it,” Beatrice said. “We know you do.”
Emily lingered in the doorway, silent, brushing crumbs into her palm.
For a while, they worked without speaking. Margaret’s thoughts drifted. Before Edward died, Saturdays had been warm—him telling stories to the grandkids, playing chess, the girls chatting over tea. No screaming matches.
“Mum, remember when Dad took us to the park on Saturdays?” Charlotte asked suddenly.
“I do,” Margaret smiled. “The swings, the ice cream.”
“Photos by the fountain,” Beatrice added. “‘Smile, girls, it’s for the album!'”
Emily looked up.
“He used to lift me onto his shoulders. I was too small for the swings.”
“Yes,” Margaret said softly. “You’d squeal with delight.”
Her throat tightened. How she missed him.
“Gran, why’s everyone in here?” Sophie, Emily’s daughter, peered in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Of course, love.” Margaret handed her the tin. “Where are the boys?”
“Simon’s showing Grandad’s photos. Says he was really strong.”
Emily tensed.
“Sophie, do you remember him?”
“A bit,” the girl mused. “He called me ‘Bear’ and gave me sweets.”
“Bear?” Emily frowned.
“Because you were always scruffy,” Margaret chuckled. “He’d say, ‘Our Bear’s woken up.’”
Sophie giggled and scampered off. Silence settled again.
“Girls,” Margaret said, “your father always said families shouldn’t bicker over trifles. Life’s hard enough.”
“We know,” Beatrice murmured. “It’s just… difficult sometimes.”
“Why?” Margaret pressed. “You’re grown women.”
Beatrice shrugged. Emily stayed quiet. Charlotte twisted the tea towel.
“Maybe… we each think our problems matter most?” Emily finally said.
“Perhaps,” Margaret agreed. “Or maybe you’ve stopped listening.”
From the lounge, children’s laughter bubbled up—cousins playing without a spat. Why couldn’t adults do the same?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad we don’t know,” Charlotte asked.
Margaret paused.
“He worried when you moved out. Feared you’d drift apart. These Saturdays—they were his idea, to keep you close.”
“Really?” Emily blinked.
“He’d say, ‘Margaret, they mustn’t forget family.’”
Beatrice sniffed.
“I thought it was just routine.”
“No, love. He wanted you united. Dreamed of grandchildren growing up together.”
“Mum, I’m sorry,” Emily blurted. “I know I’m awful. But I’m just… angry at everything.”
“At who, love?”
“Myself, mostly. Beatrice has it all. Charlotte’s sweet. And I’m just… a mess.”
“Em.” Charlotte hugged her. “You’re a brilliant mum. Sophie adores you.”
“It’s not enough,” Emily whispered. “I want to be *more*.”
Margaret finally understood—Emily wasn’t being difficult. She was unhappy.
“Love, did James ever say he’s only with you for Sophie?”
“I see it. He barely looks at me. Comes home, eats, watches telly—silent.”
“Do you talk to him?”
“About what? His job? The house?”
“There’s your answer,” Margaret said gently.
“She’s right,” Beatrice added. “Men don’t read minds. I’ve been married twenty years, and I still spell things out for William.”
“Same with Tom,” Charlotte nodded. “Straightforward, my Tom. Misses hints entirely.”
Emily bit her lip.
“What if… he doesn’t *want* to change?”
“What if he does?” Margaret smiled. “You haven’t tried yet.”
A crash from the lounge—children’s wails.
“Oh, what now?” Charlotte fretted.
They rushed in—photos scattered, Charlotte’s youngest, Ollie, clutching a scraped knee, sobbing.
“He tripped and knocked the album down,” Simon explained. “Sophie’s telling him off.”
“I’m *not*!” Sophie huffed. “Just said be *careful*!”
Margaret gathered the photos—bent but intact.
“We can fix the album,” Emily offered. “I’ve glue at home.”
Beatrice tended to Ollie, while the others straightened up. Soon, the children were poring over photos again, peace restored.
“Gran, who’s this?” Sophie held up a black-and-white shot—Edward in uniform.
“Your grandad in the army. Just twenty.”
“Why’s he so serious?”
“Soldiering’s serious business.”
“But here he’s laughing,” Simon pointed to another—Edward cradling baby Emily, beaming as she clapped chubby hands.
“I remember that,” Margaret said. “She’d just learned to clap. He was so proud.”
Emily studied the photo.
“Look at me—a proper roly-poly.”
“Gorgeous,” Margaret corrected. “He adoredAnd as the last of the afternoon light faded, Margaret quietly hoped that, in their own way, her daughters had finally begun to mend what had been broken.
