The Secrets of Home
“Come visit me in the village with your husband!” urged her mother.
“We will, Mum, we promise,” murmured Vera, masking the weariness in her voice. “Once Lisa finishes her exams, we’ll all come. Oliver wants to, too. He used to visit his own family in the countryside, but once they passed, he never set foot there again.”
“How can that be?” her mother gasped. “He’s got brothers and sisters there!”
“He doesn’t like talking about it,” Vera said softly. “We visit his parents’ graves, but only for a day, and never see the rest. Oliver helped them while they were alive, but after they died, he froze—disgusted by what came next.”
“Vera, why do you carry everything alone?” her mother huffed. “What kind of husband does that? A great, strong man, and you’re the one pitying him! You ought to take care of yourself! All he does is take out the bins…”
“Mum, we’ve talked about this. I don’t carry anything alone. We love each other, and he provides.”
“It’s not about money! He doesn’t lift a finger at home!”
“What’s there to do? Our flat’s tiny. He comes in, lies on the sofa—there’s nothing else.”
“And when are you buying another? Two cramped rooms—that’s it!”
“I don’t know,” Vera sighed. “We wanted to, saved up, but now we’re thinking…”
Lisa was set to start college after school, with her graduation ball a year away. Vera ached for the village. No matter how long she lived there, the city stayed cold. Step outside—nothing but old women on benches, whispering, judging. The village had gossips too, but the air was different. Familiar.
“Come stay,” her mother pressed.
“We will, once Lisa’s done with exams. Oliver’s coming too. He used to spend every summer with his family, but once his parents died, he stopped. Can’t bear to hear about them.”
“How? His family, the graves—”
“Don’t remind him, Mum. He visits the graves, quick, no reunions. They all fell out.”
Oliver was the youngest. Every holiday, he’d go to his parents’ cottage near Bristol—fixing the roof, building the shed, buying his father tools. His parents chipped in, but he always added his own money. When they died, his brothers swooped in, taking everything valuable. “You don’t need these in the city,” they said, snatching the tools. Even the old sideboard was emptied of keepsakes he’d wanted.
All that remained was a tarnished canteen of cutlery—dozens of forks, knives, spoons. No one wanted them. Oliver brought them home. Vera said nothing—they were all he had left of his parents.
“And the house? Didn’t they have to divide it?” her mother asked.
“No. A nephew moved in straightaway. There was a will. Oliver didn’t fight it, but after that, it nearly came to blows. Now they live in the same village like enemies.”
“And the cutlery? Still black?”
“I polished it. Oliver was overjoyed—said he’d only seen them that shiny as a child. A gift to his parents, kept untouched…”
At his mother-in-law’s, the cottage was quiet, cosy. Oliver wandered the garden, making mental notes. No one nagged him like his brothers, who barked orders but never lifted a finger.
“Vera, what if we put up a fence? Your mum wouldn’t mind, would she? We’ve the money—no need to ask her,” Oliver muttered at bedtime.
“I’ll ask about the fence.”
“And the summer kitchen needs work. And a few other things…”
“No more sofa lounging?” Vera teased.
“Not here. Your own land—that’s different.”
Her mother was thrilled he’d offered to fix the fence. She hadn’t dared hope—the old one would’ve done. But when he started on the summer kitchen, she lit up.
“Why buy a house? Here’s one, barely an hour from town. I won’t last long—I’m frail…”
“Mum, there’s Lisa. Work’s in town.”
“Lisa’s grown, responsible. Always reading. You could leave her. The city’s close—commute every day. Jobs here pay well too. That new farmhand’s flush—greenhouses, fields…”
“I don’t know. It’s a big step.”
“Plenty of space. I won’t intrude. I need little. You’re all I have. My niece only drops by for money.”
“For money?”
“Weeded the garden, of course I paid. Didn’t ask, but I did. I don’t let her inside—she’d take anything not nailed down. She even suggested formal care, so she’d get paid. But I’m not helpless, and I’m not that old. You visit. Wish Oliver came more. I take back what I said about him. No rush—think it over.”
“Auntie, where’d this fence come from? You moaned about your pension! Too stingy to pay me?” came the niece’s shrill voice.
“Speak of the devil…” her mother sighed.
“I’ll handle this,” Vera cut in. “Hello, sis. Why the shouting?”
“Well, I—”
“Exactly. We live here now. No help needed.”
“Fine. Won’t come back,” muttered Katie, storming off.
A year later, Oliver itched to move. Lisa finished school, started college. Jobs secured, car bought. If they hated it, they could return—but no one thought they would. They packed up.
Her mother suggested displaying the polished canteen in the cabinet. Space had opened when she’d moved her old tea set to the kitchen—worthless, just collecting dust.
She lived another twelve years. No one thought of wills—her daughter and son-in-law lived there. Oliver became the man of the house: fixing, improving.
When the time came, the will surfaced. Vera and Oliver got half each. A note read: “Forgive me, love. This is fair. You share everything. Life’s been hard on him. You know what I mean.”
Oliver was moved. He’d never expected that from her. Over the years, they’d had a son. When Lisa announced her second pregnancy, they helped her family buy a place. They remembered how cramped their flat had been, how they’d hesitated to have another child.
Lisa’s family visits often. No other relatives remain. The canteen gleams in the cabinet, bright as memory.
