Felicitous Changes
Margaret Whitmore stepped out of the building and paused. Squinting slightly, she glanced at the sky, weighing the chance of rain, then gave a perfunctory nod to the neighbours perched on the bench before walking on, chin lifted. The women, who had fallen silent at her arrival, stirred at once, whispering sharp words and tossing spiteful looks her way.
No one knew how old Margaret was. Past middle age, retired for some years now. Her greying hair was always stylishly cut. Her eyes were lightly made up, just enough for her years. Her figure was stately—no paunch, no excess folds, though she wasn’t thin.
Some guessed she was around sixty. Others insisted she was barely fifty. The particularly envious swore she was past seventy, preserved by the wonders of plastic surgery.
*Why wouldn’t she look good?* one muttered. *Her husband was decent—never drank, never raised a hand. Slipped off quietly to some younger woman. One son, no trouble at all. No grandchildren, no pets. No burdens. If I hadn’t been saddled with my drunkard, maybe I’d waltz about like a queen too.*
*You? A queen?* The woman beside her snorted, nudging her ribs. *Don’t make me laugh, Dorothy.*
*Why not? If my Stephen drank himself into the grave—God forgive me—maybe I’d start living too. Just like her. Step out, glare down my nose at you lot, and off I’d go.*
The women cackled.
*Look, Vincent hasn’t taken his eyes off Margaret. Even stopped trimming the hedges,* one observed.
*He’s setting himself up for heartbreak. Ought to aim lower,* sighed another.
*What’s wrong with Vincent? Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, hands like gold,* a third defended.
*Why so bitter, ladies? Leave Margaret be. Envy’s an ugly thing,* Vincent called over his shoulder before resuming his pruning.
Margaret knew they spoke of her. Caught the fragments, noticed the glances. Long past caring, she let the gossip wash over her.
She’d lived life like most women—some highs, plenty of lows. Her husband had been striking, a match for her own elegance. Women threw themselves at him. She’d suffered for it. When he finally left, she’d nearly crumbled. Pulled herself together for her son. Since then? No man had come close.
Her only son, Edward, was nearing thirty and still unmarried. It troubled her. Was it right for a grown man to live with his mother? Oh, there’d been girls—still were. But none led to the altar.
Not that Margaret approved of any. Truth be told, she’d disliked them all. But she bit her tongue. Knew bans and scenes only drove wedges. So she endured. Time passed; infatuations faded. Some Edward ended himself, others left him first.
Then came one he nearly married. A sweet girl. *Fine,* Margaret had thought. *A wedding’s a wedding. It’s time.* Edward did the proper thing—met the parents. Returned grim-faced. The father was a drunk, the mother frail from his beatings. Over drinks, the man had lectured, threatened, nearly brawled.
*Mum, what do I do? I love her, but how do I live with family like that?*
*What can you do? Parents aren’t wives. They’re permanent. If you can stomach that, marry her.*
To Margaret’s relief, they split.
After her walk, she read, napped, and set to cooking dinner, glancing at the clock. Edward was late. *In love again, no doubt.* And indeed, he returned not alone.
*Mum, meet Mira. Mirabelle. This is my mother, Margaret Whitmore.*
Margaret looked. Sky-blue eyes, dimpled cheeks… *The marrying kind. Well, then. It’s time.*
*You might’ve warned me. I’d have cooked something special.*
*You always do,* Edward said, hugging her, head on her shoulder.
*Flattery means you want something.* She tapped his forehead. *Wash up. Dinner’s ready.*
Laughter and muffled scuffles drifted from the bathroom. The pair emerged flushed, sheepish. The table was set—gleaming cutlery, steaming tea. All as it should be.
Edward’s guilty look told her the surprise was yet to come.
*Out with it,* she said, weary of suspense.
He inhaled. *We’re hiking tomorrow. Two days. Mira’s coming.*
*Good way to know someone. Meet her friends too,* Margaret said, thinking, *Ah. The real news is coming.*
*Could you watch a child? She’s six, no trouble. Mosquitoes, rough terrain—it’s no place for her.*
*Whose child?* she asked, though she knew.
*Here it is. Where does he find them? Nose rings, tattooed legs, drunk fathers… and now a child? Twenty-five at most, with a six-year-old. Early bloomer. So much for dimples.*
*Mine,* Mira said, direct, unflinching.
*No shame, no challenge. Just truth,* Margaret noted.
*I can’t. Forgotten how to handle children. Plans. A stranger’s child is such responsibility…* *Making a nanny of me.*
*Mum, please. What plans? Walking the park? Take Sapphire with you.*
*Names these days. Each stranger than the last.*
*Don’t,* Mira murmured, covering Edward’s hand with her slender fingers. Her gaze met Margaret’s again—steady, quiet.
*Just two days, Mum. Back Sunday night.*
Mira glanced down.
*No eye rolls, no tantrums. Lets him handle me. Not bad. Let’s see.*
*Fine,* Margaret conceded.
*You’re the best!* Edward kissed her cheek. *We’ll bring Sapphire at six.*
*Six?* *Oh, splendid.*
She lay awake that night. *Why did I agree? My tidy life—upended. A child. Noise, mess…*
At dawn, she boiled porridge. Edward, too, rose early, gulped coffee, and left to fetch Mira and the girl.
The lock clicked. Margaret stepped into the hall. There stood Mira in hiking gear, a bag at her feet. Clinging to her was a thin-braided girl clutching a doll. Sky-blue eyes, wary but open. Something in Margaret’s chest twinged.
*Spare clothes inside,* Mira said, nudging the bag forward.
*We’re off, Mum.* Edward herded Mira toward the door. Over her shoulder, Mira shot Margaret a pleading look.
*Go on. All’s well.* She shooed them away.
*Come,* she turned to the girl. *No fear. I’m Margaret. Remember that?*
The girl nodded, stepping inside, eyes roving. Bit by bit, they warmed. Over breakfast dishes, Sapphire leafed through an old picture book Margaret had dug out.
*Shall I read?* Margaret settled beside her.
*I can. Slowly, though,*—and before Margaret could marvel—*she began, syllable by syllable.*
*Clever girl.*
By eleven, with the sun softening the morning chill, they ventured out.
*Visitor, Margaret?* called a bench-bound neighbour.
Margaret nodded curtly. Sapphire darted to the playground. Margaret sat by the sandbox, uneasy in this sudden grandmotherly role. *Grandmother? Hardly. This might end as quick as it began.*
*Auntie Maggie,* Sapphire dashed over. *I want a cart. Like hers.*
*What for? Your doll? I’ve no idea where to get one.*
*For leaves,* she whispered, those sky-blue eyes piercing.
*Right then. Let’s ask Vincent.* Margaret took her hand. Vincent—ever tinkering with hedges or odd jobs—looked up, aghast he hadn’t worn his Sunday best for the queen’s approach.
*Vincent, my…* Margaret faltered, glancing down at those eyes. *This young lady needs a cart. Can you manage?*
*For you? I’d build a palace.* His heart hammered. *She’s walked right to me. Never known a woman like her. I’d die for her.*
The next day, Sapphire and a new friend hauled stones and wildflowers in their carts. Margaret watched, critically comparing. *Ours is prettier, brighter, better-mannered.* *Ours.* The word had slipped in unnoticed.
Edward and Mira returned late Sunday. Margaret was settling Sapphire for bed.
*Leave her till morning?* she ventured.
Mira refused. Work called; nursery awaited. Edward drove them home. Later, Margaret pounced.
*I like Mira. Sapphire too. But how old was she when—? Is this serious?*
*Glad you approve. Didn’t expect it. But Mira didn’t birth her. She’s her sister.*
*What?*
*Mira’s mother remarried—a younger man.He begged for a child, but when Mira’s mother died in childbirth, he vanished, and Mira raised the girl as her own—and now, watching Sapphire laugh in the garden, Margaret realised love isn’t bound by blood, only by the heart.
