In a quiet village nestled in the heart of Yorkshire, a family’s unraveling was set in motion one crisp autumn morning.
“William, get up—it’s long past dawn! Time for work,” urged Margaret, shaking her husband awake, a charred frying pan in one hand and a stubborn hope in the other that he was only jesting.
“I shan’t rise. Leave me be, Maggie. No more. I won’t set foot in that mill again,” muttered William without opening his eyes, turning his face to the wall.
At first, his wife laughed—surely he was still weary after the holiday.
“Oh, come now, don’t be daft! We’ve celebrated Lizzie’s wedding, had our rest—now back to business. There’s work to be done!”
“I mean it. Finished. Resigned. I handed in my notice weeks ago. Yesterday was my last day.”
“Have you gone mad, William?! Where’ll you find another job like that? You’ve but two years till your pension! Hold out a little longer!” Margaret paled, nearly dropping the pan.
“I can’t endure it. No strength left. We raised five children. Three sons, two daughters. Educated them, settled them, stood them on their own feet. And me? I’ve earned my rest. I’ve done my duty.”
“You’ve lost your wits if you think you’ll burden the children,” Margaret sighed bitterly. “Who’ll keep you fed? My pension’s a pittance. And you reckon they ought to support you?”
“Of course. They’re my own flesh and blood. Five of them! Surely they won’t leave their father to starve?”
“You’ve gone soft in the head, you stubborn old fool!” Margaret snapped, seizing his sleeve. “They’ve troubles enough—mortgages, grandchildren in school. And you—a freeloader!” She yanked hard.
He shoved her away—she stumbled against the wardrobe, wincing.
“Keep your hands off me. My mind’s made up.”
Tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. She knew when her husband spoke so, there was no swaying him. She flung on her shawl and hurried to their neighbor, old Aunt Ethel, the village sage even constables sought for counsel.
“Oh, Aunt Ethel, disaster’s struck! William’s lost his senses—quit his job, says he can’t go on. What’s to be done? How d’you reason with a man like that?”
“And why make such a fuss? The man’s worn through. Raised five souls—that’s no small feat. Let him rest. Show him kindness.”
“Kindness? I’ll give him kindness when the children come—we’ll see how he fancies *their* idea of a holiday!” Margaret spat, eyes flashing.
A week later, the family gathered. Margaret had laid a feast, ensuring none left hungry. They laughed, embraced, grandchildren chased each other through the garden. But once the plates were cleared, silence settled like a fog.
“Dad,” began the eldest, Thomas, “is it true you’ve left the mill?”
“Aye, lad. I’ve had enough. No strength left.”
“But why, Dad?” cut in Edward, the middle son. “Two more years. Bear it a while longer. It makes no sense!”
“My decision’s final. Forty years I’ve given. The pension will keep me. And five of you—surely you’ll see your old man fed?”
Behind his back, Margaret smirked. The children shifted. Thomas cleared his throat.
“Well… we’ve just taken out a loan for the motor. It’s tight as it is.”
“And our Lizzie’s at the conservatory, tutors and all. Money vanishes faster’n you’d think,” added Edward’s wife. He stayed silent.
“I’ve started on the house repairs. Must finish before winter, else we can’t sell. Can’t take on more,” sighed George, the youngest.
The daughters chimed in—one had furniture on installment, the other’s husband was off on contract work, money scarce for months. Margaret rose like a general before battle.
“Well, William, see? Each has burdens enough. And you’d add to them. Have you no shame? You’d take from your children, not give. Tomorrow, you’ll find work. Don’t come home without proof you’re hired. Understood?”
William stood. Silent. His eyes moved over his children, his wife.
“I raised five of you… and not one will feed your father,” he said hoarsely, then vanished into the bedchamber.
At dawn, he sought work. Hired—wages halved, but labor nonetheless. Margaret triumphed—she’d “cured” him. But two days later, he did not return.
A knock came late that night. The hospital sent word: William was gone. A massive heart attack. Stricken at work, he never reached the ward. Died in the ambulance.
Now Margaret lives alone. Her pension—scarcely a farthing. The children visit seldom, mostly the daughters. The sons ring on holidays.
And in her mind, his last words echo without end:
*”I raised five of you… and not one will feed your father.”*
