“Mum, what’s wrong with you?” Emily tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Why won’t you talk to me? I’m asking you!”
“Everything’s fine, love,” Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the window. “Just tired today.”
“Tired? You’re retired!” Emily’s voice sharpened with frustration. “I’ve been explaining about the move for half an hour, and it’s like you’re not even listening.”
“I am listening. You’re moving to your new house, that’s lovely.”
Emily huffed and dropped into a kitchen chair, where untouched cups of cold tea sat.
“Mum, look at me—properly! What’s happened?”
Margaret slowly turned. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes, but she held them back stubbornly.
“I told you, everything’s fine. Go on about your new place.”
Emily studied her mother. Something was off—she could feel it—but couldn’t place what. Her mother looked drawn, dark circles under her eyes.
“Mum, where’s Dad? Still not back from the allotment?”
“Dad…” Margaret hesitated. “Dad’s running late. Busy with things there.”
“In December?” Emily frowned. “What’s there to do at the allotment in winter?”
“Well… clearing snow, checking the shed. It’s cold weather.”
Emily’s frown deepened. Her father never went to the allotment in winter. Always said it was pointless, just wasting petrol.
“Mum, call him. Tell him to come home—I need to talk to you both.”
“Don’t bother him,” Margaret said quickly. “He’s… occupied.”
“Doing what?” Emily pulled out her phone. “I’ll ring him myself.”
“Don’t!” Her mother snatched the phone from her. “Please, don’t call.”
Emily froze at the reaction.
“Mum, what’s going on? Have you two had a row?”
“We haven’t. Everything’s fine.”
“Stop saying that!” Emily exploded. “You’re pale as a sheet, your eyes are red, Dad’s vanished, and you keep insisting ‘everything’s fine’!”
Margaret pressed her lips tight and turned back to the window. Outside, fat snowflakes swirled, blanketing the garden in white.
“Shall I make fresh tea?” she asked, shifting the subject. “This one’s gone cold.”
“I don’t want tea—I want the truth!”
Emily stood and stepped close, gripping her mother’s shoulders.
“Mum, I’m your daughter. If something’s happened, I need to know. Where is Dad?”
Margaret shut her eyes. A week’s worth of silent pain tightened in her chest—unspoken words, forced smiles, pretending.
“Dad…” she began, then stopped.
“What about Dad?” Emily’s grip tightened. “Mum, you’re scaring me!”
“Dad’s… fine. He’s healthy.”
“Then where is he?”
A long silence hung between them. Margaret stared at the floor, worrying the edge of her apron.
“At Helen’s,” she whispered finally.
“Helen who?”
“Helen Blackwell. From down the road.”
Emily blinked, confused.
“What’s he doing there?”
“Living,” Margaret murmured.
The word dropped like a stone, ripples of understanding spreading.
“Living?” Emily echoed.
“Moved in with her. A week ago. Said he couldn’t stay with me anymore—that he loves her.”
Emily sank onto a chair as if her legs had given way.
“Mum… is this real?”
“It’s real.”
“And you’ve been telling me ‘everything’s fine’?”
Margaret finally faced her daughter. Tears streaked her cheeks, no longer held back.
“What was I meant to say? That after thirty-eight years, your father left me for a neighbour? That I’m a useless old woman now?”
“Mum—” Emily leapt up and hugged her. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”
“Didn’t want to upset you. You’ve got the move, the kids, work. My problems aren’t yours.”
“What kids? Mine are grown! You’re my mother—your problems *are* mine!”
Margaret shuddered and clung to her daughter.
“Emily, I’m so lost. I don’t know what to do. How to carry on.”
“Tell me everything. From the start.”
They sat together on the sofa. Margaret dabbed her eyes with a tissue and began.
“It started three months back. Dad began staying out late, said he had errands. Then he grew distant. Used to ask about my day, what I’d cooked. Suddenly, just silence—telly or his phone.”
Emily listened quietly.
“I thought it was work stress at first. He had that big project. Then I noticed—new shirts, aftershave. At home, he was miserable.”
“And you never suspected?”
“Of course I did. But I told myself I was imagining it. Thirty-eight years, grandchildren coming… It seemed impossible.”
Margaret broke down again.
“Then I bumped into Helen at Tesco. She acted so odd, avoiding my eyes. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That they were together. A woman’s instinct. Came home, and Dad was heading out. Said he was off to see Brian. Dressed up, hair done.”
“You followed him?”
“I did. Felt awful, but I did. Went straight to Helen’s flat.”
Emily clenched her fists.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. Came home, sat up all night thinking. Next morning, he strolled in like normal. Asked for breakfast, went to work.”
“Mum, why stay quiet? You should’ve confronted him!”
“I was scared,” Margaret admitted. “Scared if I spoke, he’d leave. At least this way, he was still home.”
“How long did that last?”
“A month. A whole month pretending. Cooking, cleaning, crying into my pillow.”
Emily shook her head.
“Mum, how could you torture yourself like that?”
“What choice was there? Scream? Beg? I thought he might snap out of it.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. A week ago, he walked in and said he was leaving. Over breakfast. I was serving porridge, and he goes, ‘Margaret, I’m leaving. I’ve fallen for someone else.’”
Margaret trembled with fresh sobs.
“Over *breakfast*! Like discussing the weather!”
Emily held her tighter.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. He packed a bag and left. I just sat there with the spoon in my hand.”
“Oh, Mum…”
“Know what hurts most? He never apologised. Not once. Like I was just some flatmate.”
Emily stood and paced.
“What’s this Helen like?”
“Ordinary. Mid-fifties, works at the library. Her husband died last year. Quiet, polite—always said hello when we passed.”
“How could she do this?”
“Who knows? Lonely, maybe. Your dad paid attention, made her feel special.”
“But she *knew* he had a family!”
“Course she did. I’d shown her photos of the grandkids once.”
Emily stopped in front of her.
“Have you spoken to him since?”
“Once. Asked how I was. I said ‘fine’. Didn’t plead. Too proud.”
“And he?”
“Sounded relieved. Said, ‘Good, we’re handling this like adults.’ *Adults*! After thirty-eight years!”
“Mum… do you *want* him back?”
Margaret thought.
“Sometimes. Then I think—why would I? A man who betrayed me? Threw me away?”
“Exactly.”
“But I’m frightened, Emily. I’m sixty-two. What now? Alone in this house, no future.”
“Alone? You’ve got me, James, the grandkids. We’re your family.”
“You’ve got your own lives. I won’t be a burden.”
Emily knelt beside her.
“Listen. We’re buying a five-bed house. There’s a room for you. Come live with us.”
“I’d be in the way—”
“Don’t be daft. You’d help with the kids, and I’d manage work better. No more loneliness.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No. Young families don’t need old women underfoot. You’d argue with James over me.”
“James *suggested* it! When we found the house, he said, ‘Your mum gets the back room.’”
“Really?”
“Really. He loves you. The kids adore you.”
For the first time in weeks, hope flickered in Margaret’s eyes.
“What about this house?”
“Sell it. Or let it. Extra income.”
“But… all our memories—”
“Mum, what memories? Dad trampled them when he left. Why stay where you’ll only suffer?”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I *am* right. Life isn’t over. You’ve got us—kids who love you
