She said “everything’s fine” — then wept all night long
“Mum, what on earth is 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 a bit tired today.”
“Tired? You’re retired!” Emily’s voice crackled with frustration. “I’ve been explaining the move for half an hour, and it’s like you’re not even listening.”
“I am listening. You’re buying a new house—well done.”
Emily huffed and slumped into a kitchen chair, where untouched cups of cold tea sat gathering dust.
“Mum, look at me! What’s happened?”
Margaret slowly turned. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes, but she pressed them back.
“I told you, everything’s fine. Go on about the house.”
Emily studied her mother. Something was off—she looked thinner, dark circles under her eyes.
“Mum, where’s Dad? Still at the allotment?”
“Dad…” Margaret hesitated. “He’s been held up. Lots to do out there.”
“In December?” Emily frowned. “What could he possibly be doing in December?”
“Oh, you know… clearing snow, checking the shed. Winter chores.”
Emily’s frown deepened. Dad never went to the allotment in winter. 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… busy.”
“Doing what?” Emily pulled out her phone. “I’ll call him myself.”
“No!” Her mother snatched the phone away. “Please, don’t.”
Emily froze. “Mum, what’s going on? Have you two had a row?”
“We haven’t rowed. Everything’s fine, I told you.”
“Stop saying that!” Emily exploded. “You’re pale as a sheet, your eyes are red, Dad’s missing—and you keep insisting everything’s fine!”
Margaret pressed her lips together and turned back to the window. Fat snowflakes swirled outside, draping the garden in white.
“Fancy a fresh cuppa?” she asked abruptly. “This one’s gone cold.”
“I don’t want tea! I want the truth!”
Emily marched over and gripped her mother’s shoulders.
“Mum, I’m your daughter. If something’s wrong, I need to know. Where’s Dad?”
Margaret closed her eyes. The pain she’d carried for a week—a week of silence, half-truths, pretence—tightened in her chest.
“Dad…” she began, then stopped.
“What about Dad?” Emily’s grip tightened. “Mum, you’re scaring me!”
“Dad’s all right. He’s healthy.”
“Then where is he?”
A long silence hung between them. Margaret stared at the floor, fiddling with her apron.
“At Linda’s,” she whispered.
“Linda who?”
“Linda Harper. From down the road.”
Emily blinked. “What’s he doing there?”
“Living,” Margaret murmured.
The word dropped between them like a stone, rippling with understanding.
“Living?” Emily echoed.
“Moved in with her. Last week. 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 streamed down her face, unchecked now.
“What should I have said? That after thirty-eight years, your father left me for the neighbour? That I’m just a lonely old woman now?”
“Mum—” Emily jumped up and hugged her. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Didn’t want to upset you. You’ve got the move, the kids, work. Why burden you?”
“What kids? They’re grown! You’re my mother—your burdens are mine!”
Margaret sobbed into her daughter’s shoulder.
“Emily, I feel so lost. I don’t know what to do. How to go 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 ago. Dad kept coming home 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, that’s all.”
Emily listened, silent.
“At first I thought he was tired. Work had been mad, that new project. Then I noticed—new shirts, aftershave. But at home, miserable.”
“And you didn’t suspect?”
“I did. But I told myself I was imagining it. Thirty-eight years, children, grandchildren soon… It seemed impossible.”
Margaret broke down again.
“Then I bumped into Linda at Tesco. She acted strange, couldn’t look me in the eye. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That they were together. Woman’s intuition. Came home, and Dad was getting ready to go out. Said he was popping round to Dave’s. All dressed up.”
“You followed him?”
“I did. Shameful, but I did. Went straight to Linda’s. Upstairs to her flat.”
Emily clenched her fists.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. Came home, sat up all night thinking. Morning came—he walked in like nothing happened. Asked for breakfast, off to work.”
“Mum, why didn’t you confront him?”
“I was afraid,” Margaret admitted. “Afraid if I spoke, he’d leave. This way, at least he was home.”
“How long did this go on?”
“A month. A whole month pretending. Cooking, cleaning, washing for him. Crying into my pillow at night.”
Emily shook her head.
“Mum, why torture yourself?”
“What else? Scream? Make a scene? I thought he might come to his senses.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No. Last week, he came home and said he was leaving. Over breakfast. I’m pouring his cereal, and he says, ‘Margaret, I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen for someone else.'”
Margaret trembled with sobs.
“Can you imagine? Over breakfast! Like announcing the weather!”
Emily held her tighter.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Just sat there. He packed a bag and left. I stayed at the table, spoon in hand.”
“Oh, Mum…”
“You know what hurts most? He didn’t even apologise. As if I were just some flatmate.”
Emily paced the room.
“What’s this Linda like?”
“Ordinary. Mid-fifties, works at the library. Husband died last year. Quiet, polite. We’d chat sometimes.”
“How could she do this?”
“Who knows? Maybe she was lonely. Your dad paid her attention—probably felt nice.”
“But she knew he had a family!”
“Of course. I’d even shown her photos of the grandchildren once.”
Emily stopped in front of her mother.
“Have you spoken to him since?”
“Once. Asked how I was. I said ‘fine’. Didn’t beg. Too proud.”
“And he?”
“Relieved. Said, ‘Good, we’re handling this like adults.’ Adults! After thirty-eight years!”
“Mum, do you want him back?”
Margaret thought.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Other times—why would I want someone who betrayed me? Who traded me in?”
“Exactly.”
“But I’m scared, Emily. Sixty-two. Where do I go? Alone in this house, no family, 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 big house—five bedrooms. One’s yours. Come live with us.”
“I’d be in the way—”
“How? You’ll help with the kids—take pressure off me. And you won’t be lonely.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No, love. Young families don’t need old folks underfoot. You’ll argue with James over me.”
“James suggested it! When we decided to buy, he said, ‘We’ll have your mum’s room ready.'”
“Really?”
“Really. He adores you. So do the kids.”
For the first time in a week, hope flickered in Margaret’s eyes.
“But this house—”
“Sell it. Or let it. Extra income never hurts.”
“But all our memories—”
“Mum, what memories? Dad trampled them when he left. Why stay somewhere you’ll only suffer?”
Margaret wiped her eyes.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Mum, life
