My wife laughed while I cried.
“Blimey, stop wailing like a drama queen!” Linda turned sharply from the stove, waving a ladle. “What’s all this fuss about?”
Victor sat at the kitchen table, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, and tears seeped through his fingers.
“Linda, don’t you get it… it’s Mum,” he croaked.
“Oh, Mum, Mum!” she mimicked, slamming the pot onto the table. “She was eighty-four! Most people don’t even make it to sixty.”
Victor lifted his red-rimmed eyes.
“How can you say that? She loved you like her own.”
“Loved me? Right,” Linda scoffed. “Especially when she was telling me how to make gravy or raise the kids. Thirty years of her advice—I put up with it long enough.”
She sat across from him and ladled herself some stew, eating heartily despite having just returned from the funeral hours earlier.
“Enough moping,” she said, tearing off a piece of bread. “She’s gone, and that’s that. We ought to sort out her flat before prices drop.”
Victor shoved his chair back so hard it clattered to the floor.
“Have you lost it? She’s barely cold in the ground!”
“Well, when should we think about it then?” Linda said calmly, still eating. “In a year? Five? Bills are still due, Victor. Be practical.”
He gripped his head. These past months had felt like a nightmare—his mum wasting away in hospital while he sat by her bed, holding her hand. Linda never visited, always with an excuse.
“Headache.”
“Bit of a cold, don’t want to pass it on.”
“Swamped at work.”
And now, barely a day after the burial, all she cared about was money.
“I’m going upstairs,” Victor muttered, heading for the door.
“Where’s ‘upstairs’? Eat something before it goes cold.”
“Not hungry.”
“Waste of good food, then.”
Victor stepped onto the balcony, the chilly October wind biting his face. He leaned on the railing, watching kids play in the courtyard below. Life carried on, while everything inside him was breaking.
His mum was gone—the last thread linking him to childhood, to home, to a time when someone truly needed him. Linda never understood that bond. To her, his mum was just a nuisance.
The balcony door creaked open.
“Vic, come in before you freeze.” Linda handed him a mug of tea. “Drink this.”
His hands trembled as he took it.
“Linda, tell me honestly… did you ever love her, even a little?”
She shrugged. “What does it matter now? We got along fine.”
“Fine,” he repeated. “Yeah. Just fine.”
Linda studied him, something flickering in her eyes.
“What’s gotten into you? Don’t like how we live?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Right now, I don’t know anything.”
They stood in silence, Linda bundled in her dressing gown, Victor sipping scalding tea.
“Remember when she taught you to make Yorkshire puddings?” he asked suddenly.
“Ugh. Endless lectures—too thin, too thick, wrong tin.”
“And when little Tommy first called her ‘Nana’?”
“So? Grandkids always do that.”
Victor set his empty mug down.
“Or when she had pneumonia last year… you took her meals every day.”
Linda went quiet. She didn’t remember because she hadn’t—Victor did, while she’d moaned to her mates about him neglecting the family.
“Let’s go in. It’s freezing.”
Later, their son Tommy arrived with his wife, Chloe. Both looked awkward, uneasy—death wasn’t something their generation faced often.
“Dad, how you holding up?” Tommy hugged him.
“Getting by, son.”
“I miss Nana. She was brilliant.”
“Yeah. Brilliant.” Victor’s throat tightened.
Chloe shifted on her feet. “I’m so sorry, Victor. She was lovely.”
“Ta, love.”
Linda bustled in with a tray. “Sod’s ready. Got a walnut cake, too.”
“Mum… maybe not the best time for cake?” Tommy ventured.
“When is? Life goes on, doesn’t it?”
She sliced the cake, movements brisk, like this was any other Sunday tea.
“Actually,” she said to Chloe, “we were thinking—why don’t you two take Nana’s flat? Save you renting.”
Tommy and Chloe exchanged glances.
“Mum, it’s too soon,” Tommy said.
“Why? It’s a nice place—central, near the Tube. Perfect for you.”
Victor stood abruptly.
“Christ, Linda! We buried her today!”
“Victor, don’t shout in front of the kids,” Linda said calmly. “Just sorting practicalities.”
“Practicalities!” He threw his hands up. “That’s all you care about!”
Linda pursed her lips.
“What do you want, then? Sobbing won’t bring her back.”
“Properly mourning her! Respecting her bloody life!”
“We did! At the church, the graveside—what more do you want?”
Tommy stepped between them. “Dad, calm down. I know you’re hurting.”
“You don’t know a thing!” Victor stormed out, slamming the door. He leaned against the hallway wall, heart pounding.
Muffled voices drifted from the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Tommy asked.
“Taking it hard,” Linda said. “Always was a mummy’s boy.”
The mockery in her tone stung. Even today.
Victor lay on the bed, still dressed, staring at the ceiling. He thought of his mum’s frail hand in his, her whisper:
“Don’t be hard on Linda, Vic. She means well—just stubborn.”
Even dying, she’d made excuses for Linda… who couldn’t even say goodbye.
The door creaked.
“Dad?” Tommy sat beside him. “I miss Nana too. Remember her stories? King Arthur, Merlin… did all the voices.”
“Yeah. Told me the same ones.”
“And her roast dinners… Mum never got them right.”
Victor turned to him. “Tom… why’s your mum so… cold?”
Tommy hesitated. “Dunno. Some people just… don’t show things, I guess.”
“But when someone dies—”
“Should feel something? Yeah. But Mum’s… Mum.”
From the kitchen, Linda and Chloe’s laughter rang out.
“Hear that?” Victor whispered. “Laughing.”
“Probably just chatting.”
“No. Laughing. The day we buried her.”
Tommy stood. “I’d better go. Early start.”
“Right. Get on with your life, son.”
After they left, the flat felt hollow. Linda hummed as she washed up, the clatter of plates and rush of tap water filling the silence. Victor lay in bed, listening.
Odd, wasn’t it? Buried his mum this morning, yet here they were—Linda singing, telly blaring next door, dogs barking outside.
She slipped into bed later.
“Asleep?” she asked.
“No.”
“Don’t take what I said to heart, Vic. Just thinking ahead.”
“Ahead to what?”
“Life. Kids, grandkids someday. Holidays in Cornwall.”
He turned to the wall. “Night, Lin.”
“Night.”
She was out in minutes, breathing evenly—no guilt, no regrets.
At dawn, Victor woke before the alarm. Linda slept on, face peaceful. Dreams probably full of… whatever practical people dreamt of.
He made tea, buttered toast. Routine breakfast, but inside, nothing felt the same.
“You’re up early,” Linda yawned, shuffling in. “Sleep alright?”
“Couldn’t stay still.”
“Coffee?”
“Ta.”
She busied herself at the cooker, movements practised. Thirty years of this—her cooking, him silent, both carrying on.
“Remember when we met?” she said suddenly.
“Yeah. Factory canteen.”
“You were so shy. Blushed every time I talked to you.”
“Wasn’t I just,” he muttered.
“Now look at us—old codgers.”
“Yep.”
Linda sat with her coffee.
“I know you’re grieving. But life moves on, Vic. We have to as well.”
“Move where?”
“Oh, you know. Work, grandkids, garden…”
He studied her—hair mussed, robe worn, pillow creases on her face. The woman he’d shared half his life with. Mother of his son, hard worker, homemaker.
And yet, somehow still a stranger.
“Lin… do you love me?”
She coughed on her coffee.
“Bloody hell, what sort of question is that? Course I do. We’re family.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What d’you want me to say? That I’m mad for you? We’reHe looked at her, sighed, and quietly realised some hearts just don’t break the same way, while outside their kitchen window, the morning carried on as if nothing had changed at all.
