Margaret smirked as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Oh, stop blubbering like a schoolboy, will you?” she said, waving a wooden spoon for emphasis. “What’s all this theatrics about?”
William sat slumped at the kitchen table, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook slightly, and wet streaks glistened between his fingers.
“Mags… can’t you understand? It was Mum,” he choked out.
“Oh, Mum this, Mum that,” Margaret scoffed, thumping a pot of stew onto the table. “Eighty-four years she lived—more than most get, believe me.”
William lifted his red-rimmed eyes. “How can you say that? She adored you—treated you like her own.”
“Adored me? Oh, yes,” Margaret huffed. “Especially when she was lecturing me on how to make roasts or raise the kids. Thirty years of her ‘helpful advice,’ that’s what I endured.”
She plopped into her chair and ladled herself a generous portion, her appetite impressively intact despite having just buried her mother-in-law that morning.
“Enough moping,” she said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “No use crying over spilled milk. We ought to think about what to do with her flat. Best sell while prices are still decent.”
William shoved his chair back with a clatter. “Have you lost your mind? We’ve barely laid her to rest, and you’re already divvying up her things?”
“Oh, and when should we discuss it, then? In a year? Five?” Margaret took a deliberate bite. “The flat’s sitting empty, bills piling up. Be practical, Will.”
William gripped his temples. The past few months had been a blur—his mum fading in that hospital bed while he held her hand. And Margaret? Not once did she visit, always with an excuse:
“Got a headache, love.”
“Bit of a cold—wouldn’t want to pass it on.”
“Work’s mad this week—can’t get away.”
And now, before the grave was even settled, it was all about the money.
“I’m going to my study,” he muttered, turning away.
“Your study?” Margaret frowned. “Eat first—it’ll go cold.”
“Not hungry.”
“Suit yourself. Starving won’t bring her back.”
William stepped onto the patio, the chill November air biting his cheeks. He gripped the railing, watching children kick a football in the courtyard below. Life trundled on, indifferent, while his world had cracked open.
Mum was gone—the last tether to his childhood, to being someone’s boy. Margaret never understood that bond. To her, her mother-in-law had been a nuisance, an interruption to her well-ordered life.
The patio door creaked.
“Will, come in before you catch your death,” Margaret said, handing him a steaming mug of tea.
His hands trembled as he took it. “Mags… tell me honestly. Did you ever care for her, even a little?”
She shrugged. “Did I, didn’t I? What does it matter now? We muddled along.”
“Muddled,” he echoed. “Right. That’s all it was.”
Margaret studied him, a flicker of unease in her eyes. “What’s got into you? Don’t you like how we live?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Right now, I don’t know anything.”
They stood in silence, Margaret hugging her dressing gown tight, William sipping scalding tea.
“Remember when Mum taught you her Yorkshire pudding recipe?” he asked suddenly.
“Ha! Drove me spare with her nitpicking—too runny, too thick, wrong tray.”
“And when little Tommy first called her ‘Nana’? How she glowed?”
“Well, all grandmothers love that sort of thing.”
William set his empty mug down. “Or last winter, when she had pneumonia? You brought her soup every day.”
Margaret went quiet. She didn’t remember because it hadn’t happened—William had been the one rushing to the hospital while she’d stayed home, complaining to her book club about his “neglect.”
“Let’s go in,” she said abruptly. “It’s freezing.”
That evening, their son Thomas arrived with his wife, Emily. The young couple fidgeted awkwardly—death was a stranger to their generation.
“Dad… how you holding up?” Thomas hugged him stiffly.
“Getting by, son.”
“I miss Nana. She was lovely.”
“She was,” William rasped, the lump in his throat returning.
Emily shifted uncomfortably. “So sorry, William. She was a wonderful woman.”
“Ta, love.”
Margaret bustled in with a tray. “Sit, everyone! Tea’s ready. Got a Victoria sponge, fresh from Marks & Sparks.”
“Mum, maybe cake isn’t… appropriate just now?” Thomas ventured.
“And when would be? Life doesn’t stop for grief,” Margaret said briskly, slicing generous portions.
“Oh, and Em,” she added, “have you two thought about Nana’s flat? You’re still renting, aren’t you? Could be just the ticket.”
Thomas and Emily exchanged glances.
“Mum, it’s too soon,” Thomas said.
“Nonsense! Prime location, near the Tube. Perfect for starters.”
William slammed his palms on the table. “Margaret, enough! We buried her today, and you’re already playing estate agent?”
“Don’t shout in front of the kids,” she said coolly. “I’m being practical.”
“Practical!” He threw up his hands. “That’s all you ever are!”
Her lips thinned. “What would you have me do? Sit and sob? What good does that do?”
“Good? To honor her? To remember her properly?”
“We’ve honored her! Cemetery, flowers, the works. What more d’you want?”
Thomas stood, gripping his father’s arm. “Dad, easy—we know it’s hard.”
“You don’t know anything!” William wrenched away, storming out.
In the hallway, he pressed his forehead to the wall. From the kitchen drifted Margaret’s laughter—bright, unburdened.
Later, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling. Margaret’s breathing deepened into sleep, untroubled.
Morning came too soon. Over toast and marmalade, Margaret mused, “Remember when we met? You were so shy at that works do—turned red as a beet when I talked to you.”
William managed a nod.
“Time flies,” she sighed. “But we’ve got to keep moving forward. Live for what’s ahead—grandkids, holidays, the allotment in summer.”
He studied her—frazzled hair, sleep lines creasing her face. The woman he’d shared three decades with, yet somehow never truly known.
“Mags… do you love me?”
She nearly spat out her tea. “What kind of daft question is that? Course I do. We’re family.”
“Family isn’t an answer.”
“Oh, what d’you want? Flowery speeches? We’re not in some rom-com, Will. We’re just normal people.”
Normal. The word settled like a weight.
At work, colleagues offered stiff condolences. At dusk, William visited the gravesite alone, straightening wilting carnations in the wind.
“Sorry, Mum,” he whispered.
Home again, Margaret scolded him for cold supper. They ate in silence, the telly droning about rising petrol prices.
In bed, her breathing steadied into sleep—a woman untroubled by sentiment.
And William lay awake, wondering: if tears changed nothing, what remained of love? Of loss?
Outside, a fox yipped. The world turned, indifferent.
Tomorrow would be the same—toast, the Tube, small talk.
Just another day. Just another marriage.
Just life.
