“Oh, stop blubbing like a baby!” Margaret snapped, turning away from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. “What’s all this drama about?”
William sat at the kitchen table, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook as tears dripped between his fingers.
“Maggie, how can you not get it? It’s my *mum*,” he croaked, voice thick.
“Mum, mum!” she mocked, slamming a pot onto the table. “Eighty-four years she lived—that’s more than most get. Plenty don’t even see sixty.”
William lifted red-rimmed eyes. “How can you say that? She loved you like her own.”
“Oh, *loved* me, did she?” Margaret snorted, serving herself beef stew. Her appetite was robust, despite having buried her mother-in-law just hours before. “Especially when she nagged me about my cooking or how I raised the kids. Thirty years of her *advice*—I’ve had my fill.”
“Sit down and eat,” she said, buttering a roll. “No use crying over spilled milk. Better think what we’ll do with her flat. Sell it before prices drop.”
William shot up, his chair clattering to the floor. “Are you *mad*? She’s not even cold in the ground!”
“And when *should* we think of it?” Margaret shrugged, stirring her stew. “In a year? Five? The place is empty, bills piling up. Be practical, Will.”
He gripped his head. These past months—watching Mum waste away in hospital, holding her hand—felt like a nightmare. Margaret never visited. Always an excuse: a headache, a cold, *too busy at work*. Now, all she saw were pound signs.
“I’m going out,” he muttered.
“Out where? Eat your dinner.”
“Not hungry.”
“Suit yourself.”
The October wind bit his face on the balcony. Below, kids played football. Life carried on, while his ribs cracked open with grief. Mum was his last tether to childhood, to being *wanted*. To Margaret, she’d just been a nuisance.
The balcony door creaked. “You’ll catch your death,” Margaret said, handing him tea. He took it, hands trembling.
“Maggie… did you *ever* love her?”
She huffed. “What does it matter now? We got on fine.”
“*Fine*,” he echoed.
She eyed him—almost uneasy. “You’re not… unhappy with me?”
“I don’t know *anything* right now.”
They stood in silence. Margaret hugged her dressing gown; William sipped scalding tea.
“Remember when Mum taught you her pancake recipe?” he asked.
“Ugh. *Too runny, too thick, wrong pan*—never heard the end of it.”
“Or when Tommy first called her ‘Nanny’?”
“All gran’s melt over that.”
He set the cup down. “Or when she had pneumonia last year? You visited her every day with soup.”
Margaret went still. She *hadn’t*. Will had. She’d stayed home, complaining to mates about *his* neglect.
“Let’s go in,” she muttered. “It’s freezing.”
That evening, their son Tommy arrived with his wife, Claire. The young couple fidgeted—death was foreign to them.
“Dad… you okay?” Tommy hugged him.
“Getting by.”
“*Nanny was…*” Claire swallowed. “*Wonderful*.”
Margaret bustled in with a tray. “Sit! Tea and walnut cake.”
“Mum… maybe not the time for cake?” Tommy ventured.
“And when *is*?” She sliced it briskly. “Life goes on.”
“Actually,” she said brightly, “we thought you two could take Nanny’s flat! Better than renting.”
Tommy and Claire exchanged looks. “Mum, *Christ*—”
William shoved back his chair. “*Enough!* She’s barely buried!”
“Will, *lower your voice*,” Margaret hissed. “I’m being practical!”
“*Practical*? She deserved *respect*—”
“We *respected* her! What more—?”
Tommy grabbed his arm. “Dad, *please*—”
“You *don’t* understand!” William wrenched free, slamming the door behind him.
From the kitchen, muffled voices: “…*so sensitive*,” Margaret sighed. “*Always a mummy’s boy*.”
William collapsed on the bed. The ceiling spun. He remembered Mum’s whisper in hospital: “*Don’t blame Maggie, love. She’s… how she is.*”
Tommy crept in later. “Remember Nanny’s stories? *Jack and the Beanstalk*—her voices were epic.”
William smiled weakly. “Aye. And her apple tarts. Your mum never quite…”
Tommy hesitated. “Dad… why’s Mum so…?”
“People grieve different,” he mumbled.
From the kitchen: laughter. Margaret and Claire, *giggling*. On the day of the funeral.
By morning, Margaret was humming over breakfast. “Toast?” she asked, sunny as ever.
Will chewed mechanically.
“Remember our first date?” she mused. “You spilled pints all over your shirt.”
“Mm.”
She patted his hand. “We’ll be alright, love. Life *moves on*.”
“Does it?”
“Course! Grandkids, holidays in Cornwall—!”
He studied her: frizzy hair, slippers, sleep creases on her cheeks. A stranger he’d shared a bed with for thirty years.
“Maggie… do you love me?”
She coughed on her coffee. “*What*? We’re *family*.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“*Bloody hell*, Will. We’re not Romeo and Juliet—we’re *ordinary*.”
At work, colleagues offered stiff condolences. After, he visited the gravesite. The flowers were already wilting.
“*Didn’t protect you from her,*” he whispered. “*Sorry, Mum.*”
Margaret scolded him for lateness. “Dinner’s ruined. *Again* at the cemetery?”
“Needed to be there.”
She rolled her eyes. “*Dead don’t hear you, Will.*”
As the telly blared, he realised: she was right. The dead *didn’t* hear. But neither did the living—not really.
In bed, she yawned. “Notary tomorrow, yeah? For the flat.”
“…Yeah.”
She kissed his cheek, asleep in minutes.
Will stared at the dark. Maybe she *was* right. Maybe you *had* to move on.
But then—what was left? If you could laugh, haggle over deeds, sleep soundly after burying your heart?
The alarm would buzz at seven. Toast, work, *EastEnders*. A life.
And this grief, lodged in his throat—forever unspoken.
