Love Through Hate
Margaret Wilkins stood by the window, watching her neighbour Evelyn string up her washing in the courtyard. Every movement seemed deliberately slow, as if Evie was dragging it out just to show off in front of everyone’s windows.
“Look at her, posing again,” Margaret muttered under her breath, gripping the edge of the curtain. “As if anyone cares.”
Meanwhile, Evelyn hummed softly to herself as she pinned up freshly laundered sheets. She was three years younger than Margaret but looked far fresher at fifty-eight—always neatly styled hair, pressed dresses, and polished shoes. That confident way she carried herself—spine straight, chin up—made Margaret grind her teeth.
They’d lived next door for over twenty years, and the whole time, a quiet resentment had simmered between them. It all started with something silly—Evelyn once remarked that Margaret wasn’t planting her petunias right in the front garden and offered advice. Margaret took it as pure meddling.
“I know how to plant flowers,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me how to live my life!”
“I just wanted to help,” Evelyn said, flustered. “I’ve grown them before—they were lovely.”
“I don’t need your help,” Margaret cut in, turning away pointedly.
After that, they exchanged stiff greetings at best, or more often, pretended not to see each other. Margaret found hidden meaning in everything Evelyn did. A new handbag? Showing off. The smell of fresh pies drifting through the hall? Just rubbing it in what a perfect homemaker she was.
“Mum, why do you always pick on her?” Margaret’s daughter, Emma, said during a visit. “She seems nice enough.”
“You don’t know her,” Margaret grumbled. “She acts sweet, but deep down—remember when she stole the Stevensons’ cat?”
“Mum, the Stevensons left it outside! She took it in, fed it. That’s not stealing.”
“Oh, sure, so she’s a saint now, is she?” Margaret slammed the fridge door.
Evelyn, though, was just as confused. She couldn’t figure out what she’d done to upset Margaret. She’d tried being friendly—bringing over scones, offering to help carry groceries. But every olive branch was swatted away.
“No, thank you,” Margaret would say coldly. “I can manage.”
She wouldn’t even take the scones, claiming she was on a diet—though Evelyn had seen her buying cakes at Tesco.
“I don’t get it,” Evelyn sighed to her sister over the phone. “I’ve never done anything to her. Maybe I said something wrong years ago?”
“Just ignore her,” her sister said. “Some people are like that.”
But the constant frostiness weighed on Evelyn. She was chatty by nature, loved catching up with neighbours—yet next door lived a woman who glared at her like an enemy.
One winter evening, Evelyn slipped on icy pavement while lugging shopping bags. Her knee throbbed as groceries rolled into the snow.
“Blast it,” she groaned, scrambling for oranges.
Just then, Margaret stepped outside. For a second, she hesitated. *Serves her right*, flashed through her mind—but shame quickly followed. A woman was hurt, lying in the cold.
“Here,” Margaret said, holding out a hand. “Careful now.”
Evelyn gripped it gratefully, wincing as she stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Think I’ve done my knee in.”
“Let’s get your things first,” Margaret said, gathering scattered items. “Got antiseptic at home?”
“Should do.”
“Clean it properly if it’s broken skin. And ice it to keep the swelling down.”
They packed the bags, and Margaret helped her to the lift.
“Really, thank you,” Evelyn repeated, pressing the button. “I’d have been stuck otherwise.”
Margaret only nodded, but the moment stuck with her all evening. That look in Evelyn’s eyes—grateful, surprised, as if she’d expected to be left there.
“What kind of person does she think I am?” Margaret wondered, stirring her tea.
The next morning, she heard Evelyn struggling down the stairs—the lift was broken again. Margaret peeked into the hall.
“How’s the knee?”
“Sore, but I’ll manage. Thanks again for yesterday.”
“Don’t mention it.” A pause. “You off to the shops? I’m heading out anyway—could grab what you need.”
Evelyn blinked. “You wouldn’t mind? That’d be brilliant. Here’s my list—and the money—”
“Keep your money,” Margaret waved it off. “Milk, bread, cream. Got it. Anything else?”
“No, ta. That’s plenty.”
When Margaret returned, Evelyn met her with a still-warm pie.
“Made it last night. Cheese and onion.”
“I don’t—” Margaret caught herself. “Actually, that’s my favourite.”
They hovered awkwardly on the landing. Twenty years of snubs, and now pies were being exchanged.
“Come in for a cuppa,” Evelyn found herself saying. “Since I’ve dragged you out.”
Margaret nearly refused—but something made her nod.
Evelyn’s flat had the same layout but felt different—clean, cosy. Photos on the walls, plants on the windowsills.
“Lovely place,” Margaret admitted.
“Oh, it’s nothing special. Sit down—kettle’s on.”
They drank tea in quiet, filling gaps with talk of weather and rising prices. But the air felt lighter.
“Who’s this?” Margaret nodded to a framed photo of a man in uniform.
“My late husband. Passed eight years back.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“S’alright. Cancer took him quick—six months.” Evelyn hesitated. “And you?”
“Divorced ages ago. My Emma lives in Manchester now—hardly visits.”
“I see.”
As Margaret left, Evelyn pressed the pie into her hands.
“Thank you. For everything.”
After that, their dynamic shifted. Not quite friendship—too much history—but the hostility faded. They’d greet each other properly, even chat by the bins sometimes.
Margaret began noticing things. Evelyn wasn’t stuck-up—she stood straight because her back ached from years as a shop assistant. Her tidy clothes weren’t showing off—just how she’d always been. And those pies? Simply because she liked baking for someone.
“All these years annoyed at her,” Margaret mused by the window. “For what? Living her life?”
Evelyn, too, reassessed. Margaret wasn’t cruel or jealous—just lonely. Emma rarely called, no grandkids, pension stretched thin. That sharpness? Not malice, just life’s bruises showing.
Slowly, they became part of each other’s routines. Not friends, but not strangers either. Margaret fetched Evelyn’s prescriptions when she was poorly. Evelyn shared veg from her sister’s allotment. They swapped newspapers, muttered about the council’s shoddy repairs.
One spring day, Margaret studied her withered petunias.
“Maybe try something hardier?” Evelyn’s voice came from behind her. She held out a packet of seeds.
“Marigolds. Tough as nails, bloom till frost. Had them in my sister’s garden—gorgeous, they were.”
Margaret eyed the packet.
“You think I can’t handle petunias?” The old edge crept in.
“Course you can! Saw your tomato plants last summer—stellar. Petunias are just fussy.”
“Stellar?”
“Absolutely! Always meant to ask your secret.”
Margaret took the seeds, scanning the instructions.
“Maybe we could plant them together? If you’ve time.”
“Love to,” Evelyn smiled.
They spent the morning digging, planting, chatting. Margaret gossiped about Emma’s uni friend’s baby; Evelyn raved about a crime drama she’d binged.
“Thing is,” Margaret admitted, brushing soil off her knees, “I didn’t dislike you over flowers.”
“Why, then?”
“You’re… put together. Hair always nice, clothes smart. Made me feel frumpy.”
Evelyn laughed. “Me? I’m wrinklier than a prune! And this?” She patted her hair. “Hides the greys.”
“You walk like you own the street.”
“Bloody hell, I’m shy as anything! Head up so I don’t trip over my words. You seemed so… above it all. Like I wasn’t worth your time.”
They stared, realising how much they’d misread.
“Pair of idiots,” Margaret sighed. “Wasted years.”
“But we know now,” Evelyn said.
From then on, they were proper friends—not performative, but real. They had squabbles, made up, shared worries. Margaret dragged Evelyn to a salon for her first haircut in years; Evelyn convinced her to splurge on a nice coat.
“You know,” Evelyn said one evening, watching marigolds sway in the breeze, “I think we loved each other all along. Just came out sideways.”
“Suppose it did,” Margaret agreed.
The marigolds bloomed till autumn,And as the years passed, the two women often laughed about how stubbornness had nearly cost them the warmth they now shared.
