Love Through Hatred
Margaret Whitaker stood by the window, watching her neighbour, Evelyn, hang out the washing in the yard. Every movement seemed deliberately slow, as if Evelyn was lingering just to draw attention to herself.
“That cow’s putting on a show again,” Margaret muttered under her breath, gripping the edge of the curtain. “Thinks everyone’s admiring her, no doubt.”
Meanwhile, Evelyn hummed softly as she pinned up the freshly washed sheets. She was three years younger than Margaret but looked far fresher for her fifty-eight years—always well-groomed, ironed dresses, polished shoes. The way she carried herself—spine straight, chin lifted—made Margaret grind her teeth.
They’d lived next door to each other for over twenty years, and all that time, an unspoken hostility had simmered between them. It had started with something trivial: Evelyn once remarked that Margaret wasn’t planting her petunias properly in the front garden and offered advice. Margaret took it as an insult.
“I know how to plant flowers!” she snapped. “Don’t tell me how to live my life!”
“I just wanted to help,” Evelyn sighed. “They grew beautifully at my sister’s place.”
“I don’t need your help!” Margaret turned away sharply.
After that, they barely exchanged greetings, often pretending not to see one another. Margaret found fault in everything Evelyn did—her new handbag was showing off, her baking was just to prove she was a better homemaker.
“Mum, why do you always pick on her?” Margaret’s daughter, Emily, asked when she visited. “She seems perfectly nice. What’s so horrible about her?”
“You don’t know her,” Margaret grumbled. “She’s not as sweet as she looks—remember how she ‘stole’ the Wilkins’ cat?”
“Mum, the cat chose her! The Wilkins kept it outside, and she took it in. That’s not stealing!”
“Of course, Saint Evelyn can do no wrong!” Margaret slammed the fridge door.
Evelyn, for her part, was just as confused. She had no idea why Margaret despised her so. She’d tried to mend things—brought over cakes, offered to help with shopping—but Margaret always rejected her.
“Thanks, but no. I can manage.”
She wouldn’t even take the cakes, claiming she was on a diet—though Evelyn had seen her buying biscuits at the shop.
“I don’t understand her,” Evelyn sighed to her sister over the phone. “What have I ever done to her? She acts like I’m her worst enemy.”
“Just ignore her,” her sister replied. “Some people are like that.”
But Evelyn hated the constant chill. She was sociable, loved chatting with neighbours—yet this woman next door treated her like a villain.
One winter evening, Evelyn slipped on the icy path outside, spilling her shopping. Her knee throbbed, and she couldn’t get up.
“It really hurts!” she groaned, struggling to gather the oranges rolling away.
Just then, Margaret stepped out and froze at the sight. For a second, she thought, *Serves her right,* but shame quickly replaced the spite. A woman was hurt in the cold.
“Here, let me help,” Margaret offered a hand. “Easy now.”
Evelyn grabbed it gratefully, wincing as she stood.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Think I’ve bruised my knee badly.”
“We’ll get your things first, then see to it,” Margaret said, picking up the scattered groceries. “Have you got iodine at home?”
“Think so.”
“Clean it properly, and ice it to stop the swelling.”
They walked to the lift in silence, Evelyn pressing the button.
“Thank you again,” she said. “Don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
Margaret just nodded, but the look in Evelyn’s eyes—grateful yet surprised—stuck with her all evening.
*What did she expect? That I’d leave her there? What does she think of me?*
The next morning, Margaret heard Evelyn struggling down the stairs—the lift was broken again.
“How’s your knee?” Margaret called out.
“Still sore, but manageable. Thanks again for yesterday.”
“Don’t mention it,” Margaret hesitated. “Going to the shops? I need a few things myself—could get yours too.”
Evelyn blinked. “You wouldn’t mind? Here’s my list—and the money—”
“Put that away. Milk, bread, eggs—got it.”
When Margaret returned with the shopping, Evelyn met her with a warm loaf cake.
“Carrot and walnut. Baked it yesterday.”
“I—thank you.” Margaret caught herself. “I do like walnut.”
They lingered awkwardly on the landing—years of hostility, now trading cake.
“Come in for tea?” Evelyn offered suddenly. “Since it’s here.”
Margaret almost refused, but something made her nod.
Evelyn’s flat mirrored hers in layout but was cosier—neat, with potted plants and framed photos.
“Your place is lovely,” Margaret admitted.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Tea’s nearly ready.”
They sipped in silence, making small talk about the weather and rising prices. The tension eased bit by bit.
“Who’s this?” Margaret nodded at a man in uniform in one photo.
“My late husband. Eight years now.”
“Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright. Cancer took him quickly. Six months.” Evelyn paused. “And you?”
“Divorced long ago. My daughter’s in Birmingham—rarely visits.”
After tea, Margaret stood to leave.
“Thanks for the cake—and the chat.”
“Anytime. And thanks for the shopping.”
From then on, things changed. They weren’t friends—too many cold years for that—but the sharpness faded. They greeted each other, exchanged small talk in the hall.
Margaret began to see Evelyn differently—her posture wasn’t pride but habit from years as a shop assistant. Her neatness wasn’t vanity but discipline. Her baking wasn’t spite, just joy in cooking for an empty home.
*All these years resenting her—for what? Because she lives differently?*
Evelyn, too, saw Margaret anew—not as bitter or jealous, but lonely. Her daughter seldom called, no grandchildren, a tight pension. Her sharpness wasn’t malice but weariness.
They became part of each other’s routines. Margaret fetched Evelyn’s prescriptions. Evelyn shared vegetables from her allotment. They swapped books, discussed the building’s gossip.
One spring morning, Margaret frowned at her withering petunias.
“Maybe try something else?” Evelyn appeared beside her, holding seed packets.
“Nasturtiums. They’re hardy—flower till frost. Mine were splendid last year.”
Margaret eyed the packet. “Think I’d fail with these too?”
“Of course not! You’ve got a green thumb—remember your balcony tomatoes? I always admired those.”
Margaret took the seeds, scanning the instructions. “Maybe we could plant them together?”
“Love to.”
They spent the morning digging, planting, chatting—Margaret about Emily’s friend’s grandchild, Evelyn about a new drama she’d been watching.
“You know,” Margaret dusted off her hands, “I didn’t dislike you over the flowers.”
“Why then?”
“You’re so… put together. Made me feel frumpy. That’s why I was sharp.”
Evelyn laughed. “Me? I’m an old woman!”
“But you look younger. And you always seemed to look down on everyone.”
“Goodness, no! I’m just shy—keep my head up so I don’t shrink away. And you seemed so… untouchable. Like I wasn’t good enough to talk to.”
They stared at each other, stunned by years of misreading.
“What fools we’ve been,” Margaret sighed.
“Better late than never.”
From then on, they were proper friends—not just polite, but real. They bickered, made up, shared worries and joys. Margaret softened Evelyn’s loneliness; Evelyn taught Margaret to take pride in herself.
“I think we always cared,” Evelyn said one evening as they sat on the bench, watching the nasturtiums bloom. “Just came through the wrong way.”
“Suppose so,” Margaret agreed. “Glad we got there in the end.”
The nasturtiums lasted till the first frost, just as Evelyn promised—bright, cheerful splashes for the whole building to enjoy. And the two women who planted them together would often pause by the flowers, remembering how they’d nearly missed true friendship over pride and stubbornness.
