Margaret was arranging the freshly laundered tea towelsnew ones, with a dainty rose patternwhen her phone buzzed. She sighed: three missed calls from Charlotte, her colleague. Probably nothing urgent. She turned back to the cupboard, but the phone vibrated again.
“Meg, why arent you picking up?” Charlotte blurted. “Did you know Cynthias throwing a do for her anniversary this weekend?”
Margaret stiffened, her fingers tightening around the towel.
“What anniversary?”
“Her seventy-fifth. Emily rang meshes going with James. Says Cynthia sent invites weeks ago.”
The towel slipped from Margarets grasp. Thirty years married to Edward, and shed never missed a family gathering. But now, Cynthias milestoneand not a word.
“Maybe it slipped their minds?” she murmured, though the lump in her throat told her otherwise.
“Slipped their minds? Emily said theres a seating plan for twenty! Everyones invitedEdwards brothers, their wives, even the old neighbours from down the lane.”
Margaret sank onto a stool. Memories flashed: nursing Cynthia through her hip operation, sacrificing her holiday so her mother-in-law could get new hearing aids, minding the grandchildren while the others jetted off to Spain.
“Listen,” Charlotte pressed, “its all because of that trifle last Christmas. Remember how you got the wrong brand?”
“Charlotte, the trifle has nothing to do with it. Shes just never accepted me.”
The front door clickedEdward was home. Margaret hurriedly ended the call.
He strode into the kitchen, shaking rain from his coat like a schoolboy. She studied the lines around his eyes, the familiar slope of his nose. Thirty years. And stillan outsider.
“Edward, is your mother celebrating her anniversary this Saturday?” Her voice barely wavered.
He froze mid-step, his back to her.
“Suppose so. Just a small thing.”
“Why wasnt I told?”
He opened the fridge, peering inside as if the answer lay among the milk bottles.
“Mum wanted it intimate. Family only.”
“Family only.” Margaret echoed hollowly. “And I dont count?”
“Meg, dont start. You know how she is.”
“How she is?” Heat flared in her chest. “Ive endured her ways for thirty years! This isnt quirks, Edwardthis is cruelty!”
She clutched the counter, knuckles white.
“I looked after her when you were in Manchester. I gave up my trip to Cornwall for her hearing aids. I watched the kids when Sophie swanned off to Paris. Thirty years of trying. And this is my thanks?”
Edward pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Must you tally every favour? Its petty.”
“Petty?” Her voice cracked. “I just want to belong. Is that too much?”
He slumped into a chair.
“Youre blowing this out of proportion.”
“Twenty guests isnt intimate!” The words burned. “Even the Blakes from number twelve are going!”
“Who told you?”
“Does it matter?” She snatched the towel, scrubbing the spotless counter. “Thirty years, Edward! What more must I do?”
He reached for her hand. She jerked away.
“Meg, you know she thinks you stole me.”
“Stole you?” She barked a laugh. “You were twenty-eight!”
She remembered her first visit to Cynthias, baking a Victoria sponge from her nans recipe. Her mother-in-law had sniffed. “We use buttercream in this family.”
“All my life,” Margaret whispered, “Ive bent over backwards. And how has she repaid me? Telling everyone I spoiled Oliver? Mocking my parents common accents? And youalways silent!”
“What dyou want me to do?” Edward snapped. “Row with my mum over a party?”
“Not the party!” She slammed her palm on the table. “Over thirty years of exclusion! Over you letting her treat me like a stranger!”
Outside, rain streaked the window like tears.
“Meg, stop being dramatic.” Edward draped an arm around her stiff shoulders. “Shall I talk to her?”
“Talk?” She shrugged him off. “If this were the first time, maybe. But now? Its a slap in the face.”
The next days passed in a haze. At the office, she smiled mechanically. At home, silence. Edwards placations only deepened the wound.
“Youve no idea how cross she was about that trifle,” he muttered over supper. “Thinks you did it deliberately.”
“Deliberately? I visited four shops for gluten-free custard!” Her fork clattered. “Theyd sold out of her brand!”
Edwards silence was answer enough.
That Friday, she stood in Olivers room. Her son lounged on the bed, glued to his phone.
“OllieGrandmas do is tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, not looking up. “Dad mentioned.”
“Youre going?”
He finally glanced at her.
“Grandma asked me. Not gonna bail, am I?”
Margaret nodded, swallowing the sting. Even her son didnt see it.
“Of course,” she whispered. “Give her my love.”
Saturday dawned empty. Edward and Oliver left early, arms laden with Fortnums hampers. Margaret drifted through the house. In every photo, Cynthia stood slightly apart.
She traced the frame of last years Christmas shotOlivers engagement. Shed worn emerald silk, Edward in his best tweed. The happy couple beamed. Cynthia looked like shed bitten a lemon.
“Even then,” Margaret told the photo, “on my own sons day.”
She recalled Cynthia pulling Oliver aside, loud enough for the room: “At least hes marrying properly, unlike some.” And Edwardsilent as ever.
That evening, they returned, tipsy on champagne and Cynthias perfume.
“Brilliant bash!” Edward flopped onto the sofa. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen” He caught her expression. “Sorry, love. Thoughtless.”
Oliver mumbled goodnight and vanished.
“Send my regards,” Edward added weakly.
“Regards?” Her ribs squeezed. “She remembers I exist?”
“Meg, dont”
“No, you dont!” She stood abruptly. “Stop pretending! Your mother humiliated me. Again! And you let her!”
“Im stuck in the middle!” He rubbed his temples. “Youre both”
“Both what?” She stepped closer. “Finish that sentence.”
“You make mountains out of molehills.”
“Ah.” She smiled bitterly. “So three decades of pain is just a molehill?”
She turned on her heel, the bedroom door slamming behind her.
Ten days passed in frosty civility. Oliver left. Life resumed.
Margaret stopped her Sunday calls to Cynthia. Stopped asking after her health. Instead of guiltrelief. Like shedding a leaden coat shed worn for years.
On the eleventh day, her phone rang. “Cynthia Whitmore” flashed on the screen. Her breath hitched. The ringing persisted. Finally, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Margaret, darling.” Cynthias voice was uncharacteristically sweet. “How are you?”
“Darling.” In thirty years, Cynthia had never called her that.
“Im well, thank you.”
“Ive been frightfully ill,” Cynthia wheezed. “Since the partymy blood pressures ghastly. The doctor says I need rest. Edward mentioned youve holiday time saved?”
A cold realisation dawned.
“We were saving for Dorset,” she said carefully.
“Darling,” Cynthia simpered, “youre like a daughter to me. Id never ask, but…”
“Like a daughter.” The phrase curdled in Margarets ears. Thirty-two years, and only nowwhen she needed something.
“Does Edward know youre asking?”
“Heavens, no! Men fuss so. This is between us girls.”
Margaret exhaled slowly. Images flashed: handing over the money, cancelling the coastal cottage, Cynthia boasting at bridge club about how shed “managed” her daughter-in-law.
“Cynthia,” she said evenly, “how much do you need?”
“Oh, the spas two thousand, but if you could spare half”
“No,” Margaret interrupted. “I meanhow much more must I endure? How many more years before Im family?”
Silence.
“How dare you” Cynthia spluttered, then her tone iced over. “So youll leave an old woman to suffer?”
“Ill leave you to face the consequences of your choices,” Margaret said calmly. “You excluded me. Now you need money, and suddenly Im darling?”
“Ill tell Edward! Hell chooseyoull see!”
“Tell him.” Margarets voice didnt shake. “The truth doesnt scare me anymore. Respect goes both ways.”
She hung up, her hands steady. Shame, fear, prideall swirled together.
That night
