Early in the morning, when the phone rang, Emily could barely tell if she was still in bed or lost in a dream. The screen flashed “Mum.” Sleep vanished instantly. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful:
“Still lazing about, sleepyhead? I’ve already got pies in the oven. Expect an invite tomorrow—you and Jack. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About my will! Don’t want you two tearing each other apart over the house and pennies at my funeral. Both of you, no excuses!”
Emily froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing felt pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret Harris, mother to Emily and Jack, sat at the table, adjusting her knitted shawl. Next to her, her neighbor Shirley watched with worry in her eyes:
“Margaret, are you ill? Why such grim talk? You’re scaring me…”
“Don’t fret, Shirley. I just want to see my children. It’s been a year. They’ve gone their own ways, like strangers. If something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll explain everything? And I want to test them. See how they really feel about me.”
With that, Margaret saw Shirley out, then went to rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.
The morning was grey, as if matching her plan. She tidied the house, changed into an old dressing gown, washed up, and sat in her armchair, holding her breath. An hour later, there was a knock.
Emily rushed in first—flushed, breathless.
“Mum! What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?” she cried, throwing herself at her mother.
Behind her, Jack entered, calmer.
“You gave us a fright, Mum. Planning to check out early, are you?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said evenly. “And call your partners in. Claire, James, don’t hover—come in.”
Once settled, she spoke.
“Listen, don’t interrupt. I need to say this. Old age isn’t a joy, and I live alone. Illness doesn’t wait for permission. So I’ve decided to speak while I can. But first—help around the house. If not family, who’ll look after an old woman? Chop wood, make dinner…”
Emily and Claire nodded and got to work. Margaret watched closely: dough stuck to fingers, potatoes were cut too thick, pans clattered. “Hopeless city folk,” she thought bitterly, but kept quiet. That wasn’t the point.
After the meal, she asked James and Claire to step out—leaving just her children.
“Now listen carefully. The house you grew up in—I’m leaving it to Shirley. She’s nearby, she’ll help if needed. Jack, you’ll get the shed, tools, whatever’s left of the farm. Do what you like with it. Emily, you’ll have my savings. I’ve pinched pennies for years, barely spent a thing.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“The house—to a stranger?” Jack finally said. “You’re serious?”
“Why not? You haven’t visited in a year. Shirley drops by every day. And you, Jack—didn’t invite me to your wedding, ashamed of your country mum? Emily, I’ve barely seen you since you married James the second time. Remember how cross you were when I said he wasn’t right for you? I was right…”
“Mum, please…” Emily whispered.
“I’m not well. I’ll lie down,” Margaret sighed, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, voices rose.
“This is your fault!” Jack hissed. “You could’ve visited Mum. Now Shirley gets the house!”
“Oh, sure! I’m the one working all hours! What’ve you and Claire been doing? She’s home all day—could’ve checked on Mum!”
They shouted, interrupted each other. Margaret sat in her chair, staring out the window, tears welling. Where were the children who’d run barefoot through the yard? Where was their kindness, their care for each other?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—she sat upright, composed, though her eyes betrayed her.
“Mum, what—? You were ill…” Jack started.
“Better now,” she said flatly. “Things are clear. I’m not needed. The will? It’ll wait. Until you decide—why you want this house: to love or to divide?”
Breakfast was silent. Just the scrape of chairs, clink of spoons. Emily finally spoke:
“We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit, I promise. We’re family…”
Margaret nodded. Warm quiet settled over the table.
After that, much changed—and nothing. Jack rarely came but sent money. Emily visited more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. But no one asked about the will again.
No one knew it already lay signed and stamped in the bottom drawer. Everything split evenly. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
