The mother pretended to be ill to see which of her children truly loved her. The outcome was unexpected.
When the phone rang early in the morning, Evelyn could hardly tell if she was in bed or still dreaming. The screen flashed the name—*Mum*. At once, sleep vanished. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful:
“Still lazing about, are you? I’ve already got pies in the oven. Expect an invitation tomorrow—you and Nigel both. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. My *will*! I won’t have you squabbling over the house and pennies at my funeral. Both of you—no excuses!”
Evelyn froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing seemed pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret Thompson, mother to Evelyn and Nigel, sat at the table adjusting her knitted shawl. Beside her, their neighbor Doris wore anxious eyes.
“Margaret, love, are you poorly? Why such grim talk? You’re frightening me…”
“Don’t fret, Doris dear. I just want to see my children. A year’s gone by without a visit—each wrapped up in their own lives, like strangers. If something happens to me tomorrow, who will tell them what’s what? And I’d like to test them. See who really cares.”
With that, Margaret closed the door behind Doris and settled in to rest. Tomorrow would be a telling day.
The morning dawned grey, as if in tune with her plan. She tidied the house, changed into an old dressing gown, washed her face, and sat in the armchair, waiting. An hour passed before a knock came.
Evelyn burst in first, flushed and breathless.
“Mum! What’s happened? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?” she cried, rushing forward.
Nigel entered after, more subdued.
“You gave us a scare, Mother. Planning to leave us already? Seems a bit soon, doesn’t it?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said evenly. “And bring your spouses in. Charlotte, David—join us, don’t linger in the doorway.”
When all had settled, she continued.
“No interruptions—just listen. Old age isn’t kind, and I live alone. Illness doesn’t give notice. Speak now, while I can. But first, a bit of help around the house. If not family, who else? Firewood needs splitting, meals need cooking…”
Evelyn and Charlotte nodded and set to work. Margaret watched closely: dough stuck to fingers, potatoes were sliced too thick, pots clattered. *City folk, clueless as ever*, she thought sadly, but said nothing. That wasn’t the point.
Once the table was set and supper finished, she asked David and Charlotte to step out—leaving just the children.
“Now, listen carefully. The house you grew up in—I’m leaving it to Doris. She’s here, she helps. Nigel, you’ll have the shed, the tools, the livestock. Do as you please. And Evelyn, you’ll have my savings. My pension’s been set aside, barely touched.”
A heavy silence fell.
“The house—to Doris?” Nigel finally said. “Are you serious?”
“Why not? A year without a visit from either of you. Doris checks in daily. And Nigel—was I not good enough for your wedding? Too common for your London friends? Evelyn, when did I last see you? Not since you married David—and even then, you barely spoke after I said he wasn’t right for you. But I was correct, wasn’t I?”
“Mum, please…” Evelyn whispered.
“I’m unwell. I’ll rest,” Margaret sighed, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, voices rose.
“This is *your* fault!” Nigel hissed. “You could’ve visited! Now the house goes to Doris!”
“Oh, that’s rich! I work all hours—what’s *your* excuse? Charlotte stays home—she could’ve come!”
They shouted over each other. Margaret sat in her chair by the window, tears gathering. Where were the children who’d once run barefoot through the garden? Where was their kindness, their care for each other?
When they returned, she was no longer lying down—upright, composed, though her eyes betrayed her.
“Mum, you should be resting—” Nigel began.
“Better now,” she said quietly. “I see clearly. I’m needed by no one. The will? It will wait. Until you decide—do you want this house for love, or for greed?”
Breakfast passed in silence. Only the scrape of chairs, the clink of spoons. At last, Evelyn spoke.
“We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit, I promise. We’re still family…”
Margaret nodded. A warm hush settled over the table.
From then on, some things changed—and others didn’t. Nigel seldom visited, though money arrived without fail. Evelyn came more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. But no one asked about the will again.
No one knew it had long lain in the bottom drawer, signed and stamped. Everything was split evenly.
Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
