The mother feigned illness to discover which of her children truly loved her. The outcome was unexpected.
When the phone rang at dawn, Emily barely knew if she was in bed or still dreaming. The screen flashed “Mum.” Sleep vanished instantly. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful:
“Still in bed, lazybones? I’ve already got the pies in the oven. Expect an invite tomorrow—you and Charlie. We need to talk. Not about the garden. About the will! Don’t want you two clawing at each other 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 seemed pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret Whitaker, mother of Emily and Charles, sat at the table, adjusting her knitted shawl. Beside her, neighbor Doris watched with concern:
“Margaret, are you ill? Why such grim talk? You’re frightening me…”
“Don’t fret, Doris. I just want to see my children. A year’s gone by. Everyone’s off in their own worlds, like strangers. If something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll tell them? And I want to test them. See how they truly feel.”
With that, Margaret closed the door behind Doris and went to rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.
The morning was grey, as if mirroring her plan. She tidied the house, changed into an old dressing gown, washed her face, and sat in the armchair, holding her breath. An hour later, there was a knock.
Emily burst in first, flushed and anxious.
“Mum! What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?” she cried, rushing to her mother.
Behind her, Charles entered, more reserved.
“You’ve given us a fright, Mum. Already planning your exit? Bit early, isn’t it?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said calmly. “And call your other halves in. Sarah, Tom, don’t linger outside.”
Once seated, she spoke.
“Listen, and don’t interrupt. This needs saying. Old age isn’t a joy, and I live alone. Illness doesn’t knock before it arrives. So I’ve decided—best say it now. But first, chores await. Who’ll help an old woman if not her own? Firewood to chop, lunch to make…”
Emily and Sarah nodded and got to work. Margaret watched closely—dough stuck to fingers, potatoes were unevenly sliced, pans clattered. “City folk—hopeless,” she thought, but held her tongue. That wasn’t the point.
Once the table was set and the meal finished, she asked Tom and Sarah to step outside—leaving just her children.
“Now listen well. The house you grew up in, I’m leaving to Doris. She’s nearby, she’ll help if needed. Charles, you’ll have the shed, the tools, the bits and bobs. Do as you please. And you, Emily, get my savings. Pension money, hardly touched.”
A heavy silence fell.
“The house—to a stranger?” Charles finally said. “You’re serious?”
“Why not? A year without a visit. Doris checks on me daily. And you, Charlie, didn’t invite me to your wedding—ashamed of your country mum? And you, Em, I’ve barely seen since you married that second husband of yours. Remember? When I said he wasn’t right. I was correct…”
“Mum, please…” Emily whispered.
“I’m not well. I’ll rest,” Margaret sighed, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, the arguing began.
“This is your fault!” Charles hissed. “You could’ve visited. Now the house goes to Doris!”
“Oh, sure! I’m the one working dawn till dusk! What do you and Sarah do? She could’ve popped round!”
They shouted over each other. Margaret listened from her chair by the window, tears in her eyes. Where were the children who ran barefoot through the yard? Where was their kindness, their care for one another?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—she sat composed, though her eyes gleamed betrayingly.
“Mum, what—you were unwell…” Charles began.
“Better now,” she said quietly. “Everything’s clear. I’m needed by no one. The will? It’ll come. Later. When you decide—what’s this house for? Love, or division?”
At breakfast, silence reigned. Only the scrape of chairs and clink of spoons. Emily spoke first:
“Forgive us, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit, I promise. We’re family…”
Margaret nodded. A warm quiet settled over the table.
After that, much changed—and nothing. Charles seldom visited but sent money dutifully. Emily dropped by more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. But no one asked about the will again.
And no one knew it already lay in the bottom drawer, signed and stamped. Everything was split evenly. Because Margaret Whitaker still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
