**A Mother’s Test**
When the phone rang early in the morning, Emma barely knew whether she was in bed or still dreaming. The screen flashed “Mum.” Sleep vanished instantly. Her mother’s voice was bright, even cheerful:
“Still asleep, lazybones? I’ve already got pies in the oven. Expect an invitation tomorrow—you and Jack. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About my will! I won’t have you squabbling at my funeral over the house and pennies. Both of you—no excuses!”
Emma froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing felt pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret Davies, Emma and Jack’s mother, sat at the kitchen table, adjusting her woolly shawl. Her neighbour, Shirley, watched with concern:
“Margaret, love, 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’re like strangers now. If something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll tell them what’s what? And I want to test them—see who truly cares.”
With that, Margaret saw Shirley out, then went to rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.
The morning was grey, as if mirroring her plan. She tidied the house, slipped into an old dressing gown, washed her face, and sat tensely in her armchair. An hour later, footsteps echoed at the door.
Emma rushed in first, flushed and frantic.
“Mum! What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?” she cried, darting to her mother’s side.
Jack followed, more measured.
“You gave us a proper scare, Mum. Planning your exit already? Bit early, isn’t it?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said calmly. “And bring your partners in. Sarah, Tom—don’t hover. Come in.”
Once seated, she began.
“Listen, and don’t interrupt. I’ve things to say. Old age isn’t a picnic, and I’m alone. Illness doesn’t send warnings. So I’ll speak while I can. But first—help around the house. If not family, who’ll care for an old woman? Firewood to chop, meals to cook…”
Emma and Sarah nodded and got to work. Margaret watched closely: dough stuck to their fingers, potatoes were unevenly cut, pots clattered. “City folk, hopeless,” she thought sadly but held her tongue. That wasn’t the point.
After supper, she asked Tom and Sarah to step outside—leaving just her children.
“Now, listen carefully. The house you grew up in? I’m leaving it to Shirley. She’s close, she’ll help if needed. Jack, you’ll get the shed and tools—do as you like. Emma, my savings. I’ve skimped on pension pennies for years.”
A heavy silence fell.
“The house—to Shirley?” Jack finally spat. “You’re joking.”
“And why not? You didn’t visit in a year. Shirley drops by daily. Jack, you didn’t invite me to your wedding—ashamed of your country mum? And Emma, I’ve barely seen you since you married Tom. You were cross when I said he wasn’t right. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Mum, don’t…” Emma whispered.
“I’m not well. I’ll lie down,” Margaret sighed, shutting her bedroom door.
Outside, whispers turned to barbs.
“This is your fault!” Jack hissed. “You could’ve visited. Now Shirley gets the house!”
“Oh, brilliant! I work all hours! What’s Sarah doing? She could’ve checked on Mum!”
They shouted over each other. Inside, Margaret sat by the window, tears in her eyes. Where were the children who’d run barefoot through the garden? Where was their kindness?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—just seated, composed, though her eyes glistened.
“Mum? You were ill—” Jack started.
“Better now,” she muttered. “Things are clear. I’m not needed. My will? It’ll wait. Until you decide—do you want this house for love, or greed?”
Breakfast the next morning passed in silence, just clinking cutlery. Finally, Emma spoke:
“We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit. We’re family.”
Margaret nodded. Warm quiet settled over the table.
After that, some things changed—others didn’t. Jack visited rarely but sent money. Emma came more often—soup, jam, help in the garden. No one asked about the will again.
And no one knew it already lay signed in her dresser’s bottom drawer. Everything split evenly. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
