Margaret was tidying up the kitchen towelsfresh ones, with a dainty floral printwhen her phone buzzed. She sighed. Four missed calls from Sarah, her colleague. Probably nothing urgent. She went back to the cupboard, but the phone vibrated again.
“Meg, why arent you answering?” Sarah blurted. “Did you know Cynthias throwing a big do for her anniversary?”
Margaret froze, clutching the towel.
“What anniversary?”
“Her seventy-fifth. Emma rang meshes going with Mark. Says Cynthia sent invites ages ago.”
The towel slipped from Margarets fingers. Thirty-two years married to Edward, and shed never missed a family event. But now, Cynthias milestoneand not a word.
“Maybe it slipped her mind?” Margaret murmured, though she didnt believe it.
“Slipped? Emma says theres a guest list of twenty! Edwards brothers, their wives, even their old neighbour from down the road.”
Margaret sank onto a stool. Memories flooded back: nursing Cynthia after her hip operation, using her holiday days to help her get new hearing aids, babysitting the grandkids when everyone else was swamped.
“Honestly,” Sarah went on, “its probably over that trifle last Christmas. Remember how you got the wrong one?”
“Sarah, the trifles irrelevant. Shes just never truly accepted me.”
The front door clickedEdward was home. Margaret hurriedly ended the call.
Her husband walked in, shaking rain from his hair like a schoolboy. She studied the familiar crinkles around his eyes. Thirty-two years together. And stillan outsider.
“Edward, is your mum having a party this weekend?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.
He paused mid-fridge-raid, back turned.
“Oh, just a small thing.”
“Why didnt you mention it?”
Edward peered into the fridge as if deciphering hieroglyphics.
“Mum wanted it low-key. Just family.”
“Family,” Margaret repeated. “And Im not?”
“Meg, dont start. You know how she is.”
“How she is?” Margarets temper flared. “Ive tolerated how she is for thirty-two years! This isnt quirks, Edwardits cruelty!”
She jabbed a finger at the air.
“I looked after her post-op when you were in Leeds. I cancelled my Cornwall trip for her hearing aids. I minded the grandkids when Lucy jetted off to Spain. Three decades of trying. And this is my thanks?”
Edward rubbed his temples.
“Must you tally every favour? Its not a ledger.”
“Im not tallying!” Her voice cracked. “I just want to belong. Is that so mad?”
Edward sighed and slumped into a chair.
“Youre overreacting. Its just a quiet gathering.”
“Quiet? With twenty guests?” Her throat burned. “Even Mrs. Wilkins from number twelve is invited!”
“How dyou?”
“Does it matter?” She snatched the towel, scrubbing the already spotless counter. “Thirty-two years, Edward! What more must I do?”
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Meg, she still thinks you stole me.”
“Stole you?” She let out a hollow laugh. “You were twenty-six when we met! Not six!”
She recalled her first visit to Cynthias, bringing a Victoria sponge from her grans recipe. Her mother-in-law had sniffed. “We dont hold with shop-bought sponges.”
“All my life,” Margaret said, “Ive bent over backwards. And her reward? Telling everyone I spoiled James? Or that my roast potatoes were unfit for pigs? And youalways Switzerland!”
“What dyou want me to do?” Edward snapped. “Start a row over a party?”
“Not the party! The lifetime of slights youve let slide!”
She turned to the window. Rain streaked the glass, as dull as her mood.
“Meg, stop fussing,” Edward said, clumsily patting her shoulder. “Want me to talk to her?”
“Talk?” She shrugged him off. “If this were the first time, maybe. But this? Its a gut punch.”
The next days passed in a haze. At work, she plastered on a smile. At home, silence. Edwards half-hearted apologies only sharpened the sting.
“Youve no idea how cut up she was over that trifle,” he said over Thursdays shepherds pie. “Thinks you sabotaged it.”
“Sabotaged?” Her fork clattered. “I trekked to three supermarkets for gluten-free! Her idea of helping was criticising the brand!”
Edwards silence was answer enough.
Friday evening, she popped into Jamess room. He was sprawled on the bed, phone-glued.
“Your grans partys tomorrow.”
“Yep,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “Dad mentioned.”
“Youre going?”
James finally looked up.
“Gran asked me. Was I meant to refuse?”
Margaret swallowed her hurt.
“Of course not. Give her my best.”
Saturday dawned, hollow and quiet. Edward and James left laden with flowers and Fortnums hampers. Alone, Margaret wandered past family photosCynthia in each, stiff as a Buckingham guard.
She traced a wedding frameJamess big day five years prior. Shed worn lavender, Edward dapper in navy. The newlyweds beamed. Cynthia looked like shed bitten a lemon.
“Even then,” Margaret whispered to the photo.
She remembered Cynthia hauling Edward aside, announcing loudly, “At least my grandson married a proper girlunlike some.” And Edwards silence.
That night, they returned tipsy and cheerful, smelling of Cynthias Chanel No. 5.
“How was it?” Margaret asked flatly.
“Smashing!” Edward flopped onto the sofa. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen her when” He caught her expression. “Sorry, love. Thoughtless.”
James mumbled goodnights and fled.
“Send my regards,” Edward added lamely.
“Regards?” Her nails dug into her palms. “She remembered I exist?”
“Meg, dont”
“No, you dont!” She exploded. “Stop pretending! Your mothers snubbed meagain! And youre complicit!”
“Im not!” He stood, defensive. “I just hate being piggy-in-the-middle!”
“Then pick a side!”
Edward groaned.
“Youre both blowing this out of proportion!”
“Ah,” she said icily. “My pains just storm in a teacup?”
She marched upstairs, door slamming.
Ten days limped by. Their conversations were frosty, transactional. James left. Life resumed.
Margaret stopped her Sunday check-in calls. Stopped asking after Cynthias bunions. Oddly, guilt gave way to relieflike shedding a rucksack full of bricks.
On the eleventh day, her phone rang. “Cynthia.” She stared at it like a live grenade. Finally, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Margaret, darling,” came Cynthias uncharacteristically honeyed tone. “How are you, pet?”
“Darling.” In thirty-two years, Cynthia had never called her that.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Ive been ever so poorly,” Cynthia wheedled. “After the party, I collapsed. Blood pressures ghastly, hearts all aflutter. The doctor says I need a spa breakBath, perhaps. Edward mentioned youd saved holiday pay?”
Margarets spine iced over. Ah.
“We were saving for Dorset,” she said carefully.
“Pet,” Cynthia cooed, “you know youre like a daughter to me. Id never ask, but needs must”
“A daughter.” Margaret nearly laughed. Three decades, and not once had Cynthia called her that. Until now.
“Does Edward know youre asking?”
“Heavens, no!” Cynthia tittered nervously. “Poor lambs worried sick. This is just us girls.”
Margaret exhaled. Images flashed: handing over savings, scrapping the Dorset trip, Cynthia boasting to her bridge club about “that common gel” bankrolling her break.
“Cynthia,” Margaret said calmly, “how much dyou need?”
“Oh, pet, the package is £500, but even half would”
“No,” Margaret cut in. “I meanhow much more humiliation must I swallow? How many more years proving Im family?”
Silence. Then
“How dare you!” Cynthias voice iced over. “So youll abandon a sick old woman?”
“Im abandoning being your doormat. No invite, but suddenly Im useful?”
“You ungrateful chit! After all Ive done! I gave you my son!”
“Gave?” Margaret barked a laugh. “Edward and I chose each other. Youve spent thirty-two years pretending otherwise.”
“Ill tell Edward! Hell chooseyoull see!”
