Margaret was folding the freshly laundered tea towelsnew ones, with a delicate rose patternwhen her phone buzzed. She sighed: three missed calls from Sarah, her colleague from the office. It was likely nothing urgent. Margaret turned back to the cupboard, but the phone vibrated again.
“Meg, why arent you picking up?” Sarah blurted. “Did you know Cynthia is having her anniversary party this weekend?”
Margaret froze, the towel clenched in her hand.
“What anniversary?”
“Shes turning seventy-five. Emma rang meshes invited with her husband. Says Cynthia sent out invites weeks ago.”
The towel slipped from Margarets fingers. Thirty years married to David, and shed never missed a family gathering. Yet now, Cynthias milestone celebrationand not a word.
“Maybe it slipped her mind?” Margaret murmured, though she didnt believe it.
“Slipped her mind? Emma said theres a seating plan for twenty. Everyones invitedDavids brothers, their wives, even the old neighbours from down the lane.”
Margaret sank onto a stool. Memories flooded back: nursing Cynthia after her hip surgery, sacrificing her own holiday so her mother-in-law could get new hearing aids, minding the grandchildren when no one else could.
“Honestly,” Sarah went on, “its probably over that trifle at Christmas. Remember how you brought the wrong sort?”
“Sarah, the trifle has nothing to do with it. Shes never truly accepted me.”
The front door clickedDavid was home. Margaret hurriedly ended the call.
Her husband walked in, shaking rain from his coat like a schoolboy. She studied the lines around his eyes, the familiar set of his jaw. Thirty years together. And stillan outsider.
“David, is your mother having a party this Saturday?” she asked, steadying her voice.
He hesitated by the fridge, back turned.
“Just a small thing. Family only.”
“Family only,” Margaret repeated. “And Im not family?”
“Meg, dont start. You know how Mum is. Set in her ways.”
“Set in her ways?” Heat rose in her chest. “Ive endured her ways for thirty years! This isnt just quirks, David. This is”
She flailed for the word, finally waving a hand in frustration.
“I looked after her when you were in Edinburgh for work. I gave up my time off so she could get those hearing aids. I babysat when Lucy went to Barcelona. Thirty years of trying. And this is my thanks?”
David pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Must we keep score? Whos owed what?”
“Im not keeping score!” Her voice cracked. “I just want to belong. Is that too much?”
He exhaled and dropped into a chair.
“Youre overreacting. Mum wanted it quiet.”
“Quiet? With twenty guests?” The words scraped her throat. “Even the neighbours invited!”
“How did you?”
“Does it matter?” She snatched up a tea towel, scrubbing the spotless counter. “Thirty years, David! What more must I do?”
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Meg, you know she still thinks you stole me from her.”
“Stole you?” She laughed bitterly. “You were twenty-eight when we met!”
She remembered her first visit to Cynthias house, baking a Victoria sponge from her grans recipe. Her mother-in-law had pursed her lips. “We dont do sweets like that here.”
“All my life,” Margaret continued, “Ive bent over backwards. And for what? Remember when she told everyone I was spoiling James? Or when she mocked my parents cottage? And youyou never said a word!”
“What would you have me do?” Davids tone sharpened. “Pick a fight over a party?”
“Not the party! The way she treats me! That after thirty years, Im still an outsiderand you let it happen!”
She turned to the window. Rain streaked the glass, grey and unrelenting.
“Meg, stop being dramatic,” David said, draping an arm over her shoulders. “Shall I talk to her? Maybe its a mistake.”
“A mistake?” She shrugged free. “No. A mistake happens once. This is a pattern.”
The days blurred. At work, Margaret forced smiles. At home, silence hung thick. David tried to mend things, but each attempt only deepened the wound.
“Youve no idea how upset she was over that trifle,” he said over supper on Thursday. “Mum thinks you chose the wrong one deliberately.”
“Deliberately?” Her fork clinked against the plate. “I went to three shops to find sugar-free because of her diabetes!”
“But you know she only likes custard, not cream.”
“Because theyd sold out!” Her eyes stung. “Do you truly think Id waste half a day to slight her?”
David fell silent, and that silence cut deeper than words.
On Friday evening, Margaret knocked on her sons door. James was home for the weekend, glued to his phone.
“Your grandmothers party is tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “Dad mentioned.”
“Youre going?”
James finally glanced at her.
“Gran asked me. Should I say no?”
Margaret swallowed her disappointment. Even her son didnt see the slight.
“Of course,” she said softly. “Give her my love.”
Saturday dawned, the house hollow without them. David and James left early, arms laden with gifts. Margaret drifted through the rooms. In every photo, Cynthia stood slightly apart, lips pursed.
Her finger traced a framea family portrait from Jamess graduation. Shed worn lilac, David in his navy blazer, their son beaming. Cynthia looked as though shed bitten into a lemon.
“Even then,” Margaret whispered to the photo. “Even on his big day.”
She recalled her mother-in-law pulling James aside, loud enough for all to hear: “At least my grandson has standards, unlike some.” And Davids silence.
That night, they returned, tipsy and cheerful, smelling of Cynthias signature lavender perfume.
“How was it?” Margaret kept her tone light.
“Brilliant!” David collapsed into an armchair. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen her when”
He stopped, catching her expression.
“Sorry, love. Thoughtless of me.”
James shuffled awkwardly.
“Off to bed,” he mumbled, vanishing upstairs.
“Send your mother my regards,” Margaret said.
“Regards?” David frowned. “Thats a bit cold.”
“Colder than excluding me?” Her insides twisted.
“Meg, dont”
“No, you dont!” She snapped. “Stop pretending this is fine. Your mother slighted me. Again. And youre complicit.”
“Im caught in the middle!” He stood abruptly. “Youre both”
“Both what?” She stepped closer. “Say it.”
He rubbed his temples.
“Both blowing this out of proportion.”
“Ah.” She smiled bitterly. “So my pain is just dramatics?”
She turned on her heel, the bedroom door slamming behind her.
Ten days passed. Terse conversations. James left. Life resumed.
Margaret stopped her Sunday calls to Cynthia. Stopped asking after her health. And oddly, instead of guilt, relief settled over herlike shrugging off a heavy coat worn too long.
On the eleventh day, Cynthias name flashed on her phone. Margaret stared at the screen, torn. Finally, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Margaret, darling,” Cynthias voice was uncharacteristically sweet. “How are you, dear?”
“Darling.” In thirty years, Cynthia had never called her that.
“Im well, thank you.”
“Ive been ever so poorly,” Cynthia sighed. “Since the party, my arthritis has flared. The doctor says I need a spa retreat to recover. David mentioned youd saved leave?”
Ice slithered down Margarets spine. Now she understood.
“We were planning a trip to Cornwall,” she said carefully.
“Dearest,” Cynthia cooed, “you know how fond I am of you. Like a daughter, really. Id never ask, but”
“Like a daughter.” Thirty years, and only nowthis.
“Does David know youre asking?”
“Oh, dont trouble him!” Cynthias voice tightened. “He fusses so. This is between us women.”
Margaret said nothing, images flashing: handing over money, cancelling their seaside plans, Cynthia boasting to her bridge club about outmanoeuvring “that common girl.”
“Cynthia,” Margarets voice was calm, “how much do you need?”
“Oh, the retreat is £2,000, but even half”
“No,” Margaret interrupted. “I meanhow much more must I endure? How many more years of proving Im worthy?”
Silence.
“How dare” Cynthia sputtered, then her tone iced over. “So youd refuse a sick old woman?”
“I refuse to be used. You excluded me
