Margaret was arranging the freshly washed tea towelsnew ones, with a subtle rose patternwhen her phone buzzed. She sighed: three missed calls from Claire, her colleague. Probably nothing urgent. She turned back to the cupboard, but the phone vibrated again.
“Meg, why arent you answering?” Claires voice was breathless. “Did you know Edith is throwing a party this weekend? A proper doseventy-fifth birthday, the works.”
Margarets hands stilled, the towel clenched between her fingers.
“What party?”
“Invitations went out weeks ago. Sarah told meshes going with Dave. Says half the streets invited, even the old chap from number twelve.”
The towel slipped from Margarets grip. Thirty years married to Robert, and shed never missed a family gathering. But thisnothing.
“Perhaps it was an oversight?” she murmured, though the words tasted hollow.
“Oversight?” Claire scoffed. “Sarah says theres a seating plan. Roberts brothers and their wives, even that retired schoolteacher Edith barely tolerates.”
Margaret sank onto a stool. Images flashed through her mind: nursing Edith through pneumonia, cancelling their Cornwall trip so her mother-in-law could have that new hearing aid, looking after the grandchildren when no one else could.
“Look,” Claire pressed, “this is about that trifle last Christmas, isnt it? The one with the wrong custard?”
“Claire, the trifle was fine. Shes simply never thought of me as family.”
The front door thudded shutRobert was home. Margaret ended the call.
He strode into the kitchen, shaking rain from his coat like a spaniel. She studied the lines around his eyes, the familiar slope of his shoulders. Thirty years. And stillan afterthought.
“Robert, is your mother having a party this weekend?” Her voice was steady, just.
He paused mid-step, back turned.
“Just a small thing. Close family only.”
“Close family,” Margaret echoed. “And I dont qualify?”
Robert yanked the fridge open, staring inside as if it held answers.
“Meg, dont start. You know how Mum is.”
“How she is?” A heat rose in Margarets chest. “Thirty years of biting my tongue, Robert. Thats not how she isthats cruelty.”
“I nursed her when you were in Leeds for work. I gave up my holiday so she could hear properly again. Ive picked up the grandchildren every time Helen swanned off to her book club. Thirty years of trying, Robert. And this is my thanks?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Must you tally every favour? Its not a ledger.”
“Im not counting!” Her voice cracked. “I just want to belong. Is that so bloody difficult?”
Robert exhaled sharply and slumped into a chair.
“Youre blowing this out of proportion. Mum wanted it quiet.”
“Quiet? With twenty guests?” The words scraped her throat raw. “Even Mrs. bloody Pritchard from down the road got an invite!”
“How did you?”
“Does it matter?” She snatched up a tea towel, scrubbing at the spotless counter. “Thirty years, Robert! What more must I do?”
He reached for her hand. She jerked away.
“Meg, you know she still thinks you stole me from her.”
“Stole you?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “You were twenty-eight! Not some schoolboy!”
She remembered her first visit to Ediths house, baking a Victoria sponge from her nans recipe. Her mother-in-law had taken one bite and sniffed, “We dont use that sort of jam.”
“All my life,” Margaret whispered, “Ive bent over backwards. And whats she done? Told the WI I spoiled James rotten. Told my parents I couldnt keep house. And youyouve just stood there, mute as a post!”
“What would you have me do?” Robert snapped. “Pick a fight over a bloody party?”
“Not the party!” Margarets fists clenched. “The decades of pretending I dont exist! The way youve let her treat me!”
She turned to the window. Rain streaked the glass, grey and endless.
“Meg, stop being dramatic.” Robert draped an arm over her shoulders. “Shall I talk to her? Mightve been a mix-up.”
“A mix-up?” She shrugged him off. “No, Robert. That wouldve been a mistake the first time. This? This is contempt.”
The next days passed in a daze. At the office, she plastered on smiles. At home, silence. Robert tried to mend things, but every word gouged deeper.
“Youve no idea how upset she was about that trifle,” he muttered over shepherds pie. “Thinks you did it deliberately.”
“Deliberately?” Her fork clattered onto the plate. “I drove to three supermarkets to find lactose-free custard!”
“But you know she only likes Birds, and you got Ambrosia.”
“Because theyd sold out!” Her vision blurred. “You truly think Id sabotage Christmas pudding?”
Robert said nothing. That silence cut sharper than any blade.
On Friday evening, Margaret hovered in Jamess doorway. Her son lounged on the bed, eyes glued to his phone.
“Your grandmothers birthdays tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “Dad mentioned.”
“Youre going?”
James finally met her gaze.
“She asked me. What, should I say no?”
Margaret nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Even her son didnt see it.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Give her my love.”
Saturday dawned, hollow and still. Robert and James left early, arms laden with Fortnums hampers. Margaret drifted through the empty house. Every framed photo taunted herEdith always slightly apart, lips pursed.
Her fingertip traced a gilt frame. Jamess wedding, five years past. Shed worn lilac silk, Robert in his navy suit, the bride radiant. Edith had looked like shed bitten a lemon.
“Even then,” Margaret whispered to the photograph. “Even on her grandsons wedding day.”
She remembered how Edith had pulled James aside, loud enough for the entire marquee to hear: “At least hes married properly, unlike some I could name.” And Robertsilent as ever.
That night, they returned, tipsy and buoyant, reeking of Ediths Chanel No. 5.
“How was it?” Margaret kept her tone light.
“Smashing!” Robert collapsed into his armchair. “Mum was chuffed. You shouldve seen her when we”
He broke off, catching her expression.
“Sorry, Meg. Thoughtless of me.”
James scuffed his shoes in the hall.
“Gonna turn in,” he mumbled, vanishing upstairs.
“Send your mother my regards,” Robert added awkwardly.
“Regards?” Margarets stomach twisted. “She remembers Im alive?”
“Meg, dont”
“No, you dont!” The dam burst. “Stop pretending this is normal! Your mothers slighted me again, and you justcarry on!”
“I care!” Robert surged to his feet. “But I wont be piggy in the middle! You two”
“We two what?” Margarets voice was steel. “Finish that sentence.”
He dragged a hand down his face.
“You both blow things out of proportion. Its a storm in a teacup.”
“Ah.” Her smile was razor-thin. “My pains just a storm in a teacup?”
She turned on her heel and slammed the bedroom door.
Ten days crawled by.
Margaret and Robert spoke in clipped sentences. James left. The house settled into frosty routine.
Margaret stopped her Sunday calls to Edith. Stopped asking after her health. And instead of guilt, an odd relief spread through herlike shrugging off a leaden coat shed worn for decades.
On the eleventh day, her phone rang. “Edith Whitmore” glared from the screen. Margarets breath hitched. The phone trilled, relentless. Finally, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Margaret, darling.” Ediths tone was syrup-sweet. “How are you, pet?”
Margarets nails bit her palm. “Pet.” In thirty years, Edith had never called her that.
“Hello, Edith. Im well, thank you.”
“Ive been poorly,” Edith wheedled. “Since the party, my hearts been frightful. Blood pressures through the roof. Doctor says I need a spa retreatsomewhere proper. Robert mentioned youd saved leave?”
Ice slid down Margarets spine. Now she understood.
“We were planning a weekend in the Cotswolds,” she said carefully.
“Sweetheart,” Edith cooed, “you know youre like a daughter to me. Id never ask, but needs must…”
“Like a daughter.” The words echoed in Margarets skull. Thirty years, and never once had Edith claimed her. Until now.
“Does Robert
