That day, a woman showed up at my door whom I hadnt seen in five years. Margaret Whitmore. Back in Willowbrook, folks called her “the Generals Wife” behind her backnot because she was married to a soldier, but because of her bearingthat sharp, piercing gaze sharper than a surgeons scalpel, and a pride you couldve used to fence off the entire village three times over. She always walked with her spine straight, chin up, as if she wasnt trudging through our muddy lanes but gliding across some grand ballroom floor. She never bothered with idle chatterjust a nod over the shoulder, and that was that.
And yet there she stood on the doorstep of my little clinic, looking utterly undone. Her spine was still rigid from sheer habit, but her eyes held a hunted sort of misery. Shed yanked her floral headscarf down to her eyebrows, as if trying to hide. She fidgeted, unable to cross the threshold.
“Come in, Mrs. Whitmore,” I said gently. “No use letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for aspirin.”
She stepped inside, perching on the stool by the stove, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her handsalways so well-keptwere dry now, cracked, fingers trembling ever so slightly. Silent. I didnt push. Poured her some of my tea, mint and lime blossom, set it before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm your soul.”
She took the cup, and her eyes glistened. No tears fellpride wouldnt allow itbut they pooled there like water in a well.
“Im all alone, Eleanor,” she finally whispered, her voice frayed and strange. “Cant bear it. Twisted my wrist the other daynot broken, thank Godbut the wretched thing aches. Cant fetch wood, cant carry water. And my backs so stiff I cant breathe.”
The complaints spilled out, muddy and bitter as a spring brook. I listened, nodding, but what I really saw wasnt her current miseryit was what happened five years ago. I remembered the laughter in her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, Thomas, a handsome lad and a hard worker, had brought home a bride. Emily.
A quiet angel, that girl. Thomas had fetched her from the city. Clear, trusting eyes. Honey-blonde hair in a thick braid. Hands delicate but capable. Anyone could see why Thomas fancied her. Why Margaret didntwell, that stumped the whole village.
But she didnt, full stop. From day one, Margaret gnawed at her like a starved dog. Sat wrong, looked wrong. Her stew wasnt red enough, her floors not quite spotless. Made compote? “Wasting sugar, reckless girl.” Weeded the garden? “Pulled up all the nettles for soup, clumsy thing.
Thomas defended her at first, then wilted. A proper mummys boy, he was, always under her wing. Tossed between them like a leaf in the wind. Emily never said a word. Just grew thinner, paler. I met her at the well once, eyes brimming.
“Why put up with it, love?” I asked.
She gave me a sad little smile. “Where else would I go, Auntie Nora? I love him. Maybe shell get used to me take pity.”
She didnt. The last straw was an heirloom embroidered tableclothMargarets mothers work. Emily washed it carelessly, the pattern faded a tad. Oh, the screeching that followed You couldve heard it down the lane.
That night, Emily left. No fuss, just gone. Thomas tore through the village at dawn, searching, then came home, dry-eyed and grim.
“You did this, Mum,” was all he said. “Killed my happiness.”
Then he left too. Gossip said he found Emily in the city, married her, had a daughter. Never came back. Not a word. Like a door slammed shut.
At first, Margaret put on airs. “Good riddance,” shed sniff to the neighbours. “Useless daughter-in-law, and a son who trades his mother for a skirt.” But she aged overnight, shrank into herself. Alone in her spotless house, sterile as an operating room. Now here she sat before me, all that generalship peeled away like onion skin. Just an old, sick, lonely woman.
Boomerangs dont fly out of spitethey just circle back to where they started.
“Nobody wants me, Eleanor,” she whispered, a single tear escaping. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont say such things, Mrs. Whitmore,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not quitting. Lets get you a jab for that back.”
I gave her the shot, rubbed her spine with smelly ointment. She straightened a little.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” she murmured. “Didnt think kindness still existed.”
She left, but my heart stayed heavy. I can mend bones, but some sicknesseslike lonelinesshave no pill or needle. The only cure is another soul.
For days, I stewed. Then I dug up Thomass number through friends in town. My hands shook dialling. What would I say?
“Thomas, hello. Its Auntie Nora from Willowbrook. Got a minute?”
Silence. I nearly hung up.
“Hello, Auntie Nora,” he finally said, voice deeper now, rougher. “Something wrong?”
“Your mums fading, lad. Ill, but wont admit it. Too proud…”
More silence. Then Emilys voice, soft but firm: “Let me.”
“Hello, Auntie Nora! How bad is she?”
I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Emily listened quietly.
“Thank you for calling,” she said firmly. “Well come. Saturday. Dont tell herlet it be a surprise.”
Imagine that. Chased from her home, insulted, yet not an ounce of spite in her. Just mercy. Stronger than pride, that is.
Saturday dawned grey and damp. I popped by Margarets to check her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring blankly. House immaculate, but lifelesscold as a tomb.
“Waiting for the mobile shop?” I teased.
“Whod I wait for?” she scoffed. “Death, maybe.”
But her eyes kept flicking to the road. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.
I left, watching the clock. After lunch, tyres crunched on her gravel. Not the shopa proper car. Peeking out, my heart leapt.
Thomas stepped out, broader now. Opened the back doorout came Emily, gripping a little girl in a pink marshmallow coat.
Thomas hesitated, jaw tight. Emily squeezed his arm, whispered something. They walked to the gate. The hinge squeakedlike rusty time itself creaking forward.
I didnt see inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from Margarets chimney. Thick, hearty. By evening, golden light glowed in the windowwarm, alive. I cried smiling.
Next day, I “checked her blood pressure” again. The house smelled of cabbage pies and something indefinably childlike. Thomas chopped wood outside, axe ringing in the frost. Emily bustled in the kitchen; by the stove, their daughter Lily played with a kitten.
Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl. Not watchingstudying. Emilys deft hands, Lilys serious little face, Thomass broad back through the window. Her expression like someone had peeled off a mask, leaving just a tired, lined, living face.
She saw me and smilednot with her lips, but her eyes.
“Come in, Eleanor. Emilys baked pies.”
Emily turned, beaming. “Sit down, Auntie Nora. Teas ready.”
And there we were. No awkwardness, no old grudges. Just warmth, pastry smells, and Lilys giggles. Thomas sat beside his mother, laid his big hand over her frail one. She didnt pull away. Just trembled, and stayed.
They stayed a week. The house woke upwood chopped, cellar sorted, cracks mended. Leaving day, Margaret hobbled to the doorstep. Lily hugged her knees.
“Granny, will you visit us?”
Margaret broke. Bent down, clutched the girl, crying softly as autumn rain.
“Forgive me silly old woman…”
Emily hugged them both. “Well come back, Mum. Promise.”
And thatthats the best medicine there is.
