Long ago, in the quiet village of Chipping Norton, an aging woman named Margaret tended her apple orchard just as she had for decades. The crisp morning air carried the scent of ripe fruit when her old mobile phone—one of those clunky button models she stubbornly refused to exchange for newfangled touchscreens—trilled from her apron pocket. On the line was her son, James, his voice strained. “Mum,” he began without preamble, “Emma and I have decided—it’s time to sell the cottage.”
Margaret’s knees buckled. She sank onto the weathered oak bench by the door, clutching the phone as if it might steady her. James pressed on, his words rehearsed and hollow. “You’ll move in with us. No more fuss over heating bills in winter or patching the roof. It’s for the best.”
“But—the garden,” she whispered, staring at the gnarled trees she’d planted as a bride.
James cut her off. “We’ve already listed it. A young couple from Oxford wants to view it Saturday. Pack lightly—I’ll fetch you then.” The line went dead.
Margaret sat frozen. For years, they’d agreed: she’d cover the minor expenses with her modest pension while he handled the rest. Now, with no warning, her life was being boxed up like old china.
——
Emma wrinkled her nose as the smell of Margaret’s mutton stew curled through the modern London flat. “Must you cook such… rustic meals?” She flung open the sash window with a jerk. “We’ve talked about this.”
Margaret stiffened. “It’s what I’ve always made.”
“Yes, well, perhaps try pasta next time. Something presentable.” Emma’s smile was all teeth, like a cat eying a cornered sparrow.
Later, when James announced a buyer had offered the full asking price in pounds, Margaret set down her fork. “That was quick.”
“Priced to sell,” James said, shrugging. “Place needs work.”
“You promised me a share,” Margaret said quietly.
Emma laughed. “It’s in the bank, dear. We’ll—”
“I’ll stay with Beatrice in York,” Margaret interrupted, rising. “She mentioned her clinic needs a receptionist. Even hires pensioners.”
James nearly choked on his takeaway pizza. “Mum, don’t be daft!”
But by dawn, Margaret was gone.
——
Alone in the pristine flat that night, James finally saw it: the glass tables Emma had insisted on, the cold granite counters, the way she’d purged his mother’s floral dresses from the wardrobe. When Emma swept in, giddy over her impending holiday to Majorca—paid for with the cottage funds—something in him snapped.
“Pack your things,” he said. “We’re done.”
Emma scoffed. “You’ll come crawling back.”
He never did.
Years later, villagers still mention the soft-spoken man who visits the new owners of the old cottage, always peering over at the apple trees as if searching for something lost.
