It was late autumn then, the sort with endless grey rain rattling against the windows for days on end. That steady drum, I think, wove itself into the memory of what happened. The tale concerns my neighboursor rather, the lady next door, Margaret Foster. She was in her early fifties and worked as a cashier in the 24-hour corner shop, trudging off to her night shifts when the rest of our town was still sound asleep. Her husband, Edward Foster, was an engineer over at the biscuit factory, a solid enough fellow but very much a man who liked his days to follow straight, well-worn tracks. All would have meandered on much the same if calamity hadnt stroked his mother, Mrs Edna Foster.
Edna was about eighty-five and lived alone in a village out on the moors. She suffered a minor stroke, just enough to make plain she could no longer manage on her own. Edward didnt hesitate. He decided his mother had to come live with them. His sister, PatriciaPattywho also resided in town, only heaved a sigh of relief: Thank goodness, Eddie, youre taking her. Theres barely any space in my flat and Jack wouldnt go for it.
And so Mrs Edna Foster joined their household. That was when Margarets old life ended.
All the care for Edna landed on her shoulders. After a whole night behind the till, Margaret would come home, but instead of a bed and rest, she would set about feeding and washing her mother-in-law, changing soiled sheets, wheeling her through the chilly autumn air. Edward would return from work, peer round the door and ask, Hows Mum?then disappear to his armchair and the telly.
I saw her early one morning, shuffling from a shift. Her face was ashen, great bruises beneath her eyes. She hovered along, barely lifting her feet. One day I helped her carry bags of groceries and packets of incontinence pads up the steps.
Thank you, Mr. Harris, she muttered, her voice flat and empty.
Margaret, you look torn to bits. You need a bit of help yourself.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh.
Whod give it? Everyones busy, you know. Edwards knackered from work. Patty, she only pops round on birthdays and Christmas, to share advice and point out the things I do wrong.
Margaret tried reasoning with Edward in her gentle, sensible way.
Ed, I cant do this any more. Im shattered. Lets hire a carer, even for a few hours each day. Or maybe consider a nice care home. Theyd know what to do, and shed be looked after properly.
The backlash was immediate and fierce. Edward looked at her as though shed suggested tossing his mother out onto the street.
Have you lost your marbles? Send my own mum off to a home? Dont ever speak of it again! Shes family.
It wasnt devotion in his voice, but fearfear of what people, especially his sister Patty, would say.
Of course, Patty got wind of the conversation and stormed round that very evening. Not to help, but to lecture.
Margaret, arent you ashamed? The very thought! Putting Mum in a home. Wed never forgive you, the whole family. Youre just selfish, care more for your own comfort.
Margaret listened without answering, eyes fixed on the table. What could she say to someone who only visited twice a month, gave a peck on the cheek, and left with Oh, you poor, long-suffering thing?
So Margaret kept going. Nights at the shop, days spent in an endless grind, both body and soul worn thin. Edward seemed blind to her exhaustion, seeing only that his mother was cared for and supposing that was the natural order of thingsa wifes lot.
It all came to a head one bleak day. Margaret was alone, struggling to shift Mrs Foster from bed to chair, when pain stabbed deep and sudden through her back. She didnt so much collapse as melt clumsily to the floor beside her mother-in-laws bed. Edna gazed down at her blankly, uncomprehending.
Edward came home to chaos and confusion. He had no idea how to change a pad, mash porridge, or dole out medicine. His tidy world crumbled, laying bare all his helplessness.
At surgery, the doctor gave a stern verdict: Margarets back was outabsolute rest, strictly in bed, no lifting, no strainnot for at least a fortnight.
But my mother-in-law needs me at home, Margaret whispered.
If you dont rest up now, the doctor said briskly, next stop is surgery. And after thattheres a real risk youll end up crippled.
Back at home, bedlam. Edward, white-faced, floundered through the flat. Filth, confusion, powerlessness. He rang his sister.
Patty, its a disaster! Margarets laid up! Youll have to take Mum for a bit!
She made awkward noises down the line.
Eddie, you know I cant. The flats too small, Jack And I wouldnt know where to begin. Youll manage, Im sure of it.
Edward put down the phone, sat in the darkened hallway, head in his hands. For the first time, he saw the trouble not as a vague problem, but as a true, physical mess at the heart of which lay his injured wife and frail mother.
Margaret lay in her room, pain sharp, but her mind finally clear. She heard the clumsy bustle beyond the door, Edwards uncertain steps, Mrs Fosters gentle muttering. When Edward slipped in with a mug of broth, haggard from just two days, she looked at him calmly. Her gaze held no reproach, only final, unequivocal resolution.
Edward, she said quietly, evenly. I will not be looking after your mother any longer. Not tomorrow, not in a fortnight. Never again.
He opened his mouth, but she lifted her hand to quiet him.
Hear me out. There are two ways things can go. Onewe work together and pay for a proper solution. Either a good live-in carer, or the best care home we can find. Well research, visit, make a decisiontogether.
And the other? he croaked.
The otherI file for divorce. I move out. Youre here alone, with your mother and your ever-sympathetic sister. The choice is yours.
She leaned back, eyes closed. There was nothing else to add.
Edward left the room and sat for a long time in the shadowy kitchen, thinking. He remembered these last months: his wifes drawn, desperate face; her unspoken despair; his own dread and his sisters glib excuses. He paced back and forth through their confined sphere of chaos, what had become of his ordered world. And in the end, he made a choicenot simply between mother and wife, but between the pretense of respectability and a real rescue for all three of them.
The next morning he returned to Margaret.
Well find a care home, he said simply. A good one. And a carer to help until we do. Ive spoken to workIll take some leave. Ill handle the calls and arrangements.
Margaret nodded. There was nothing more to say.
Now Mrs Foster lives in a private care home on the edge of town: a clean room, attentive nurses, doctors nearby. Edward and Margaret visit every Sunday, bringing shortbread and news. She is settled, at peace. More than thatthey have rediscovered in each other no longer prison wardens and captives, but husband and wife once again.
A while after, I met Margaret at the gate and asked her, quietly,
So, Margaret, is life better now?
She smiled, a light smile I hadnt seen in many years.
Its getting there, Mr Harris. Ive learned something simple at last. The kindest thing isnt always giving up everything for others. Sometimes, its finding a solution everyone can bearand having the courage to stand by it.
There, in her words, lay the heart of the matter: that the right to your own life isnt selfishness. Its the foundation beneath any real kindness, without which sacrifice only leads to misery.
