*Diary Entry 12th November, 2023*
That day, a woman came to my door whom I hadnt seen in nearly five years. Margaret Whitmore. In our village of Millfield, folks called her “the Duchess” behind her backnot because of any noble blood, mind you, but for the way she carried herself. Her sharp glance could cut deeper than any scalpel, and her pride could have fenced off our entire village three times over. She walked with her back straight, chin high, as if she werent treading our muddy lanes but parading across some grand palace floor. Never one for idle chatterjust a nod over her shoulder, and that was the end of it.
But there she stood on the threshold of my clinic. A shadow of herself. Her spine was still straight from habit, but her eyes held a hunted, hollow look. Shed pulled her floral headscarf low over her brow, as if trying to hide. Hesitated, couldnt quite bring herself to step inside.
“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No sense letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for aspirin.”
She entered, perched on the stool by the hearth, hands folded in her lap. Always immaculate, those handsbut now, the skin was dry and cracked, fingers trembling faintly. Silent. I didnt rush her. Poured her a cup of my tea, steeped with mint and lime blossom. Set it before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm yourself through.”
She took the cup, and her eyes glistened. No tears fellpride wouldnt allow itbut they pooled there, still as well-water.
“Im all alone, Doctor,” she breathed at last, voice rough and strange. “I cant bear it. Twisted my wrist last weeknot broken, thank God, but it aches like the devil. Cant fetch wood or water. And my back hurts so much I cant breathe.”
Her troubles spilled out then, muddy and bitter as a spring stream. I listened, nodding, but in my mind, I saw not her present misery but what had happened five years past. Remembered how laughter once filled her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, Edwardhandsome, hardworkinghad brought home a bride. Lucy.
A quiet girl, that one. Edward had found her in the city. Clear-eyed, trusting, with wheat-coloured hair in a thick braid. Hands delicate but capable. Easy to see why hed loved her. But why Margaret hadntwell, the village never understood that.
Yet she hadnt, and that was that. From the first day, Margaret picked at her like a crow. Sat wrong, looked wrong. Her stew wasnt red enough, her floors not clean enough. Made jam? “Wasting sugar, you spendthrift.” Weeded the garden? “Pulled up all the nettles for soup, clumsy thing.”
Edward defended her at first, then wilted. A mothers boy, always under her wing. Tossed between them like an aspen leaf. And Lucy? She never complained. Just grew thinner, paler. Once, I met her at the well, her eyes brimming.
“Why do you put up with it, love?” I asked.
She gave me a weary smile. “Where else would I go, Doctor? I love him. Maybe shell soften in time”
She didnt. The last straw was an heirloom tablecloth, embroidered by Margarets mother. Lucy washed it carelessly, and the pattern faded. Lord, the row that followedyou could hear it down the lane.
That night, Lucy left. Quiet as a whisper. By dawn, Edward was wild with grief, searching everywhere. Then he faced his mother, dry-eyed, grim.
“You did this,” was all he said. “You killed my happiness.”
And he left. Word was, he found Lucy in the citymarried, had a daughter. Never came home. No letters, no calls. As if cut away.
Margaret put on a brave face at first. “Good riddance,” shed snap. “No son of mine chooses a skirt over his mother.” But she aged overnight, withered. Alone in that spotless house, cold as an operating theatre. And now here she sat before me, all her duchesss pride shed like onion skin. Just an old, sick, lonely woman. A boomerang doesnt fly out of maliceit just circles back to where it started.
“Nobody needs me, Doctor,” she whispered, a single tear tracking down. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont say such things, Margaret,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not quitting. Let me give you something for that back.”
I did. Rubbed in a liniment that stung the air. She eased a little, shoulders loosening.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Didnt think kindness would find me.”
She left, but a weight stayed on my heart. I can mend bones, but some sicknesses have no cure. Loneliness is one. The only medicine is another soul.
For days, I wrestled with it. Then I rang Edwardgot his number from a mate in town. My hands shook dialling. What would I say?
“Edward? Its Doctor Harris. From Millfield. Have you a moment?”
Silence. I thought hed hung up.
“Hello, Doctor,” he said at last, voice deeper, older. “Something wrong?”
“Your mothers struggling, lad. Shes failing. Too proud to admit it.”
Another pause. Then Lucys voice, soft but steady: “Let me talk.”
“Hello, Doctor! How bad is she?”
I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Lucy listened. Didnt interrupt.
“Thank you for calling,” she said firmly. “Well come. Next Saturday. But dont tell her. Let it be a surprise.”
Theres a heart for you. Chased from home, beratedyet not a speck of spite left. Only pity. Thats a power, my friendspity that outlives hurt.
Saturday came, grey and damp. I stopped by Margarets under pretence of checking her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring. The house was spotless, but lifelesslike no one lived there.
“Waiting for the grocers van?” I teased.
“Whod I wait for?” she scoffed. “Death, maybe”
Yet her eyes kept flicking to the road. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.
I left, watching the clock. Afternoon brought the sound of a carnot the van, but a saloon. Peered out, and my heart leapt. Edward stepped out, broader now, a man grown. Opened the rear doorout came Lucy, holding their girl, four years old, in a pink coat like candyfloss.
Edward hesitated, jaw tight. Lucy took his arm, murmured something. They walked to the gate. Its creak seemed to shift time itself.
I didnt witness what happened inside. But an hour later, smoke coiled from Margarets chimneythick, hearty. The stove was lit. By evening, golden light glowed in the window. So warm, so *alive*, I smiled through tears.
Next day, I visitedostensibly for that blood pressure. The house *breathed*. Smelled of cabbage pies and something faintly sweetchildhood. Edward chopped wood in the yard; Lucy bustled in the kitchen. By the hearth, their Emily played with a kitten.
Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl. Not staring*seeing*. Watching Lucys deft hands, Emilys earnest face, Edwards strong back through the window. Her expression as if a mask had been peeled away. Just a tired face, lined but soft.
She saw mesmiled with her eyes for the first time in years.
“Come in, Doctor. Lucys baked.”
Lucy turned, beamed like family. “Join us for tea.”
And we sat. No stiffness, no ghosts. Just warmth, the tang of yeast, a childs giggle. Edward sat beside his mother, laid his big hand over her frail one. She didnt pull away. Just trembled, still.
They stayed a week. The house wokewood stacked, cellar sorted, repairs done. At their leaving, Margaret stood on the step, shrunken. Emily hugged her knees.
“Granny, will you visit us?”
Then Margaret broke. Bent, hugged her, weptsoft as autumn rain. “Forgive me silly old woman”
Lucy embraced them both. Said the words no medicine can match:
“Well come again, Mum. We will.”
*Lesson learned: Pride builds the tallest walls, but love slips through the cracks. Always does.*
