That day, a woman I hadnt seen in five years turned up at my doorstep. Margaret Whitmore. In our village of Willowbrook, folks called her “the Duchess” behind her backnot because of any noble husband, but for the way she carried herself, with a sharpness in her gaze that could cut deeper than any knife, and a pride so vast it couldve fenced our entire village thrice over. She always walked with her back straight, chin raised, as if she werent trudging through our muddy lanes but gliding across palace floors. She never bothered much with conversationjust a curt nod over her shoulder, and that was that.
Yet here she stood, hesitating at the door of my clinic. A shadow of herself. Her spine was still rigid out of habit, but her eyes held a hunted weariness. Shed tugged her floral scarf low over her brow, as if trying to hide. She shifted awkwardly, unable to cross the threshold.
“Come in, Margaret,” I said gently. “No sense letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for paracetamol.”
She stepped inside and perched on the stool by the fireplace, folding her hands on her knees. They were always well-kept before, but nowdry, cracked, fingers trembling faintly. Silent. I didnt rush her. Poured her tea, mine with mint and lime blossom. Set it on the table before her.
“Drink,” I said. “Warm yourself through.”
She took the cup, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. They didnt fallpride wouldnt allow itbut pooled there, still as well water.
“Im all alone, Doctor,” she finally exhaled, her voice frayed at the edges. “I cant bear it. Twisted my wrist the other daynot broken, thank Godbut the wretched thing aches. Cant fetch firewood, cant haul water. And my backhurts so bad I cant breathe.”
Her words spilled out like a muddy spring brook, bitter and unchecked. I listened, nodding, but in my mind, I saw not her current misery but what had happened five years ago. I remembered laughter echoing through her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, Edward, tall and hardworking, had brought home a bride. Emily.
A quiet girl, an angel. Edward had found her in the city. Clear-eyed, trusting, with honey-blonde hair in a thick braid. Hands slender but capable. It was plain why Edward adored her. But why Margaret despised herno one in the village understood.
And yet she did, from day one. Nothing Emily did was right. She sat wrong, looked wrong. Her stew wasnt rich enough, her floors not scrubbed clean enough. If she made jam”wasted sugar, spendthrift.” If she weeded the garden”dug up the nettles for soup, useless girl.”
Edward defended her at first, then wilted. A mamas boy, always under her wing. He wavered between them like a leaf in the wind. Emily never fought back. Just grew paler, thinner. Once, I met her at the well, her eyes brimming.
“Why put up with it, love?” I asked.
She gave me a sad smile. “Where would I go, Auntie Val? I love him. Maybe shell soften”
She didnt. The last straw was an heirloom tablecloth, embroidered by Margarets mother. Emily had washed it carelessly, fading the pattern. Oh, the row that followed Shouts rang down the street.
That night, Emily left. Quiet as a whisper. By morning, Edward tore after her, then returned, hollow-eyed.
“You did this, Mum,” was all he said. “You killed my happiness.”
He left too. Rumor had it he found Emily in the city, married her, had a daughter. But never came home. No calls, no letters. As if severed.
At first, Margaret sneered. “Good riddance. Useless girl, and my sonno son at all, trading his mother for a skirt.” But she aged overnight, withered. Alone in her spotless house, sterile as an operating room. Now she sat before me, all that duchess pride peeled away like onion skin. Just a tired, sick, lonely woman. What goes around, comes around.
“Nobody needs me, Doctor,” she whispered, a single tear escaping. “Might as well hang myself.”
“Dont say such things, Margaret,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not ending. Let me give you an injectionease your back. Then well see.”
I did, rubbing her spine with strong-smelling balm. She seemed to revive slightly, shoulders squaring.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Didnt expect kindness from anyone.”
She left, but my heart stayed heavy. I could treat her body, but some ills have no cure. The illness called loneliness. Only another person can heal it.
For days, I stewed. Then I tracked down Edwards number through contacts in town. My hands shook dialing. What would I say?
“Edward? Its Auntie Val from Willowbrook. Am I disturbing you?”
Silence. Then, his voice deeper, rougher: “Hello, Auntie. Something wrong?”
“Your mothers fading, lad. Alone. Proud, but”
More silence. I heard Emilys soft question in the background. Then her voice, gentle but firm: “Let me.”
“Hello, Auntie Val! How bad is she?”
I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the tears. Emily listened without interrupting.
“Thank you for calling,” she said finally. “Well come. Saturday. But dont tell her. Let it be a surprise.”
Such a heart, that girl. Chased out, insulted, yet not a speck of spite left. Just pity. A mighty force, pitystronger than any grudge.
Saturday dawned grey and damp. I stopped by Margarets to check her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring blankly. The house was immaculate, but lifeless, cold.
“Waiting for the grocers van?” I teased.
“Waiting for death,” she muttered.
Yet her eyes kept flicking to the road. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.
I left, watching the clock. After lunch, a car pulled up at her gate. Not the vana saloon. My heart leapt. Edward stepped out, broader in the shoulders now. He opened the back door, and out came Emily, holding a little girl in a pink puffer jacket, fluffy as marshmallow.
Edward hesitated, jaw tight. Emily took his arm, whispered something, and they walked to the gate. Its rusty squeak seemed to shift time itself.
I didnt see what happened inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from Margarets chimneythick, hearty. The stove was lit. By evening, warm yellow light glowed in the window. So homely it made me smile through tears.
Next day, I visited under pretence of checking her blood pressure. The house was alivesmelling of cabbage pies and something indefinably childlike. Edward chopped wood outside, the axe humming in the frosty air. Emily bustled in the kitchen, while by the hearth, their daughter, Sophie, played with a kitten.
Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl, watchingnot glaring, but *seeing*. Emilys deft hands, Sophies earnest face, Edwards broad back through the window. Her expression as if a mask had been lifted, leaving just a tired, wrinkled, *living* face.
She spotted me and smilednot with her lips, but her eyes.
“Come in, Doctor. Emilys spoiled us with pies.”
Emily turned, smiling warmly. “Sit down, Auntie Val. Teas ready.”
We sat together. No awkward silences, no old grudges. Just warmth from the stove, the scent of baking, and Sophies quiet giggles. Edward entered, sat beside his mother, and simply laid his big hand over her frail one. She didnt pull away. Just trembled, and stilled.
They stayed a week. The house revivedwood stacked for winter, cellar sorted, repairs done. On their last day, Margaret stood on the porch, small and stooped. Sophie hugged her knees.
“Granny, will you visit us?”
Margaret broke then. She bent, hugging the girl, crying softly as autumn rain.
“Forgive me Silly old woman”
Emily embraced them both. “Well come back, Mum. We will.”
