A Fair Agreement
Margaret slipped away slowly and painfully. Her body, exhausted by endless rounds of chemotherapy, no longer fought the illness. And Margaret herself yearned to be free from the agonising pain that had plagued her these last months. The painkillers kept her in a drowsy haze, surfacing now and then like a swimmer gasping for air before sinking back into the merciful fog that wrapped around her mind.
Little Emily came home from school, stepping into the room thick with the scent of sickness, and stared at her mother for a long while. Mum didn’t look like the laughing, cheerful woman she remembered. She lay with closed eyes, and Emily anxiously watched the faint rise and fall of the blanket—was she still breathing?
“Mum. Mum—can you hear me?” Emily called.
Margaret’s eyelids fluttered, but she hadn’t the strength to open them. Grandma would come then, gently leading Emily away.
“Come, love, let’s get you fed, then your homework. Let your mother rest.”
“But she’s always sleeping now. When will she be better? I want things like they were.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I wish that too. Sleep’s the best medicine for healing.” Grandma set a steaming bowl of stew before Emily and sat opposite, blinking back tears.
*How cruel life is—that I live, and my daughter, so young, fades away. And nothing can be done. How many prayers, how many visits to church, and still… What did I do to anger God?*
Margaret passed just before dawn. At around three, Mary woke to use the loo and peeked into her daughter’s room. She still breathed—Mary was sure of it. Then she lay back down, tossing and turning until sleep finally took her. She dreamt of little Maggie, laughing, waving, running off, glancing back over her shoulder. *Wait—where are you going? Come back!* Mary jolted awake.
She hurried to the room. Her daughter lay still, her face already unfamiliar. Mary closed the door softly. She boiled the kettle, warmed some scones for Emily, and only then woke her.
Emily ate breakfast, put on her school uniform, and went to say goodbye to Mum—as she always did.
“Don’t go in, let her sleep,” Mary called. “Here, take an apple for your bag.” She handed Emily a rosy-cheeked fruit.
Walking to school, Mary only half-listened to Emily’s chatter.
“What’s wrong with you today?” Emily asked.
“Didn’t sleep well, love,” Mary lied.
Once home, she called the doctor at once.
“When did she pass? Why wait so long?” the stern voice demanded.
“Had to see Emily off to school. She shouldn’t see this…”
The hearse came quickly, mercifully, and took Margaret before Emily returned. Mary spent the walk back rehearsing how to break the news—but when the moment came, she faltered. She fumbled, lost track of time, and before she could stop her, Emily burst into the bedroom.
“Where’s Mum?” Emily spun to face her.
Exhausted, Mary said the first thing that came to mind: “They took her to hospital.” She looked away.
Maybe the girl sensed the truth or resented not being told—she refused supper, curled into the sofa corner, and turned to the window. Mary hadn’t the strength to coax her. Who would comfort *her*? She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the tap, and rang Thomas, Margaret’s ex-husband—she’d found his number in her daughter’s phone that morning.
“What do you want?” he snapped, thinking it was Margaret.
“It’s Mary, Margaret’s mother. She’s gone. Could you take Emily for a few days? I told her Mum’s in hospital—there’s so much to arrange. I can’t tell her yet.”
“Right. I’ll come.” His tone softened.
Within half an hour, he was at the door. Emily brightened at the sight of him—still cross with Grandma.
“How’s life?” He sat beside her. “School treating you alright?”
“Yeah,” Emily mumbled. “Mum’s in hospital. Grandma won’t take me to see her.”
“Probably not allowed yet. Fancy a day out? The park, ice cream, maybe a film?”
“Really?”
As Mary packed Emily’s things, she thrust a bag at Thomas. Once they’d gone, she went to the hospital, her mind racing—so much to do, so much to remember.
The funeral arrangements drained her. By evening, her legs trembled with fatigue. She hadn’t even the strength to weep—just a dull ache pressing on her chest. *Hold on. Don’t break.*
After the burial, Thomas rang. “When should I bring Emily back?”
“Had enough already?” Mary meant to sound sharp, but it came out pitiful.
“She misses home. We’ll come now. Need to talk.”
Dread clenched her heart. *What now? What fresh torment?* She forced herself up, put the kettle on, laid out leftover sandwiches and biscuits from the wake, set out an unfinished bottle of whisky—let him toast, for old times’ sake.
Seeing Emily, Mary wept—realising just how much she’d missed her. Emily clung to her.
“Come on, love. I made scones.”
At the table, Thomas seized the bottle, filled his glass to the brim. He raised it for a toast, but Mary’s warning glare silenced him. He knocked it back neatly. Then Mary sent Emily to her room—they needed to talk.
Once alone, Thomas leaned in.
“Don’t glare at me, Mary. I’m trying to help.”
“You’ve helped enough already.”
“Don’t pin everything on me. Your daughter wasn’t a saint either.”
“Quiet,” Mary hissed. “Get to the point. And don’t you *dare* speak her name.”
“Fine.” He drank again. “Here’s the thing—Emily’s young, you’re retired. If social services catch wind her mother’s gone, they’ll take her.”
“And you’d tell them?”
“You’re not getting any younger. They won’t leave her with you. But I’m her father—alive and kicking.”
“What are you saying?” Her vision darkened.
“I’ve no place of my own. Drifting between places.”
“Between women, you mean. You had everything—threw it away.”
“Watch your tongue,” he snarled, but she waved him off.
“Point is—if I live with my own daughter, no one can take her.”
“That’s it, is it?” She kept her voice steady.
“Exactly. Don’t want me here? We’ll swap flats—Emily stays with me on paper, but lives with you. Or better yet, we live together. A father’s presence matters.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Call it what you like. But it’s a fair deal. Unless you *want* her in care?”
Mary struggled for breath. She stood, opened the window, turned back. His eyes never left her.
“You don’t love her. You want the flat. You’d dump her the moment you got it.”
“Fine. No deal.” His voice turned icy.
Mary couldn’t believe this was happening—yet part of her had always expected it. But Emily… She couldn’t lose her too.
“I need time,” she said hastily.
“Three days.” He eyed the empty bottle, stood. “I’ll ring.”
When he’d gone, Emily returned.
“You should’ve told me. I’m not a baby.”
“Told you what?” Mary turned from the sink, startled.
“That I’m going to live with *him*.”
Mary sighed.
Exhausted as she was, sleep wouldn’t come that night. Her thoughts tormented her. *Who can I turn to? Take him in, and he’ll toss you out. Swap the flat—he’ll sell his share, squander the money, come crawling back. Oh, Margaret, why didn’t you listen?*
The next day, after dropping Emily at school, Mary visited Mr. Wilson downstairs—a retired policeman. She told him everything.
“Help me, Jim. I’ve no one else.”
“That’s quite a mess, Mary.” He thought long. “Here’s what you do—ring your son-in-law, say you’ve decided. Get two bottles of whisky, not one. Light snacks—no fuss. I’ll ‘drop by.’ We’ll see where it goes. Three days, you said? Plenty of time.”
Relieved, Mary went home. At least there was hope—Jim had helped neighbours before.
Three days later, Thomas arrived. Seeing the set table, he smirked—thinking she’d surrendered. Before she could speak, the doorbell rang. Mary let Jim in.
“Who’s this? What’s the occasion?” Jim eyed the bottle cheerfully.
“My ex-son-in-law. We’re celebrating the flat swap,” Mary said, then left them.
Unnoticed, Jim turned on his phone’sAnd as Emily stood at the altar years later, her hand in her husband’s, Mary smiled through her tears, knowing she had kept her promise—to stay, to guide, and to see her granddaughter into the happiness she deserved.
