Margaret Whitmore sat on the bus, gazing out the window at the familiar streets of London. Every morning, the same route to work, the same stops, the same faces of fellow commuters. But today was different. Today, she was making this journey for the last time.
In her handbag lay her letter of resignation. The wording was standard—nothing out of the ordinary. Yet behind those words lay a story so painful she could scarcely believe it had happened to her.
The bus stopped near the shopping centre where her son’s office was located—the very firm where she had worked as an accountant for four years. The same firm her son William had founded right after university, with her encouragement and support.
“Are you sure about this, Mum?” William had asked the night before when she handed him the letter. “Maybe you should think it over?”
“I’m sure, love,” she had replied. “It’s for the best.”
Now, climbing the stairs to the office, Margaret felt her heart tightening. Four years of effort, four years of pride in her son’s success—all left behind.
It had begun the day William brought Emily home. A bright, beautiful girl with a degree in finance. Margaret had adored her instantly, thrilled that her son had found such a lovely partner.
“Mum, this is Emily—my fiancée,” William had said, beaming.
“Lovely to meet you, Margaret,” Emily had said warmly, shaking her hand. “William has told me so much about you.”
They married a year later—a modest but heartfelt ceremony. Margaret had baked, decorated, and bustled about like a mother hen, wanting everything perfect.
After the wedding, Emily moved into their small two-bedroom flat. Margaret had always dreamed of a full house, of grandchildren laughing in the halls.
“Mum,” William had said one evening over dinner, “what if Emily joined the firm? She’s got the qualifications—she could help with business development.”
“Of course,” Margaret had agreed. “The more bright minds, the better.”
Emily became a sales manager—driven, ambitious, quickly making her mark. The firm grew, clients multiplied, profits rose.
“Margaret, could I have a word?” Emily had asked one day, stepping into the accounts office.
“Of course, dear. What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking—perhaps we should modernise the accounts? Switch to new software, automate the processes.”
Margaret had nodded. She knew the old ways were becoming outdated.
“You’re right. But at my age, learning new programs isn’t easy. My fingers aren’t as quick, my memory’s not what it was.”
“Don’t worry,” Emily had smiled. “I’ll help. We’ll work through it together.”
And she had. Patiently explaining, repeating, guiding. Margaret tried her best, but technology didn’t come naturally.
William praised her efforts, but the workload kept increasing. New staff, more documents, longer hours.
“Mum, how are you managing?” he’d ask. “Is it too much?”
“I’m coping, love. Though I won’t lie—it’s getting harder.”
Margaret often stayed late, taking work home.
“Should we hire another accountant?” William had suggested.
“Why waste the money?” Emily had countered. “Margaret’s experienced—she’ll adjust. She just needs time.”
Yet gradually, Emily began pointing out mistakes—late reports, calculation errors, paperwork not up to new standards.
“Margaret, you must be more careful,” she’d say. “Our reputation depends on accuracy.”
“I’ll try, dear.”
Margaret double-checked everything, working late into the night. Still, mistakes slipped through. Age was taking its toll.
“William, we need to talk,” Emily had said one evening, not realising Margaret could hear.
“About what?”
“Your mother. She can’t keep up. The errors, the delays—it’s affecting the whole business.”
“Emily, don’t exaggerate. Mum’s always been thorough.”
“Thorough but inefficient. William, this is business. We can’t carry staff who slow us down—even family.”
Margaret had listened, heart sinking. *Inefficient.* That’s what she’d become in Emily’s eyes.
Next day, William had come to her office with a guilty expression.
“Mum, how’s work?”
“Fine, love. Why?”
“Just wondering. If you’re struggling, tell me. We’ll help.”
She’d nodded but asked for nothing. She knew Emily was right.
Tax penalties arrived—more mistakes, more fines. Emily made sure William knew why.
“Margaret, another penalty,” she’d announce. “More errors in the accounts.”
“But I triple-checked—”
“Not well enough. This is the third this month.”
William frowned at the reports, while Emily grew bolder.
“William, we’re losing money. Fines, delays, unhappy clients. It can’t go on.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We need a professional accountant. Young, sharp, up-to-date.”
“And Mum?”
“She could retire. At her age, it’s perfectly normal.”
Sitting alone in her office, Margaret thought of how much had changed. Once vital, now a burden.
“Mum, got a minute?” William had appeared, uneasy.
“Of course, love.”
He’d sat opposite her, hesitating.
“The business is growing—regulations are stricter. Maybe… maybe it’s time you stepped back?”
“You’re sacking me, then?”
“Not sacking—just a break. You’ve earned it.”
“William, be honest. Emily thinks I’m past it.”
He’d looked down.
“It’s not just Emily. Accounting demands precision now. And you… well, you know yourself…”
“Yes. I’m old and useless.”
“No! But things move fast these days. Even young people struggle to keep up.”
Margaret had stood by the window, watching life rush past below. Everyone had purpose.
“All right, William. I’ll resign.”
“Mum, don’t think we’re pushing you out—”
“I understand. Business is business.”
That evening, Emily was unusually attentive.
“Margaret, I made your favourite roast,” she’d said, setting the table.
“Thank you, dear.”
“William told me you’re leaving. Wise decision. Now you’ll have time for yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“And maybe grandchildren soon? We’re planning to start a family.”
Margaret had looked up. Grandchildren—she’d longed for them. But now it sounded like unpaid labour.
“Of course. I’d love to help.”
William had been quiet, glancing at her with regret. She understood—he’d chosen his wife.
“Mum, why not visit Aunt Dorothy?” he’d suggested. “You haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Good idea,” Emily had chimed in. “A change will do you good.”
Aunt Dorothy lived in the countryside—ten years older, infinitely wiser.
“Perhaps I will,” Margaret had agreed.
Next day, she handed over to the new accountant—a bright young woman named Hannah.
“William said you’d show me the ropes,” she’d said.
Margaret had explained everything—the filing, the records—while Hannah nodded, taking quick notes.
“What’s this folder?” Hannah had asked.
“Old records. I keep them just in case.”
“Do we have digital copies?”
“Not all. We used to work mostly on paper.”
By noon, the handover was done. Margaret packed her things—photos from office parties, her “Best Accountant” mug, the calendar William had given her last Christmas.
“Thank you for everything,” Hannah had said. “William told me you helped build this firm.”
“Yes. I was there at the beginning.”
“You should be proud.”
*Proud.* She was. The business thrived. That her own role had ended didn’t matter.
William walked her to the bus stop.
“Mum, don’t be angry. I know this hurts.”
“I’m not angry. Just sad.”
The bus arrived. She took a window seat, waving as it pulled away.
Home was quiet. Emily was out, William still at work. Margaret made tea and sat in her armchair—free time stretching ahead.
She could read, garden, take walks. Yet she wanted none of it.
The phone rang—Aunt Dorothy.
“Margaret, why so quiet? What’s wrong?”
She told her everything. Dorothy listened in silence.
“Come stay with me. We’ll talk properly.”
Next morning, she packed a suitcase. William had given her travel money—kind, but weak. Like his father.
As the coach pulled away, Margaret took one last look at the city. Perhaps in the countryside, she’d find answers.
Or simply learn to live differently—not for work, not for family, but for herself.
At sixty, it wasn’t too late to begin.
