Margaret Whitmore gazed out the bus window at the familiar London streets slipping past. The same morning commute, the same stops, the same tired faces of fellow passengers. Only today was different. Today marked her final journey.
In her handbag lay a letter of resignation. Standard phrasing, nothing extraordinary. Yet behind those formal words lay a story so surreal, Margaret still struggled to believe it was happening.
The bus halted near the shopping centre where her son’s office was located. The very office where she’d worked as an accountant for four years. The very business Edward had founded fresh out of university, with her support and encouragement.
“Mum, are you sure?” Edward had asked the previous evening when she handed him the letter. “Maybe sleep on it?”
“I’m sure, love,” she’d replied. “It’s for the best.”
But now, climbing the stairs to the office, Margaret felt her heart constrict. Four years of her life, four years of dedication, four years of pride in her son’s success—all left behind.
It had begun the day Edward brought Emily home. Bright, beautiful, with an economics degree. Margaret adored her instantly, thrilled her son had found such a wonderful partner.
“Mum, this is Emily,” Edward had beamed. “My fiancée.”
“Lovely to meet you, Margaret,” Emily had said, extending a hand. “Edward’s told me so much about you.”
They married a year later. A modest but heartfelt wedding. Margaret had prepared the food, decorated the hall, fluttered about like a mother hen, determined to make it perfect. Afterward, Emily moved into their small two-bedroom flat. Margaret had always dreamed of a full house, of grandchildren’s laughter filling the rooms.
“Mum, what if Emily joined the business?” Edward suggested one evening. “She’s got the qualifications—she could help us grow.”
“Of course,” Margaret agreed. “The more bright minds, the better.”
Emily started in sales. Ambitious, driven, she excelled quickly, bringing in new clients and boosting profits. The company flourished.
“Margaret, may I speak with you?” Emily asked one day, stepping into the accounts office.
“Of course, dear. What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking—we should modernise accounting. Switch to new software, automate processes.”
Margaret nodded. She knew the old methods were becoming outdated.
“You’re right, Emily. But at my age, new systems aren’t easy to learn. The hands don’t work like they used to.”
“Don’t worry,” Emily smiled. “I’ll help. We’ll figure it out together.”
And she did. Patiently guiding, repeating instructions. Margaret tried her best, but technology eluded her. Edward encouraged her, praised her efforts. Meanwhile, the company expanded—new staff, larger offices, heavier paperwork.
“Mum, how are you keeping up?” Edward would ask. “Not too much?”
“Managing, love. Though I won’t lie—it’s getting harder.”
She was exhausted. Once, she’d handled the accounts of a small firm with ease. Now, the workload had tripled. Late nights, paperwork spilling over into weekends.
“Should we hire another accountant?” Edward suggested.
“Why waste money?” Emily countered. “Margaret’s experienced. She’ll adapt.”
Yet Emily’s criticisms grew frequent. Reports filed late. Calculation errors. Documents not meeting new regulations.
“Margaret, you must be more careful,” Emily chided. “Our reputation depends on accuracy.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
Margaret double-checked every figure, burned the midnight oil. Still, mistakes crept in. Age was unforgiving.
“Edward, we need to talk,” Emily said one evening, unaware Margaret could hear.
“About?”
“Your mother. She can’t handle the workload. Constant errors, delays. It’s affecting the entire business.”
“Don’t exaggerate. She’s diligent.”
“Diligent but inefficient. Edward, business is business. We can’t carry dead weight, even if it’s family.”
Margaret listened, ice settling in her chest. Dead weight. That’s what she’d become to the woman she’d welcomed as a daughter.
“Mum, how’s work?” Edward asked the next day.
“Fine, love. Why?”
“Just checking in. If you’re struggling, say so. We’ll help.”
Margaret nodded but asked for nothing. She knew Emily was right. The job had outgrown her.
Tax office penalties began arriving. Emily made sure to highlight each as Margaret’s failure.
“Margaret, another fine,” Emily announced one morning. “Tax miscalculations again.”
“But I checked—”
“Not thoroughly enough. This is the third fine this month.”
Edward frowned over the accounts. Emily’s displeasure grew bolder.
“Edward, we’re haemorrhaging money,” she said. “Fines, delays—it’s unsustainable.”
“What do you suggest?”
“A professional accountant. Young, sharp, up-to-date.”
“And Mum?”
“She can retire. At her age, it’s expected.”
Margaret sat in her office, numb. Once indispensable, now a burden.
“Mum, got a minute?” Edward appeared, guilt weighing his expression.
“Of course, love.”
He sank into the chair opposite, silent too long. “Mum… we need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s just—the business is growing. Standards are higher. Maybe… it’s time you stepped back?”
Margaret smiled sadly. “You mean resign.”
“Not resign—just take a break. You’ve earned it.”
“Edward, be honest. Emily thinks I’m incompetent.”
He looked away. “It’s not just Emily. Modern accounting needs precision. And you… well, you know.”
“Yes. I’m old and useless.”
“No! Just… times change. Even young people struggle to keep up.”
Margaret stood by the window. Below, life rushed on—people with purpose, places to be.
“Very well. I’ll resign.”
“Mum, don’t think we’re pushing you out—”
“I understand. Business comes first.”
“We’ll help financially. You know that.”
“I know. Thank you.”
Edward left. Margaret wrote her resignation. The letters blurred. Four years, reduced to ink on paper.
That evening, Emily was unusually warm. “Margaret, I made your favourite roast,” she said, setting the table.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Edward mentioned you’re retiring. Wise decision. Now you’ll have time for yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“Good timing, really. We’re planning for children soon. You could be a doting grandmother.”
Margaret looked up. Grandchildren. She’d dreamed of them. Now it sounded like an unpaid job offer.
“Of course. I’d love to help.”
Edward picked at his dinner, stealing guilty glances. Margaret knew he was torn. But she also knew he’d chosen his wife.
“Mum, why not visit Aunt Beatrice?” he suggested. “You haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Brilliant idea,” Emily chimed in. “A change of scenery will do you good.”
Aunt Beatrice lived in Cornwall, a decade older, infinitely wiser.
“Yes. Perhaps I will.”
The next day, Margaret trained her replacement—Anna, mid-twenties, sharp as a tack.
“Hello, I’m Anna,” she’d said. “Edward said you’d show me the ropes.”
“Of course. Let’s start with the filing system.”
Margaret explained, demonstrated. Anna absorbed it all, asking crisp questions. Youth and education made it effortless.
“What’s this folder?” Anna pointed to a thick binder.
“Archive. Past records. Just in case.”
“Right. Are they digitised?”
“Not all. We used to rely on paper.”
Anna nodded sympathetically—the way one does when indulging outdated habits.
By noon, the handover was complete. Margaret packed her belongings—a team photo, a “Best Accountant” mug, the calendar Edward gave her last Christmas.
“Margaret, thank you for everything,” Anna said. “Edward told me you helped build this company.”
“I did. Supported him from the start.”
“That’s wonderful. You should be proud.”
Proud? Perhaps. The business thrived. That was the goal. Never mind the cost.
Edward walked her to the bus stop.
“Mum, you’re not angry, are you? I know it’s hard.”
“I’m not angry. Just… sad.”
“You always say that, but I see it hurts.”
“It does. But not at you. At time. How quickly it passes.”
The bus arrived. Margaret took a window seat, waving as Edward shrank from view.
The flat was silent. Emily was out; Edward still at work. Margaret brewed tea and sank into her armchair.
For the first time in years, she had hours stretching endlessly before her. Books to read, parks to stroll. Yet she wanted none of it.
Only to sit and ponder how swiftly life shifts. Yesterday, indispensable. Today, just a mother, a mother-in-law.
The phone rang. Aunt Beatrice.
“Margaret, why so quiet? What”Come to Cornwall, dear—the sea air will wash away your troubles, and we’ll solve this whole mess over a proper cup of tea.”
