“Mum, open the door! Mum, please!” The boy’s fists hammered against the metal surface with such force the hinges seemed ready to give way. “I know you’re home! Your car’s outside, so you haven’t gone anywhere!”
Margaret Wilkins sat with her back to the front door, clutching a china cup of cold tea. Her hands trembled so violently the porcelain rattled against its saucer.
“Muuum, what’s going on?” Henry’s voice grew increasingly desperate. “The neighbours say you haven’t let anyone in for a week! Not even Emily!”
At the mention of her daughter-in-law, Margaret flinched. Emily. His precious Emmy, for whom he’d do anything. Even what happened last Thursday.
“Mum, I’ll call a locksmith!” Henry threatened. “We’ll pick the lock!”
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret finally shouted without turning. “Don’t you dare force your way in!”
“Mum, but why? What’s happened? Talk to me!”
Margaret sighed. How could she explain what she’d overheard in the hospital corridor?
“Please,” Henry’s voice softened to a plea. “We’re worried. Emily’s worried too.”
Emily’s worried. Of course she is. Probably worried her plans are falling apart.
“Go home, Henry. Don’t come back.”
“Are you ill? Have you got a temperature? Should I call Dr. Clarkson?”
“I don’t need a doctor. I need you to leave me be.”
Margaret stood and approached the window. Below, Henry stood in their Croydon cul-de-sac, phone pressed to his ear. Probably calling his darling Emily to complain about his difficult mother.
He glanced up, spotted her, and waved before heading back upstairs. Margaret retreated to her armchair.
Minutes later, another knock.
“Mum, it’s me and Emily. Please let us in.”
Margaret clenched her jaw. He’d brought her. The wife who’d been so carefully planning their future.
“Margaret,” came Emily’s honeyed voice, “it’s me. Do open up. Henry’s beside himself.”
What an actress. Even alters her tone when needed.
“We brought groceries,” Emily continued. “Milk, bread, those custard creams you like.”
Custard creams. Margaret smiled bitterly. Last month, Emily had “discovered” her fondness for them and now brought packets weekly. Such a thoughtful daughter-in-law.
“Won’t you say anything?” Emily’s voice wavered artificially. “We’re ever so concerned.”
“Concerned,” Margaret whispered too quietly for them to hear.
“I’m not leaving until you open up!” Henry declared. “I’ll stand here all night!”
She knew he meant it. Stubborn as his late father. Once he fixed on something, nothing could shift him.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Just you. Alone.”
“What?”
“Emily goes home. I’ll only speak to you.”
Muffled whispers filtered through the door.
“Why, Mum? Emily’s worried too.”
“Because I said so. Just you, or no one.”
More whispering, then Emily’s saccharine concession:
“Alright, Margaret. I’ll pop home. Henry, ring me later.”
Margaret waited until Emily’s footsteps faded down the stairs before turning the latch.
Henry burst in like a spring gale, embracing her hurriedly.
“You’ve lost weight! You’re pale as milk! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She extricated herself and moved to the kitchen. “Tea?”
He sat at the table, watching her. “Explain. Why lock yourself away?”
The kettle whistled as she spoke over her shoulder:
“Why open the door? What good would come of it?”
“But you can’t stay shut in forever! What about shopping? Doctor’s appointments?”
“Mrs. Dawson from number twelve brings my shopping. And I’ve no need of doctors.”
“Why not?”
Steam curled from their cups as she finally faced him.
“Because last time I went, I heard something I wish I hadn’t.”
Henry frowned. “What?”
“Your wife. On her mobile, gossiping with that friend of hers—Sophie, is it? Thought I’d left.”
“And?”
“Planning how they’d sell my house. Put me in a home. Spend the money.”
Henry went sheet-white.
“You misunderstood. Emily would never—”
“Word for word,” Margaret interrupted. “‘Henry’s already agreed. Says his mum can’t live alone safely at her age. We’ll put her in that nice place near Richmond, sell this house. Should cover a deposit on our new place.'”
His fists clenched.
“Then she said, ‘Thank goodness she’s so trusting. Thinks we adore her. Really, she’s just in the way.'”
Henry’s shoulders hunched.
“I’d never agree to this. She must’ve been fantasising.”
“Fantasising?” Margaret gave a mirthless chuckle. “Odd fantasy, knowing the home’s exact fees—£5,000 monthly, wasn’t it? Or that my house was ‘valued at £750,000’? Did she have it appraised?”
Henry rubbed his face. “I knew nothing of this.”
“Or chose not to notice? Perhaps she planted the idea slowly?”
Outside, children played—carefree, innocent.
“Perhaps she’s right,” Margaret mused. “Perhaps I am a burden.”
“Don’t say that!”
“But it’s true. Three-bedroom house all to myself, while you’re squeezed into that Clapham flat. Savings in the bank as you struggle with student loans. At my age, I could fall any day…”
“If you’re lonely, we’ll move in! I’ve offered a dozen times!”
“And how did Emily respond?”
A telling pause.
“She… said we should wait till we could afford somewhere bigger.”
“There you are. Meanwhile, I grow older, more inconvenient.”
“You’re not—”
“Then why these schemes?”
Henry exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. Truly.”
“Then go home and ask her. Point-blank.”
He stood. “Will you unlock the door after?”
“That depends on her answer.”
“And if she admits it?”
Margaret met his gaze steadily. “Then I’ll never open it again. To either of you.”
“But I’m innocent!”
“You’re a grown man, Henry. If your wife plots against your mother without your knowledge, you’re a poor husband. If you knew and said nothing, you’re a worse son.”
His protest died unspoken.
“Go and settle this. I’ll wait.”
Alone again, Margaret wandered through her silent home. Family photos lined the hallway: her wedding to Harold, young Henry taking first steps, first day at Eton, graduation at Oxford, his Chelsea registry office wedding.
In that last frame, Emily glowed—arms wrapped around Margaret, calling her “Mum,” vowing to cherish her new family.
When had that warmth faded? When had “Mum” become “the old woman”? Or had the coldness always lurked beneath?
The phone rang as she cooked dinner—one portion, as all week. Henry.
“Can I come over? We need to talk.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
He arrived hollow-eyed.
“Well?” she prompted.
“We talked. She denied it at first, then confessed.”
“And?”
“Said she wanted better for us. That you wouldn’t live forever, and the money could set us up properly.”
“I see. The care home?”
“She claims it’s kinder—company, activities…”
“How thoughtful.” Margaret eyed him. “And you said?”
“That I’d never agree. That you’re my mother.”
“Her response?”
A shuddering breath. “Said we’d reached an impasse. That she wouldn’t ‘live like paupers for my principles.'”
“An ultimatum, then.”
“Me or her.”
Margaret rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen carefully. My life is mine to live. Yours is yours to build with whomever you choose. Choose wisely.”
“I already have. I choose you.”
“No, darling. You’re choosing between conscience and convenience. Between love and ledger books.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
“Can you ever forgive me for bringing her into our lives?”
“Of course,” she said softly. “The heart wants what it wants. She loved you once, truly?”
“I thought so.”
“Then you’re blameless. People change—not always for the better.”
He clung to her.
“Will you unlock the door now?”
“For some. Now I know whom to trust.”
She smoothed his hair like when he was small.
“Go home. Sort your life. I’ll tend to mine.”
“Let me move in, at least temporarily?”
“No, darling. Lives should be lived separately. Decide about Emily. I’ll live as I see fit.”
After he left, Margaret latched the door but left the chain off. Tomorrow, she’d welcome visitors—but only those who came without calculators in their pockets.
As dusk painted the garden gold, she ate alone. Somewhere beyond those hedges, her son faced his defining choice.
She prayed he’d choose well—not for her sake, but his own. Because some doors, once closed, can never be reopened.
