Elizabeth laughed as I sobbed.
“Oh, stop wailing like a child!” she snapped, turning sharply from the stove with a wooden spoon in hand. “What’s all this drama about?”
Victor sat at the kitchen table, his face buried in his palms. His shoulders shook, and tears streaked between his fingers.
“Liz, how can you not understand? She was my *mum*,” he rasped through the tears.
“Mum, mum!” she mocked, slamming the pot down onto the table. “She lived to ninety-two—most don’t even make it to eighty. What more did she need?”
Victor lifted his red-rimmed eyes to hers.
“How can you say that? She *loved* you—like her own daughter!”
“Loved me, sure,” Elizabeth snorted. “Especially when she told me how to cook roast beef or raise the kids. Thirty years I put up with her ‘advice.'”
She sat across from him, scooping herself a plate of stew. Her appetite was hearty, despite them burying his mother just hours earlier.
“Enough with the moping,” she said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “We can’t bring her back. Best think about the house. We should sell before the market dips.”
Victor stood so fast his chair clattered to the floor.
“Have you lost your mind? We just buried her, and you’re already splitting *property*?”
“Well, when should we think about it?” she replied coolly, still eating. “In a year? Five? The house is empty; bills keep piling up. Be practical, Vic.”
Victor gripped his head. The past few months had felt like a bad dream. His mother had wasted away slowly, painfully. He’d visited her in hospital every day, holding her hand. Elizabeth? Always an excuse.
“My head hurts.”
“I’ve got a cold—don’t want to pass it on.”
“Work’s a nightmare; can’t get away.”
And now, with her gone, all Elizabeth cared about was money.
“I’m going to bed,” Victor muttered, heading for the door.
“Now? At least eat while it’s hot.”
“I can’t.”
“Suit yourself. Your body needs fuel.”
He stepped onto the balcony, the chilly October wind biting his face. Leaning against the railing, he watched the kids playing below. Life went on—even as his own shattered inside.
His mum was gone. The last thread tying him to childhood, to home, to ever feeling truly *needed*. Elizabeth had never understood that bond. To her, her mother-in-law was just a burden.
The balcony door creaked open.
“Vic, come in—you’ll freeze,” Elizabeth said, handing him a steaming mug. “Drink this.”
He took it with trembling hands.
“Liz… tell me honestly. Did you ever love her? Even a little?”
She shrugged. “Love, don’t love… what does it matter now? We got on well enough.”
“‘Well enough,'” he repeated. “Yeah. We just… got on.”
Elizabeth studied him, a flicker of concern in her eyes.
“What’s got into you? Not happy with our life?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Right now, I don’t know anything.”
They stood in silence. Elizabeth wrapped her dressing gown tighter; Victor sipped the scalding tea.
“Remember when she taught you to bake scones?” he asked suddenly.
“Ugh. Endless nagging. Too dry, too lumpy, oven too hot…”
“Remember when Jamie first called her ‘Grandma’?”
“So? All grannies love that.”
Victor set his empty mug on the railing.
“Remember when she had pneumonia last year? You brought her soup every day.”
Elizabeth went quiet. That never happened. *He* was the one who visited; she’d stayed home, complaining to friends how he neglected the family.
“Let’s go in,” she said. “It’s cold.”
That evening, their son Jamie arrived with his wife, Emily. The young couple looked uneasy—death wasn’t something their generation faced often.
“Dad… how are you?” Jamie hugged him.
“Getting by, son.”
“I miss Gran. She was brilliant.”
“She was,” Victor whispered, his throat tightening again.
Emily shifted awkwardly. “Mr. Thompson… we’re so sorry. She was a lovely woman.”
“Thank you, love.”
Elizabeth swept in with a tray. “Sit—tea’s ready. Got a Victoria sponge, just how you like it.”
“Mum… maybe not the time for cake?” Jamie ventured.
“And when *is* the time?” Elizabeth said, slicing it neatly. “Life doesn’t stop. We can’t grieve forever.”
Her movements were brisk, practiced—like any other Sunday tea.
“Actually,” she said to Emily, “we were thinking… maybe you two should take Gran’s house? Better than renting.”
Jamie and Emily exchanged glances.
“Mum, it’s too soon,” Jamie said.
“Why? It’s a good area, near the Tube. Perfect for you.”
Victor slammed his hands on the table.
“Elizabeth, *enough*! We buried her *today*, and you’re divvying up her *home*?”
“Don’t shout in front of the kids,” she said calmly. “I’m being practical.”
“Practical!” He threw his hands up. “Is that all you ever are?”
Her lips thinned. “What would you have me do? Sit and sob? What good does that do?”
“*Good*? To *mourn* her properly—to *honour* her life!”
“We *did*. At the funeral, at the wake. What more do you want?”
Jamie stood, gripping his father’s arm. “Dad, please—this isn’t helping.”
“You don’t *understand*!” Victor wrenched free. “None of you do!”
He stormed out, the door rattling behind him. In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, heart pounding.
Muffled voices drifted from the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Jamie asked.
“He’s taking it hard,” Elizabeth sighed. “Always was a mummy’s boy.”
The mockery in her tone—even now—made him ache.
He lay on the bed, still in his clothes. The ceiling spun; his head throbbed. He thought of his mum, how she’d clung to his hand in that hospital bed.
“Vic, darling,” she’d whispered, “don’t be cross with Liz. She’s a good wife—just set in her ways.”
Until the end, she’d made excuses for her. And Elizabeth? Couldn’t even say goodbye.
The door creaked open. Jamie hovered.
“Dad… can I come in?”
“Course, son.”
Jamie sat on the edge of the bed. “I miss her too. She was ace.”
“Yeah. She was.”
“Remember her bedtime stories? King Arthur and the knights. She did all the voices.”
Victor smiled faintly. “For you *and* me, years ago.”
“And her shortbread! No one makes it like she did. Mum never could.”
Victor turned to him. “Jamie… why’s your mum so… cold?”
Jamie hesitated. “Dunno. People are different, I guess. Some feel things deeper.”
“But there should be *grief* when someone you love dies!”
“Should be. But Mum’s… well. She’s Mum.”
They sat in silence. From the kitchen, Elizabeth’s laughter rang out with Emily’s.
“Hear that?” Victor whispered. “Laughing.”
“Maybe just chatting.”
“No. *Laughing*. On the day we buried her.”
Jamie stood. “I should go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right. Off you go, then.”
After they left, the flat felt hollow. Elizabeth hummed as she washed up, the clatter of plates grating on Victor’s nerves.
How *ordinary* it all was. A morning funeral, an evening like any other.
She came to bed late, patting his shoulder.
“Asleep?”
“No.”
“Don’t dwell on what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it cruelly. Just thinking ahead.”
“Ahead to what?”
“Our future. The kids, grandkids someday. We’ve got to be smart.”
“By selling Mum’s house?”
“What else? Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
He turned toward the wall.
“Night, Liz.”
“Night.”
She dozed off instantly, her breathing steady—untroubled.
Maybe she was right. Maybe you had to move forward, not look back. Maybe tears *were* pointless.
But then what was left? What remained of love, of memory, of loss—if you could tally up property at a funeral, laugh over tea, sleep soundly the same night?
Victor stared into the dark.
Beside him, Elizabeth dreamed peacefully—content. She’d never understand his tears. She’d laugh when he hurt. Some things, thirty years couldn’t change.
MorningAnd as the years passed, Victor learned to carry his grief silently, like old coins in a pocket, there but seldom spent.
