**Too Late for Forgiveness**
Victoria Ashworth stood by the window, watching the caretaker rake the last of the autumn leaves. October had been relentlessly damp this year, and the foliage clung to the wet pavement as if unwilling to let go. In her hand was a crumpled note delivered an hour ago by the neighbour.
“Vicky, some woman came looking for you,” Mrs. Collins had said, handing over the scrap of paper. “Said it was urgent. Couldn’t wait, dashed off somewhere.”
The note, scribbled in messy handwriting, read: *Mum’s waiting for you. Come quickly. She’s not well. Nadine.*
Victoria recognised the writing at once—Nadine, her little sister, had always scrawled like a child. Teachers had nagged her about it, but she’d just shrugged. *Not planning to be a writer, am I?*
“You look pale, Vicky,” fretted Mrs. Collins.
“It’s nothing,” Victoria muttered and shut the door.
Now she stood there, clutching the note, unsure what to do. *Mum.* How many years had it been? Eight? Ten? After that terrible row, they’d never spoken, never met. Victoria had forbidden Nadine from mentioning her name when she visited.
“Let her think she’s only got one daughter,” she’d said back then. “If that’s her choice, so be it.”
It had started over something trivial. Mum wanted to sell the country house—the one where she and Nadine had grown up, where their childhood memories lived. The house had been left by Grandma, and legally, both sisters had a claim. But Victoria was dead against it.
“Mum, have you lost your mind?” she’d shouted in the tiny kitchen. “That house is our history! Dad dug the garden beds there! Nadine and I played hide-and-seek in those halls!”
“Vicky, don’t be dramatic,” Mum sighed. “The roof leaks, the walls are crumbling. We haven’t the money to fix it, and the taxes alone are a burden. Better to sell while it’s still worth something.”
“I don’t care about the money!” Victoria slammed her fist on the table. “Sell that house, and you’re dead to me!”
Mum had looked at her then—long, sorrowful—before whispering, “Very well, Victoria. Your choice.”
And she sold it. Without Victoria’s consent, arranging everything through Nadine. The money went to her younger daughter with instructions: *Put it toward a flat. No more renting.*
Victoria only found out by chance, bumping into an old neighbour in town.
“Oh, Vicky, they tore your house down!” clucked Aunt Mabel cheerfully. “New owners dug up the lot, planting potatoes. Say they’ll build a holiday cottage.”
That evening, Victoria stormed into Mum’s flat and spat every bitter word she’d saved up. Mum sat, weeping, while her daughter screamed.
“You betrayed me! Betrayed Dad’s memory! All for money—for Nadine, who’s never done anything but mooch off you!”
“Vicky, stop,” Mum begged. “*Please.*”
“I don’t want *anything* to do with you anymore! Hear me? You’re *dead* to me!”
She’d slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
Months of silence followed. Nadine tried to mend things—phoned, visited, pleaded.
“Vicky, how long can you hold a grudge? Mum cries every day. She did it for *us*, so we’d have security.”
“Let her cry,” Victoria sneered. “Should’ve thought sooner.”
“How long will you punish her? A *house* is just *bricks*. Mum’s the only one we’ve got!”
“She had *no right* to decide without me!”
Nadine would leave in tears. And Victoria stayed alone with her stubborn pride and pain.
Years passed. Victoria married Oliver, had a son, Charlie. Sometimes Oliver wondered aloud about meeting her family.
“I’ve none left,” she’d say curtly. “Orphan, remember?”
Oliver didn’t press. His own family was complicated—he understood.
Charlie grew up without a grandmother or aunt. When he asked why, Victoria said Grandma lived too far away to visit.
“Then why don’t *we* go?”
“Because she doesn’t want us.”
Nadine tried reaching Charlie—waited outside school, brought sweets. Victoria forbade it.
“Mum, she’s nice,” Charlie said once. “Bought me ice cream, told funny stories.”
“Don’t speak to her again.”
“But *why?*”
“Because *I* said so.”
The boy obeyed. Victoria called Nadine, furious.
“How *dare* you approach my child? No children of your own, so you meddle with mine?”
“He’s my nephew!” Nadine wept.
“You’re *nothing* to us!”
And Nadine stayed away.
Now, staring at the note, Victoria’s chest tightened with dread. *Very poorly.* What did that mean? Ill? Or—?
She dialled Nadine. The phone rang too long.
“Hello?” Nadine sounded exhausted.
“It’s me.”
Silence. Then a quiet sigh.
“Vicky? You got the note?”
“What’s wrong with Mum?”
“Stroke. Three days in ICU. The doctors say…” Her voice cracked. “They say there’s little hope.”
Victoria’s legs buckled. She sank into a chair.
“When did it happen?”
“Two mornings ago. Neighbour found her in the kitchen. Thank God I had keys.” A pause. “Vicky… she’s been saying your name. Even unconscious.”
“I—I don’t know what to—”
“Come. *Please*. Maybe she’ll know you’re there.”
Victoria hung up and sat in silence. Memories flickered: Mum singing lullabies, bandaging scraped knees, grieving over wartime letters, laughing at their silly plays.
“Mum, I’m home!” Charlie burst in, windswept and grinning. “Why do you look so sad?”
She studied her son. Fifteen now, but still her little boy, the one she’d shielded from the world.
“Charlie, sit. I need to tell you something.”
His smile faded.
“What’s wrong?”
“You *do* have a grandmother.”
His brow furrowed.
“But… you said—”
“I lied. You have a grandmother *and* an aunt. We’ve not spoken in years. Because of *me*.”
She told him everything—the house, the fight, the silence. His eyes widened.
“Is she… kind?”
“The kindest,” Victoria whispered.
“Then why aren’t you talking?”
“Because I’m a fool, Charlie. A stubborn, hateful fool.”
He chewed his lip, thinking.
“Can we go see her?”
“She’s in hospital. Very ill.”
“Then let’s *go*!”
Something in his urgency broke her resolve. They packed in half an hour and drove to Mum’s town.
The hospital reeked of antiseptic and dread. Nadine waited in the corridor—older, greyer. She hugged Victoria fiercely.
“I’m so glad you came,” she whispered.
“This is Charlie.”
Nadine looked at her nephew and wept.
“He’s the image of Granddad.”
“You’re Aunt Nadine?” Charlie asked.
Her breath hitched. “She… told you that?”
“Today,” Victoria admitted softly.
They stepped into the ICU. Mum lay small and frail, tangled in wires. Victoria froze at the threshold.
“Mum,” Nadine whispered. “Look who’s here.”
No response. Only laboured breathing and the steady *beep* of machines.
Victoria forced herself closer. *When did she get so old?*
“Mum… it’s me. Vicky.”
Nothing.
“I’m sorry. *Please* forgive me. I was wrong. About *everything*.”
Charlie hovered, wide-eyed.
“Grandma… I’m Charlie. Your grandson.”
Then—a flicker. Mum’s eyelids fluttered open. Clouded, unseeing.
“Vicky?” Barely a whisper.
“I’m here.”
“My girl…”
She tried lifting a hand. Victoria caught it, held tight.
“I’ve missed you. So much.”
“Sorry… house… thought… better this way…”
“Hush, Mum. Doesn’t matter. Only *you* matter.”
“Grandson… handsome…”
“Yes. Charlie. *Yours*.”
A faint smile. Then her eyes closed again.
They stayed till morning. Victoria talked—about Charlie, her job, the lonely years. Nadine dozed in a chair while Charlie whispered questions.
“Was Mum really that stubborn?”
“Worse,” Nadine chuckled. “Like a mule in a headlock.”
“And Grandma?”
“The gentlest soul. Never held grudges.”
Charlie frowned at his mother.
“How could you stay angry?”
Victoria had no answer. She *couldn’But as she sat holding her mother’s frail hand, she finally understood—pride was a cold companion, and forgiveness was never truly about who was right, only about who was left.
