The air was thick with the scent of lavender and rain when Oliver turned to Emily and said, *“But you were the one who suggested we take in Mum. I never forced you.”*
Emily had just graduated from university and landed a job at the same firm where Oliver worked. He noticed the quiet, pretty girl right away—showed her around the office, waited for her after shifts in his car. They started seeing each other. Six months later, they married.
Oliver had recently bought a flat in London, but the money had run dry before renovations. Emily’s parents chipped in. The young couple threw themselves into fixing up their first home—picking out wallpaper at Homebase, painting late into the night, laughing with mates who came to help. Emily chose furniture, little trinkets for warmth. They celebrated the finished flat with a raucous housewarming. Now, just happy living.
*“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s wait on kids. We’ll take a proper holiday first, yeah?”* Oliver would say, squeezing Emily’s hand.
June was golden, the air thick with floating dandelion seeds. They spent evenings planning—booking Cornwall cottages, comparing flight prices. But disaster came from nowhere, and their holiday never happened.
One morning, as Emily swiped mascara at the kitchen table and Oliver watched the kettle, the phone rang.
*“Em, tea’s ready,”* he said, answering.
She raised the cup—then flinched as Oliver shouted into the receiver. Scalding tea splashed onto the table.
*“What’s happened?”* she asked, seeing his ashen face.
*“Mum’s in hospital. Neighbour called. I’m going—sort your own way to work, yeah?”*
*“Right.”* She stared at the brown puddle.
*“Leave it. You’ll miss the bus.”*
She hurried out. Halfway to the stop, Oliver’s car raced past, horn blaring. She waved absently, licking burnt lips.
*“How is she?”* she asked when he appeared at her office hours later.
*“Bad. Stroke. Right side gone. Can’t speak. Doctor says recovery’s slim. She can’t live alone.”*
*“So let’s bring her home. What’s to discuss? Or d’you fancy driving to hers every night? Feeding her, changing nappies… This way, no commute.”*
Oliver agreed—too quickly, Emily thought.
Three weeks later, they brought Margot, Oliver’s mother, home from hospital. They gave her their bedroom.
*“Maybe we take leave in turns to care for her? Can’t leave her alone,”* Emily whispered in the kitchen.
*“Em, you’re better at this. Stay home tomorrow—I’ll sort remote work. We’ve sunk everything into the flat. Can’t afford a carer. Meds, physio…”*
She obeyed.
Days blurred—spoon-feeding Margot, changing adult nappies, shopping, cooking. Oliver came home, ate, barely glanced at his mother. Emily made mistakes at work; her boss returned files. Then the call: *Oliver had her replaced.*
*“Can’t you hold a bloody spoon? Help me!”* she snapped at Margot once.
*“How dare you decide for me?”* she raged at Oliver.
*“You’re struggling.”*
*“You could *help*. I’m breaking—”* She sank onto a chair, gripping her head. *“That smell—no matter how often I change her, it’s there. I open windows, she moans about drafts.”*
*“You offered to take her. I never made you.”*
The words choked her. *She’d* shouldered this.
One night, Oliver stumbled in after office drinks. They screamed till Emily yanked dresses from the wardrobe, hurling them onto the sofa.
*“I’m done. *Your* mother. *You* care for her. I’m leaving—”*
A wet, guttural sound from the bedroom.
*“What now?”* Emily stormed in.
Tears streaked Margot’s temples. She clutched Emily’s nightdress with her good hand, whimpering: *“D-don’t… go…”*
Emily collapsed onto the bed, sobbing. Margot stroked her hair.
*“I’m sorry. I’m so tired—”* She fled—smacked into Oliver in the doorway. Her glare could’ve set him alight.
Next day, she left before he returned. Needed air. Went to her friend Sophie’s. They drank wine, cried.
*“What if you… *hurried* it along?”* Sophie twirled a finger skyward.
*“Christ, Soph! If it were *my* mum?”*
She never went back. (The thought *had* crossed her mind. Terrified her.)
A month later, Margot died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue had blocked her airway, but Emily blamed herself—she’d slept too deeply.
At the funeral, numb, she watched Oliver dab his eyes. *Hardly lifted a finger, now waterworks. Performance.* Disgusted, she walked off. He didn’t follow.
*“Poppet!”*
She turned. A man grinned—wind whipping his long coat like wings. Daniel, her old schoolmate.
*“You looked miles away. Funeral?”*
*“Mother-in-law.”*
*“Rough time?”*
She nodded.
*“Lost my mum four months back. Cared for her a year. Wife left the minute she got ill. So I know what you’ve been through.”*
*“Alone? *You* did it?”*
*“Course. She was Mum. Your husband’s still at the grave?”*
She glanced back. *“Give me a lift?”*
They’d just passed the cemetery gates when her phone buzzed.
*“Where’d you go? I’m at the car—”* Oliver’s voice was calm. *Show’s over,* she realised.
*“Tired. Going home.”* She hung up.
*“You’ll be alright. Fancy a drink? Helps.”*
They sat in a café. Daniel ordered wine. Emily gulped hers—*when had she last enjoyed anything?* He listened, wordless, as she spilled everything. His hand covered hers. Warm.
*Oliver never touches me anymore. Is this it? Margot’s gone—could we fix it? Do I want to?*
*“I wished her dead. I slept—didn’t hear—”* She crumpled.
*“Not your fault.”*
*“Poppet, let’s get you home.”*
She swayed. He caught her.
In the car, she dozed. Daniel carried her inside, tucked her in. Oliver’s voice cut through the fog: *“Who the hell are you?”*
*“Let her sleep.”*
Morning came. Oliver was gone. Her phone buzzed.
*“Poppet, how’s the head?”* Daniel’s voice was bright.
*“Like anvils.”*
*“Shower. Tea. Then come to my office—”*
She went that evening.
*“You did French and English at uni, yeah?”*
*“And dodgy German.”*
*“Perfect. You’re hired. We need an in-house translator. Fancy it?”*
She smiled for the first time in months. *“When do I start?”*
*“Tomorrow?”*
*“Bloody hell. Yes.”*
*“Waste,”* Oliver muttered when she told him. *“I’d got your old job back.”*
On Margot’s 40th-day memorial, Emily trudged through muddy graves. One wreath had toppled. Oliver hadn’t visited. She righted it.
Margot’s photo watched—guilty? Accusing?
*“Forgive me. And… thank you. I’m leaving him.”* She laid fresh flowers, stepped back.
Her first paycheck rented a flat. She filed for divorce. Oliver begged her back. She returned for her things—couldn’t breathe in that once-loved home. The sickness smell had faded.
*“You with him?”* Oliver blocked the door.
*“No. Just work. We were schoolmates.”*
She left, mourning wasted years.
*“Why’d you ignore me at school?”* she asked Daniel over lunch.
*“I didn’t. You were busy swotting. Besides—Poppet and Pigeon? Ridiculous.”*
She laughed. *“Not Poppet anymore. Just Wilson.”*
*“Easily fixed. Take my name?”*
Margot’s illness had been a test—one Emily and Oliver failed. People come for a reason.
She couldn’t pretend nothing had changed. She *had* changed.
