The door didnt open right away. Margaret had just caught her breath, but sweat was still trickling down her forehead, dripping onto her eyebrows and nose. First, she heard a surprised gasp from behind the door, then the click of the lock, and finally, there she washer daughter, Emily.
“Mum?! Bloody hell How on earth did you carry all these bags? And why? Why didnt you tell me you were coming?”
Tall, tanned, with an expression of irritation rather than joythats how her own daughter, Emily, greeted her after more than a year apart. When was the last time Emily had visited them, the old folks? Too busy, apparently. So Margaret, nudged by worry, had braved the long journey herself.
“Managed just fine, love,” she answered, ignoring most of the questions. “Couldnt come empty-handed, could I?”
She dragged both bags inside with a grunt. Emily didnt offer to helpmaybe she was still too stunned. But then she grabbed one of the handles and pulled it further in, clearing the doorway.
“Christ, did you stuff a whole hog in here or what?”
Her voice was smooth, like polished stone, and there was no warmth in itjust annoyance. She didnt hug her mother, just stared helplessly at the other bagan old, swollen suitcase on wheels, standing in the middle of the parquet floor like a relic from another time.
Margaret took a tiny step forward. Her fingers, still trembling from the effort, fumbled with the buckle on her raincoat.
“Sorry, love Brought a few bits. Jam for our little Ben, that chutney you like. All from our garden, me and your dad grew it” Her voice was shaky, guilty-sounding.
Emily sigheda deep, exhausted sound. She looked her mother up and down, taking in the crumpled dress, the scarf askew, the tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.
Margaret, without waiting for an invitation, sat on the nearest leather pouf. She perched stiffly, old-fashioned, her work-worn hands folded on her lap. The trip had drained her. The train had taken nearly twelve hours, and then there was the Underground, wrestling with that blasted suitcase that kept getting stuck in the ticket gates.
But how could she come empty-handed? Never. Especially not now, after over a year without seeing her.
“Did you change your number?” Margaret asked, glancing around. “I rang for four days straightnothing. Your dads blood pressure shot up by the second day, and by the third, I was beside myself. Thought something awful had happened” She waved a hand, dismissing the memory. “So I bought a ticket. Got here three days later, still no answer. Whats with the phone? You cant do that to your old parents, love. Were pushing seventyremember? And Ive dragged myself all this way with these bags.”
Emily looked away. Her usually confident face flushed slightly. She touched her neat ponytail, adjusting a nonexistent strand.
“Its fine, Mum. Just switched providers, been busy, forgot to tell you” she said quickly, swallowing the last words.
“And Bens dads number wasnt working either.”
“Changed his too. Were on the same plan now.”
Sitting on the stiff pouf, Margaret couldnt help but admire her daughter. Emily Their youngest, the one theyd prayed for after two rowdy boys. Theyd poured their whole hearts into her.
Her thoughts drifted to the boys. The eldest, James, was across the pond in America. Moved years ago for work. Rarely calledonly on holidays. Had kids over there, grandkids Margaret only knew from phone screens. Sometimes she tried to imagine their voices, their laughter, but her mind refused to paint them clearly. Too far.
“Mum? Youve gone quiet. Feeling alright?” Emilys voice snapped her back.
“Just thinking, love. Still catching my breath.” Margaret smiled weakly. “Hows our Ben? Everything peaceful?”
Emily softened slightly. “Hes shot up, Mum. Proper little lad now. His football coach says hes brilliant. Only” She trailed off, pretending to adjust a vase.
“Only sometimes he still asks when were going to visit you and Grandad in the countryside. Especially if hes poorly or upset. Says your place smells like apples and pies, and here it stinks of traffic.”
Margaret closed her eyes. She remembered every night Ben, now living with his mum in the city, had sobbed down the phone, begging to come home. He didnt do that anymore. She remembered her husband, George, smoking silently on the porch, wiping away the odd tear. Theyd given that boy every scrap of love they had, and then hed just been taken, like a borrowed thing.
“He should be with his mother,” Margaret had told George back then, more to convince herself. “Its right.”
On the train, watching the forests blur past, shed tried to picture Ben. What did he look like now? If he took after his dadtall, sturdyhed have grown. George had begged, “Take loads of photos, love. Ill be bored here on my own.” Hed have come too, but hed come down with fever a week before she left. Only just got back on his feet, pale but stubborn.
“You sure youll manage alone? I cant sit here not knowing, worrying myself sick,” shed fretted, packing jars of jam.
“Course I will,” George had croaked, tugging the blanket. “Go on. Just make sure our Emilys alright. Got a feeling shes drifting for a reason.”
“Come on, Mum, lets get you fed!” Emilys voice was warmer now as she led her further inside. “Ive got soup and some proper bangers from M&S. Ohheres Ben!” she added as keys jingled in the lock.
The door swung open, and there stood a scruffy ten-year-old with a football bag slung over his shoulder. He froze, eyes wide, then kicked off his trainers and launched himself at her.
“Gran! Youre here!”
Margaret squeezed him tight, his wind-chilled, boyish smell filling her nose. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
“Blimey, Gran, youll choke me!” He laughed but didnt let go, grinning up at her.
“Look how tall you are!” she sniffled, holding him at arms length. She smoothed his messy hair, her rough palm brushing his sun-kissed face. “I knitted you a jumper, green with reindeer” Her voice wavered. “Probably too small now. Got it wrong again.”
“Salright, Gran, just add more wool!” he said cheerfully, hugging her again. “Missed you.”
Now, sitting at the glossy dining table, Margaret picked at a single sausage. The soupthin, barely therehad left her hungrier than before. She eyed the plate with its five neat bangers, bought pre-made. Emily didnt have time to cook.
“Mum, want another?” Emily asked politely, already stacking plates.
“No, love, Im full,” Margaret lied, her stomach growling. “Not hungry after travelling.”
She glanced around the kitchengleaming appliances, stylish fittings, fresh paint. Bens room had a computer, a guitar, a fancy gym set. Emily wore designer loungewear, gold studs in her ears. No hardship here. But something else was missingsomething deeper.
*Full but starving*, she thought wryly. *Back home, the tables always groaning, even when moneys tight. Here maybe this is how city folk live? Half-full?*
Ben, wolfing down his food, suddenly looked up.
“Gran, whyd you only eat one? Theyre proper good! Mum, give her moreshes been travelling!”
Emily paused, a frown creasing her perfect brow.
“Ben, dont tell adults what to do. Gran said shes full.”
“But she” He shut up under her glare.
Margaret patted his head. “Its alright, sweetheart. Really. Thank you.”
But her heart ached. His honesty had exposed the invisible wall shed felt since arriving. Everything here was polished, proper but hollow. Even the love.
“Mum, you must be knackered. Ill make up the sofa bed,” Emily said, grabbing the suitcase of treats. “Well sort your stuff tomorrow.”
Margaret nodded, following meekly. Tomorrow, shed sneak a slab of home-cured bacon and a loaf of her bread from the case, eating it by the window, staring at the city that felt so foreign and hungry. Tonight, Emily had said they “dont eat heavy, homemade stuff.”
The empty flat was eerily quiet. The next two days, Margaret was left to herself like a forgotten ornament. Emily rushed off each morning with a tossed, “Dinners in the fridgeheat it up.” Ben was always outschool, football, mates.
The tension between mother and daughter hung thick, unspoken. Margaret
