Dont Go Through My Bag
Mary called in early December, just as Susan was unloading her shopping from the car. The carrier bags were scattered right across the hallways oak floor the box with the new boots poked out of one, a corner of a scarf hung from another, the exact kind Susan didnt really need, but couldnt resist because it matched her coat so well.
Sue, can I ask something? Marys voice, her sister-in-law, always apologetic, came through the phone. Are you coming to ours for New Years, or are we coming to you?
Youre coming to us, obviously, Susan replied, still eyeing her boots, mentally pairing them with every coat she owned. Where else? Weve more space, and everythings ready.
I know, said Mary. Its just Mum, she says she doesnt want to put you out.
Mary, we do this every year, dont we? Just tell Mum, seven oclock on the thirty-first, and to stop worrying.
She hung up, placed her boots on the shelf. Lovely boots. Real suede, no-slip sole, modest heel just right. Not like Marys, who wore the same market-bought boots every winter, beaming at how comfy they were.
Susan didnt think of herself as unkind. She reminded herself of this, and it was mostly true. She meant no harm, helped when asked, always gave gifts for the holidays. She simply had a practical mind and a sharp eye, and she noticed things the way they really were, with no rose tint. For example, she saw perfectly well that Mary, with her pride, lived in a cramped three-bed council flat with her daughter and never, ever asked for help, preferring the martyrs air. And that her mother-in-law, Mrs Allen Nora Allen to everyone else, a retired teacher always presented herself as a victim, though her pension was more than enough and her son sent money every month.
Susans husband, Anthony, got in late most nights. He headed a department at a major tech company, his team scattered up and down the country; he had so much on his plate that sometimes Susan only saw him at breakfast and just before bed. But they lived well. Very well, in fact. The flat was in a modern high-rise in Battersea, the view over the Thames, three bedrooms, a kitchen with an island, real wood floor. Eight-year-old Michael wanted for nothing LEGO sets, a bike, a tablet, Saturday morning coding lessons. Susan made sure he had what he needed, and then a bit more.
She didnt work. Not because she couldnt, simply because theyd agreed: Anthony once said, Why work, when I earn more than enough? Susan thought about it, and agreed. The house needed running, Michael needed her, and honestly, when you dont have to drag yourself into the office every morning, it would seem a sin not to enjoy it. She ran the home, did Pilates, read novels, ferried Michael to clubs, met girlfriends for brunch. Life was well arranged, beautiful, exactly as planned.
Only one thing really bothered her and it was always something to do with Anthonys family. Not that they were bad people simply, they were different. With all that pride, that stiff refusal to accept help like normal people. Susan had offered Mary barely-used things plenty of times: jackets, jumpers, nearly-new shoes. Mary had refused every time, with that look as though Susan was offering alms. Mrs Allen too. One time Susan bought her a lovely French face cream, expensive. Nora thanked her, but two weeks later, Susan caught sight of the unused jar sitting on the bathroom shelf. Untouched. Maybe too nice to use, or maybe it was principle.
But that wasnt what bothered Susan most. Mrs Allen only visited two, perhaps three times a year, but every time, Susan noticed how she looked at Michael, and then at Marys daughter Emma. Two different looks. Michael got affection, but also distance. Emma, a wide-eyed nine-year-old with plaits, was another matter. With Emma, Mrs Allen was warmer, gentler. Shed sit for hours, reading aloud, stroking Emmas hair and from the side Susan would feel a twinge she didnt like.
Shed shared this with Anthony once.
Have you noticed how your mum looks at Michael? she asked one night, after Michael was in bed.
Looks at him? Anthony glanced up from his laptop. She looks at him fine.
No, not fine. She looks at Emma completely differently. Like shes more precious to her.
Anthony shut his laptop and fixed his gaze on his wife.
Sue, youre being serious?
Dead serious.
Emmas got it tougher. No dad, Mary brings her up alone, Mum sees that. Doesnt mean she loves Michael less.
I dont like my son being loved as an afterthought.
Its not an afterthought. Anthony reopened his laptop. Youre making things up.
Susan knew better than to argue. But she kept her thoughts to herself. She was good at waiting, and remembering.
December rolled on. It got dark earlier, Michael practised his poem for the nativity, Anthony was always at work. Susan decorated the flat for New Years with little enthusiasm, each wreath and bauble going where it always went. Real fir in a pot in the corner, window fairy lights, only white and gold ornaments. The kitchen counter held a planner with the weeks festive meals written out. On the thirty-first, it all needed to be perfect.
Mary called again, just after Christmas.
Sue, can we bring anything? A salad, maybe?
Dont bother, Susan said. Ive ordered everything already.
Something at least, Mary persisted. I feel awkward turning up empty-handed.
Just bring Emma. Nothing else.
A brief pause.
Alright, Mary said softly. Thanks, Sue.
By the thirty-first, the flat shone. The table was dressed to impress linen tablecloth, silver cutlery, candlesticks gleaming. The smell of fish baking came from the oven, the fridge brimming with canapés and desserts. Michael raced about in new stripy pyjamas, sneaking looks at the presents under the tree.
Seven oclock, Michael, stop pestering!
What if they arrive early?
Love, theyre coming by the Tube, itll take them forever. No-ones early.
That too was part of Susans carefully composed picture. They lived in Battersea, central, swish. Mrs Allen lived the other side of London, in an ancient block of flats where the lift often broke down and the corridor smelt of cats. Susan had only been there post-wedding, never since. No need. Mary lived a little nearer, but the journey still took more than an hour.
Anthony was out all day. He dashed off first thing, was back by five, kissed Susan on the cheek, declared everything looked marvellous and went to get changed. Susan, elbow-deep at the stove, bristled. Looks marvellous wasnt quite what she hoped to hear after a day of work. But Anthony, he was like that not cruel, not distant, just a man who used all his words up at work.
Mrs Allen and Mary arrived at quarter past seven. Emma darted in first, old grey coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, a slightly-too-big hat slipping over her ears. Michael began showing her his toys at once. Mary loomed in with a big tartan shopping bag, followed by Mrs Allen in her brown tweed coat, one Susan recognised from years before.
Come through, come through, Susan ushered, taking coats and hanging them in the hallway. Wash your hands, find a seat.
Its gorgeous, Sue youve done wonders, as usual, Mary said, sweeping her eyes around the living room.
We do our best, Susan replied coolly. A compliment about her home, from the woman she pitied, sounded more patronising than anything.
Mrs Allen gave Anthony a quick hug, a pat on his shoulder, then wandered into the childrens room, her voice cooing: Let me take a look at you, Michael, and something else softer, indistinct.
Dinner went by in typical fashion. Anthony poured wine, even for Mary, who rarely drank. They chatted: Michaels nativity, Emmas school, the sort of headlines none could recall later. Mrs Allen, upright at the table, praised the fish. Emma, impressively well-mannered, observed proper etiquette, never reached across.
Well done, Emma, Anthony said. A proper little lady.
Mary laughed, We do our best repeating Susans own phrase, Susan noticed, but said nothing.
After dinner, Michael demanded the presents a ritual Susan staged every year: everyone gathered, gifts handed out one by one, not in a blur. Anthony fetched his boxes from beneath the tree, Susan hers. Mrs Allen produced the tartan bag, setting it by the tree.
Michael first, Mrs Allen announced. Hes the man of the house.
Michael pulled out a parcel from Grandmas bag, tore the paper despite Susans pleas for gentleness and froze. It was a huge kit proper, hundreds of pieces, the very series Michael had eyed in the shop, and which Susan never bought as he had enough toys already. Michael gazed up at his gran.
Thank you, he said, unexpectedly solemn.
Youre welcome, love, replied Mrs Allen. Five hundred pieces youll be busy for ages.
Susan estimated at a glance: a respectable set, not cheap. Mrs Allen had chosen well.
Next was Emmas turn. She unwrapped something soft, very carefully. Inside lay a winter coat, teal, down-filled, hooded with fur. With it, in a bag, matching boots. Susan took one look: suede, same shade, plush lining. Genuine suede she could always tell.
Emma held the coat at arms length, speechless. Then looked at her grandmother.
Gran is this for me?
For you indeed, Mrs Allen replied, smoothing the girls hair. Try it on!
Emma shrugged it on atop her dress a perfect fit. Mary muttered something, back turned, and Susan glimpsed tears in her eyes.
Its beautiful, Emma whispered.
Beautiful indeed, Mrs Allen agreed.
Susan stood by the tree, smiling outwardly. Inside, though, a knot tightened. The coat was excellent. Top drawer. Not cheap, nor the boots either. She glanced at Michaels kit, at Emmas new gear, and the sums ran, unbidden, in her mind. Just her way.
Lovely gifts, Mrs Allen, Susan said honestly.
Im glad you like them, her mother-in-law replied, her gaze lingering on Emma, reluctant to take off her new coat.
After that, they handed out more gifts, this time from Susan and Anthony. Then the children dashed off, and Anthony made tea. Mary helped in the kitchen. Mrs Allen remained in the lounge, looking faint.
Susan brewed the tea, arranged chocolates, sliced the cake. She moved almost on autopilot, mind fixed on the coat and boots. Of course, Michaels set was nice, but that coat and those boots a whole different price range. Mrs Allen must have spent three times as much on Emma.
Mary was slicing lemon.
Thank you for everything, she said. Dinner was fantastic.
Not at all, Susan replied. She hesitated. Couldnt resist. Mary, do you know what that coat of Mums set her back?
Mary looked up, frowning.
No. I didnt ask. Mum chose it herself.
But a rough idea? A coat like that, plus real suede boots. It cant have been cheap.
Sue. Mary laid down the knife. Why does it matter?
Im just saying Michael gets a kit, and Emma its a lot more. It doesnt quite sit right with me.
Mary held her gaze for a few seconds. Then took up the lemon and left the kitchen without a word.
Susan stood alone by the hob. The kettle whistled. Kids laughter drifted through from the next room. In the hallway, Mrs Allens tartan bag rested, nearly empty now. Nearly.
Susan couldnt quite say why she did what she did next. Later, she tried to figure it out perhaps she just needed the sums to add up, needed to know for certain. Perhaps it was something else. She grabbed the kettle, brought it to the lounge, set it on the table, went back for the cake. On her way past the hallway, she slowed.
The bag was there, not quite zipped up.
She looked round. Voices sounded from the lounge. No-one would see from the kitchen.
She opened the bag. Inside, a purse, some papers, a battered notebook. And in the side pocket, folded receipts. She pulled them out. One for the kit a decent sum; Susan nodded internally. The second receipt unfolded she checked the figure.
She stared at it for a moment.
The amount was over three times the first.
Three times. Coat and boots, together. Shed guessed they were dear but not this dear. Mrs Allen had spent three times more on Emma than on Michael. It hit hard. Emma not a stranger, no, a granddaughter by blood. But Michael was her grandson too. Her blood as well. What was this, then?
She refolded the receipts, slid them into her jumper pocket, and brought the cake to the lounge.
Everyone was back at the table Mrs Allen sipping tea, softly chatting with Anthony; Mary helping Emma off with the new coat; Michael careering in, demanding cake.
Susan began to dish out cake. Her hands moved by memory, her brain elsewhere.
The receipts weighed in her pocket.
She could have said nothing. She couldve just put the slips away, binned them, forgotten it. She was an adult. It was a celebration, the children were smiling, the table groaned under food. She couldve let it lie.
But that same annoying sensation inside wouldnt fade. It wasnt even anger, exactly. More like when youve a stone in your shoe and you finally take the shoe off you simply have to.
Mrs Allen, Susan started, her voice steady, may I ask you something?
Mrs Allen looked up.
Go on.
You spent over three times as much on Emmas gifts than you did on Michaels. Susan took the receipts from her pocket and laid them on the table carefully, not flung, simply placed. I found your receipts in your bag. Here they are.
Silence fell. Distant fireworks popped somewhere across the city.
Anthony stared at the receipts. Then at Susan. Mary kept her gaze on her plate. Mrs Allens eyes stayed on Susan.
I simply want to understand, Susan went on levelly. Dont you think thats unfair? Both your grandchildren. One a boy, one a girl, but still both yours. Why such a difference?
Mum, Anthony began.
Mrs Allen stopped him with a glance. Her eyes were calm, assessing, not angry.
You went through my bag? she asked.
I Susan faltered. It was open.
Yes, Mrs Allen nodded. It was open.
I just want things to be fair.
Fair, said Mrs Allen, setting down her tea, let me tell you about fair. Michael got a good set because Michael has everything. Ive seen this flat seen his bedroom. Shelves from floor to ceiling with toys. Whatever I bring is just another toy in a line. I picked something he doesnt have, that hed like.
That doesnt explain the money difference.
Well, as for Emma Mrs Allen seemed not to hear. Emma arrived here tonight in a coat thats too small and not for English winter. I saw her in it in October. In November. Today is minus two, and shes in it still. Mary wont say she cant afford a coat you know her. She nodded at her daughter. Too proud. I saw, I decided. I saved for that coat since June. She spoke softly, matter-of-fact. I put off my own medicine the new ones for my blood pressure. Managed without. Counted the pennies, so Emma would have enough.
Inside, Susan felt something shift. Not break, not upend, just move, as the ground does beneath your feet unexpectedly.
You put off medicine
Yes. Im a pensioner, with a daughter raising a child alone. Mrs Allens words were calm, without tears or reproach. You and Anthony are doing well. Michael has everything he needs. What can I give him? But Emma needs things. Its not about love its about seeing where youre needed.
Mary stared down, cheeks flushed scarlet.
Anthony pushed his plate away and stood up. He went to the window, stood with his back to them. Then turned.
Sue, his voice was so quiet Michael paused, mid-reach for cake.
Anthony, I just wanted to understand, Susan tried.
You went through my mothers bag.
It was open!
You took her receipts. He spoke each word slowly, weighing them. Brought them in here. Put them on the table. New Years eve, with the children around.
What children theyre in the other room.
Michaels right here. He nodded at their son. So let me ask you do you understand what youve done?
I wanted fairness.
Fairness, Anthony repeated. The word sounded so different. You, who hasnt worked a day for years. Living off me. Buying boots every month because you feel like it. You came at my mother, armed with receipts, to teach her fairness.
Thats different.
Different, he replied. Just not in the way you think. He paused. Have you ever had to go without something you wanted because you couldnt afford it? Have you ever scrimped on medicine to make sure your child got what they needed?
Susan didnt answer.
Mum saved pennies for half a year. Mary works double shifts so Emma gets by. And you you came out with receipts to lecture them on fairness. Anthonys voice went softer still, heavier. You couldnt have been meaner.
Anthony, dont say that.
I mean it. He looked straight at her. You didnt steal anything from Mum you stole her moment. Her quiet happiness. She spent six months making this gift happen, and you dumped it on the table like an accusation. Why? Because Emmas coat cost less than your own boots?
Susan realised shed run out of words. She opened her mouth, shut it again. Her mind was blank.
Anthony, not in front of Mum, Mary spoke quietly.
Right in front of Mum, he replied. I want her to hear. Mum, Im sorry.
No need to apologise, said Mrs Allen, composed. This is your family.
No, Anthony shook his head. Well sort this.
He took his mothers hand, then looked at Mary.
Come on. Ill call a cab. You stay at ours tonight. Ill take the sofa.
Anthony – Susan protested.
I can. He was already heading to the hallway. Michael, come here. Grandmas going give her a hug.
Michael, bewildered, went to hug his gran. Mrs Allen squeezed him tightly, then got up, picked up her near-empty tartan bag. Mary bundled Emma into her new coat, the girl quiet and wide-eyed.
Mrs Allen, Susan started, stepping into the hallway.
Sue, her mother-in-law said, with no anger, just exhaustion. Youre a beautiful woman. Clever. You have a lovely home. Happy New Year.
The door closed.
Susan stood in the hallway. Michael clung to her hand, silent. Fireworks were already going off somewhere over the city.
She went back to the lounge. The table was set. Candles flickered. The cake sat, uneaten. Wine glasses, mostly full. Two receipts still lay on the linen. She scooped them up, crushed them, tossed them into the kitchen bin. Stood for a moment.
Mum, Michael called from the lounge. Are we going to watch the tree?
We are, she said.
She returned to the table. Michael sat by the tree, twisting a bauble in his hands. Susan poured herself cold tea and drank it. She didnt touch the cake.
Her phone stayed quiet. No messages from Anthony. She waited, then put Michael to bed it was nearly eleven and his eyes drooped despite the nights excitement. He didnt protest, and Susan wondered if he too sensed something wrong, the way children do.
She sat by his bed until he fell asleep, then returned to the lounge. The table was still set, candles burning low.
New Years Eve. Midnight coming. An unopened bottle of champagne waited in the fridge, the one she and Anthony always shared, right at twelve. She sat by the tree, watching the fairy lights blink.
One phrase ran through her mind. Not Anthonys word. Another one. Saved since June. Skipped her pills.
She thought about Mrs Allen, taking the Tube, changing twice. About Emma, wearing a thin coat for three months of frost. About Mary, too proud to ask for help. About Mrs Allen saying nothing, not a word, until forced. Until Susan herself pulled those receipts from the bag and laid them on the table as if entitled to something.
She thought of her own boots in the hallway. Real suede. Bought on a whim last month, mainly because they matched her coat. Exactly like Emmas now, only a different colour.
Her phone pinged. She grabbed it, heart pounding.
Just Olivia, her friend, with a chatty New Years voice recording, laughter and clinking glasses in the background.
Nothing from Anthony.
She put her phone aside. The clock read 11:56. Fireworks crackled somewhere, as if in another world.
She got up, took the champagne from the fridge, opened it as shed learned towel round the cork, kept it quiet. Poured herself one glass. Set the bottle aside.
Just one glass.
She stood at the window, gazing out over the silent Thames, the coloured bursts rising above rooftops.
Twelve oclock. New Year.
She sipped the champagne. It was good quality stuff. Shed picked it out herself.
Everything in this flat was good, expensive. The floor, the tree, the linen, the silver. Shed chosen it all, with care. She knew how to choose things. She knew how to make a house beautiful.
But Anthony was standing right then in his mums ancient block of flats, on the other side of London, probably at the window too. Or maybe already asleep on the sofa.
She drained her glass, left it on the sill.
One thought came awkward, uncomfortable, like the stone-in-shoe feeling. Only now the shoe was off, the stone gone, and it still hurt, only much more clearly.
She grabbed her phone, typed one word to Anthony: Sorry.
Waited.
Nothing.
The city blazed outside. Michael slept in his room, shelves of toys to the ceiling. Somewhere across the river, Emma was likely asleep as well, in her new warm coat hung over her bed, unaware of receipts, of words said over dinner, just sleeping like a nine-year-old who is finally not cold.
Susan stood in the dark lounge. The candles had burned out while she was at the window, only the fairy lights blinked garishly in the corner.
She thought about the word shed sent Sorry. Just one word. Was it enough? Could any words ever be enough, when youd pulled out someone elses receipts, aired them in front of everyone? When youd taken someones small, precious deed and turned it into a charge?
She didnt know the answer. Not honestly. She could add, compare, weigh things up, but this how can you measure words already unleashed, deeds you cant undo? She had no way to answer.
Her phone still silent.
She cleared the table. Washed the plates, packed away the leftovers, switched off the kitchen light. Went to the bedroom, settled on her own side. The other half of the bed was empty, cold.
Outside, more fireworks still bursting, but fading like a conversation running out of words.
She lay, thinking: tomorrow is the first of January. She would have to deal with what had happened not the flat or the food, but what shed said and done, and the way Anthony looked at her, and the fact that shed not thought about anything except how things looked from the outside in a very long time.
Her phone lit up. She snatched it up, holding her breath.
Anthony had replied: Sleep for now.
Not I forgive you. Not I love you. Not Ill be home soon.
Sleep for now.
She set the phone on her bedside table. Closed her eyes.
Sleep for now. It could mean anything. It could mean nothing. She realised just how much she didnt know. For instance, shed never known her mother-in-law skipped medicine for six months. Hadnt known Mary hadnt asked for help, not out of pride, but because shed always coped and didnt want to be beholden. Hadnt known Anthony saw all of it, remembered, and kept silent while he could.
She lay, and she did not sleep.
The city had calmed. The New Year begun. Outside, cold and real, and she would have to face it.
For now, she lay in a beautiful flat, in a lovely home, thinking about two receipts, already crumpled in the rubbish, but refusing to quit her mind, as if paper itself could remember what a person most wishes to forget.
