The Door Stays Shut
“Mum, open the door! Mum, please!” Her son’s fists hammered against the metal surface with enough force to rattle the hinges. “I know youre home! The cars not in the drive, so you havent gone out!”
Margaret Anne stood with her back to the door, clutching a cold cup of tea in trembling hands. The porcelain clattered against the saucer like a nervous chattering of teeth.
“Mum, whats going on?” Timothys voice grew more desperate. “The neighbours say you havent let anyone in for a week! Not even Emily!”
At the mention of her daughter-in-laws name, Margaret Annes lips twisted slightly. *Emily*. His precious Emily, for whom hed do anything. Even what happened last Thursday.
“Mum, Ill call a locksmith!” Timothy threatened. “Well break the lock!”
“Dont you dare!” Margaret Anne finally snapped, still facing away. “Dont you dare lay a finger on it!”
“Mum, but *why*? Whats happened? Talk to me!”
Margaret Anne closed her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. How could she explain what shed overheard? How could she tell him what shed suspected since standing in the GP surgery waiting room?
“Mum, please” Timothys voice softened, pleading. “Im worried about you. And Emilys worried too.”
*Emilys worried*. Of course she was. Probably fretting her little plan might unravel.
“Go away, Timothy. Go away and dont come back.”
“Mum, are you ill? Have you got a fever? Should I call a doctor?”
“I dont need a doctor. I need you to leave me alone.”
Margaret Anne stood and walked to the window. In the drive, Timothy was on the phone. No doubt telling Emily his mum was being *difficult* again.
Her son looked up and spotted her. He gestured that he was coming up. She stepped back and sank into her armchair.
A minute later, more knocking.
“Mum, its me and Emily. Open up, please.”
Margaret Anne clenched her jaw. So hed brought *her*. The wife who so carefully plotted their future.
“Margaret Anne,” came Emilys honeyed voice, “its me. Open the door, love. Timothys beside himself.”
What a brilliant actress. Knew just how to sweeten her tone when needed.
“Weve brought food,” Emily continued. “Milk, bread, that walnut cake you like.”
*Walnut cake*. Margaret Anne smirked bitterly. A month ago, Emily had “discovered” her mother-in-law adored walnut cake, and now it was her *favourite* thing to bring. What a doting daughter-in-law.
“Margaret Anne, say something,” Emily pressed, faux concern dripping. “Were *worried*.”
“*Were* worried,” Margaret Anne repeatedtoo quietly for them to hear.
“Mum, Im not leaving till you open up!” Timothy declared. “Ill camp here all night if I have to!”
She knew he meant it. Stubborn as a mule since childhood. Once he dug his heels in, that was that.
“Fine,” she finally said. “But just you. Alone.”
“What?” Timothy faltered.
“Emily goes home. Ill only talk to you.”
Muffled whispers in the hallway. Then Emilys saccharine retreat:
“Alright, Margaret Anne. Ill go. Timothy, *call me* when you know whats wrong.”
She waited until footsteps faded down the stairs, then slowly turned the key.
Timothy burst in like a hurricane, hugging her tight before pulling back to study her face. “Mum, youve lost weight! Youre pale! Whats happened? Are you ill?”
“I havent been ill,” she said, wriggling free and heading to the kettle. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting stiffly at the table, eyes never leaving her. “Now tell me whats going on. Whyve you locked yourself away all week?”
Margaret Anne set the kettle boiling and turned to face him.
“Why should I open the door? What goods out there waiting for me?”
“Mum, whats that got to do with anything? You cant stay indoors forever. Theres shopping, doctors appointments”
“Mrs. Jenkins next door does my shopping. I leave a list and cash. And Im not going back to the doctor.”
“Why not?”
She poured boiling water into mugs, stirred in sugar.
“Because last time, I overheard things Id rather not have known.”
Timothy frowned. “Heard what?”
“Your wife. On the phone to a friend. Didnt know I was there.”
“What was she saying?”
She sat opposite him, staring hard into his eyeseyes just like his fathers. Honest, kind. Could this man really be part of such a thing?
“She was talking about selling my house. Putting me in a care home. Spending the money.”
Timothy went white.
“Mum, you misunderstood. Emily would never”
“I heard every word,” she cut in. “*Word for word*. And she said, *Timothys already agreed. Says his mum cant live alone at her age, its a hazard. Well find her a nice home, sell the house. The moneyll cover the deposit.*”
“Mum, I never”
“Dont interrupt! And then she said” Margaret Annes voice shook, *”Lucky the old girls soft. Suspects nothing. Thinks we adore her. But shes just in the way.*”
Timothys head dropped. His fists clenched.
“Mum, I swear, Id *never* agree to that. Emilys got a runaway imagination.”
“Imagination?” Margaret Anne laughed bitterly. “Then why the details? The care home brochures? The estate agents number saved in her phone?”
And so, with a heavy but steady heart, Margaret Anne settled into her quiet evening aloneknowing that, whatever her son chose next, shed keep her dignity and her home till the very end.
