The door didnt open right away. Margaret Whitmore had just caught her breath, though the sweat still trickled down her forehead in thin, unpleasant streams. From behind the door came a startled gasp, then the click of a lock, and finally, there she washer daughter.
“Mum?! Good heavens How on earth did you carry all these bags? And why? And why didnt you warn me you were coming?”
Tall, tanned, with an unsettling look of surprisethat was how her own daughter, Victoria, greeted her. A daughter Margaret hadnt seen in over a year. When had Victoria last visited them, the old folks? Too busy! So Margaret, driven by nagging worry, had braved the long journey herself.
“Just picked ’em up and brought ’em, Vicky. Im used to it,” she answered one of the questions, shifting the weight of the bags. “Couldnt come empty-handed, could I?”
She hauled both bags over the threshold in jerky movements. Victoria made no move to helpperhaps still too stunned. But then she bent down, grabbed the handle of one, and dragged it aside to clear the way.
“Bloody hell, did you stuff a whole pig in here?”
Her voice was smooth as polished stone, devoid of joy, only bewilderment and irritation. She didnt hug her mother, just stared helplessly at the second burdenan old-fashioned, swollen suitcase on wheels, parked in the middle of the parquet floor like an artifact from another time.
Margaret took a small step forward. Her fingers, still trembling from the effort, fidgeted with the belt buckle on her coat.
“Sorry, love Just packed a few bits. Jam for our Ben, that chutney you like. All from our garden, your dad and I grew it” Her voice wavered, still catching from the exertion, sounding almost guilty.
Victoria sigheda deep, bottomless sound, heavy with the anticipation of hassle. Her gaze drifted from the suitcase to her motherthe crumpled dress, the scarf askew, the tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.
Without waiting for an invitation, Margaret sank onto the nearest leather pouffe. She sat upright, old-fashioned, her work-worn hands folded in her lap. The journey had drained her. The train had taken twenty-eight hours, and then there was the Tube, wrestling with that clumsy suitcase that kept jamming in the ticket gates.
But how could she come without it? Shed never visited her daughter empty-handed. Never. Especially not now, after over a year apart.
“You changed your number, didnt you?” Margaret exhaled, glancing around. “I called for four days straightnothing. Your dads blood pressure shot up by the second day, by the third I was a wreck, heart in my boots thinking what mightve happened” She waved a hand, brushing off the recent panic. “Anyway! When I still couldnt reach you on the fourth day, I thoughtright, time to buy a ticket. Got one three days later, and youre still unreachable. Weve been worried sick, and then I had to drag myself all the way to London Whats with your phone? You cant treat your elderly parents like that. Were in our seventies, remember? And here I am with these bloody bags.”
Victoria looked away. Her usually confident, tanned face flushed faintly. She touched her sleek ponytail, adjusted an invisible strand.
“Its fine, Mum. Just got a new number, been hectic, forgot to tell you” She said it quickly, almost swallowing the words.
“And Bens dads number wasnt working either.”
“Changed his too. We switched providers.”
Sitting on the stiff, awkward pouffe, Margaret couldnt help but admire her daughter. Vicky Their youngest, the long-awaited one, the girl theyd poured their hearts into after two rowdy boys.
Her thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the boys. The eldest, James, was across the ocean, in America. Left years ago for work. Rarely called, only on holidays. Had kids over theregrandchildren Margaret only knew from phone screens. Sometimes she imagined their voices, their laughter, but her mind refused to paint them clearly. Too far.
“Mum? Youve gone quiet. Feeling alright?” Victorias voice pulled her back, sharp with concern.
“Oh, no, love, just thinking. Still catching my breath.” Margaret managed a weak smile. “Hows Ben? Everything peaceful here?”
“Hes at football practice, should be back any minute. Why dont you come through?”
“Just a sec, let me rest. Fetch me some water, would you?”
With measured, practised steps, Victoria headed to the kitchen, leaving Margaret another moment to drift into memory. The middle son, William, lived up north, in Manchester, but they rarely saw him. His wife, Sophie, had never warmed to Margaret. Sharp-tongued, impatient. Margaret had triedknitted jumpers for the grandkids, baked their favourite sausage rolls, brought homemade preserves. But it never felt enough. The jumpers were the wrong style, the sausage rolls too plain, too rustic. She never argued, never made a fuss. Swallowed the hurt, smiled, and prayed William was happy.
But it was Victoria who worried her most. Nine years ago, theyd married her off to Daniel, a hardworking lad from the next town over. Started well, but after Ben was born, something shifted. Shed come home with the baby, then left him with themjust a year oldand bolted for London. To study, to work. Said she was suffocating in the village.
“So hows our Ben, then? Mustve shot up,” Margaret asked softly, sipping the water, her heart clenching with familiar ache.
Victorias face softened. “Tall as anything now, Mum. Proper little man. His football coach says hes got talent. Only”
She trailed off, turning to adjust a vase on the console.
“Only he still asks sometimes when well go back to Granny Marg and Grandad Johns village. Especially when hes upset or poorly. Says your place smells of apples and pies, and here it just stinks of cars.”
Margaret closed her eyes. She remembered every night Ben, now back with his mother in the city, had cried down the phone begging to come hometo her. He didnt do that anymore. Remembered how her John had smoked in silence on the porch, swiping at rare, stubborn tears. Theyd poured all their simple love into that boy, and then hed just been taken, like a borrowed thing. No explanation.
“He should be with his mother,” Margaret had insisted back then, more to convince herself than John. “Its right.”
On the train, watching the blur of forests through the window, shed tried to picture Ben. What did he look like now? If he took after Danielbroad, sturdyhed be shooting up. John had begged for photos: “Take plenty, love, Ill be lonely here.” Hed meant to come too, but a fever had laid him low a week before her trip. Only yesterday morning had he risen, pale but stubborn.
“Youll manage alone, wont you? I cant sit here not knowing, my hearts in tatters,” shed fretted, packing jars of jam.
“Course I will,” John had rasped, pulling the blanket up. “Go on. Just make sure our Vickys alright. Got a feeling shes pulling away for a reason.”
“Come on, Mum, up you getIll feed you at least!” Victorias voice was warmer now, guiding her further inside. “Got some soup and sausages from M&S. Ohheres Ben!” The click of a key in the lock.
The door swung open, and there he wasa tousle-haired ten-year-old with a sports bag slung over his shoulder. Spotting his grandmother, he froze, eyes wide, then kicked off his trainers mid-stride and launched himself at her.
“Gran! You came!”
Margaret hugged him tight, his small body warm with autumn air and boyish energy. Tears spilled freelyshe didnt try to stop them.
“Oi, Gran, youll squash me!” He laughed but didnt let go, beaming up at her with a grin so wide it split his face.
“Look at you! So big now!” She sniffled, holding him at arms length to take him in. Rough hands smoothed his wild hair, brushed his sun-kissed cheeks. “Made you a jumper, green with reindeer” Her voice faltered. “Probably too small now. Always miss the mark.”
“Salright, Gran, you can add to it!” He hugged her again. “Missed you loads.”
Now Margaret sat at the glossy, foreign table, forcing down one measly sausage. The soupwatery, with wisps of noodleshad vanished without filling her. She eyed the dish with five more small, perfect sausages, bought pre-made. Victoria never cooked.
“Mum, want another?” Polite, but no real warmth.
“Oh no, love, Im full, thanks.” A lie. Her
