“You’re just a stranger to him, while I’m his mother,” the mother-in-law whispered.
“You shouldnt have called that private doctor,” said Evelyn Whitmore, straightening the black shawl over her head. “Our local physician was perfectly goodhes tended to us all our lives.”
Charlotte said nothing, setting another plate of fruitcake on the table. The guests had slowly dispersed, leaving only the closest family. The kitchen felt too cramped for so many, but no one dared eat in the parlour where the coffin stood.
“Why wont you speak?” Evelyn pressed. “Was it the money you begrudged for proper treatment? You paid twenty thousand pounds for that operation, and what good did it do?”
“Evelyn, not now,” murmured Aunt Clara, the neighbour, but the older woman paid no heed.
“When, then?” Evelyns eyes were red, though not from tearsfrom fury. “He was my son. I bore him, raised him, stood by him. And you you only married him.”
Charlotte clenched the tea towel in her hands. She wanted to scream, to run, to hidebut she couldnt. Today was Stevens funeral, and she had to hold herself together.
“Mum, enough,” sighed William, Stevens younger brother. “This isnt the time.”
“When is? After we bury my son? Am I to stay silent while she dictates things? This is my home! Steven was born herehe should rest here!”
Charlotte flinched. Theyd argued for a week over where to hold the wake. Evelyn insisted on her terrace house, while Charlotte suggested a quiet pub. But the mother-in-law had her way, as always.
“Ill go air the parlour,” Charlotte whispered, slipping out.
The room was stifling, thick with the scent of lilies and incense mingling with the lingering smell of roast beef. Steven lay in the coffin, stiff and unfamiliar in his black suit. Hed never worn suits, always complaining they were uncomfortable. Jeans and jumpers were more his style.
“Why did you leave me?” she murmured, stepping closer. “How am I to manage alone?”
Footsteps sounded behind her.
“Charlotte, love, dont torment yourself,” said Aunt Clara, resting a hand on her shoulder. “He didnt choose this. That wretched illness”
“She says I didnt treat him right. That I skimped on the money.”
“Pay her no mind. Grief makes folk bitter. He was her only sonher pride and joy.”
“And Ive no grief of my own?” Charlotte turned, and Aunt Clara saw her red-rimmed eyes. “We were twelve years together. Twelve years! I nursed him through it all. I quit my job to sit with him in those hospitals.”
“I know, dear. You were a good wife.”
“And she calls me a stranger. How? We married in church. We wanted children”
She fell silent. Children were too painful to speak of. Theyd dreamed of them, but it never happened. Then Steven fell ill, and all hopes faded.
From the kitchen came muffled voices. Evelyn was telling someone how Steven had tumbled from his bicycle as a boy and broken his arm.
“I took him to hospital myself,” her voice carried. “Middle of the night, in a cab. The doctor said another hour, and it mightve set wrong.”
Charlotte remembered another versionSteven laughing as he told her how his mother had panicked more than he had. How the doctor had soothed her, not him.
“He was always brave,” Evelyn went on. “Stood up for the little ones at school. Knew how to fight. And then there was his servicemade a fine officer, he did.”
Charlotte recalled his letters from the barracks. Steven writing of missing home, craving shepherds pie and proper tea. And of a girl named Charlotte, whom hed met before enlisting and meant to wait for.
“Charlotte, come,” called cousin Eleanor from the kitchen. “Evelyns showing photographs.”
An old album lay open on the table. Evelyn turned the pages, annotating each snapshot.
“Here he is in Year One,” she pointed. “So serious. Top of his class, always.”
Charlotte sat beside her, studying the boy in the pictures. A young Steven grinned back, hugging a teddy bear, building sandcastles.
“And here hes grown,” Evelyn turned the page. “At technical college, training as a mechanic. Had a way with enginescould fix anything.”
“He helped me with my car often,” Charlotte said softly. “Never once scolded me for breaking it.”
Evelyn shot her a sharp look.
“Well, he was kind. Helped everyone, not just you.”
An awkward silence fell. Eleanor coughed and asked to see more.
“This was after his service,” Evelyn tapped a photo of Steven in denim and a leather jacket by his motorcycle. “Handsome devil, had girls trailing after him.”
Charlotte remembered their meeting. Hed been giving her friend a lift home, and shed tagged along. Steven told jokes the whole way. Shed thought him the most charming man alive.
“How many sweethearts he had,” Evelyn sighed. “Never took any seriously. Said marriage could waithe wanted to live a little.”
“Mum, why bring that up?” William chided.
“Whats wrong with truth? He was a bachelor long enough. Then suddenly, married. Surprised me, that did.”
Charlottes cheeks burned. Steven had hesitated to introduce them, warning his mother was set in her ways.
“It was a lovely wedding,” Aunt Clara interjected. “That tiered cake you ordered”
“I ordered it,” Evelyn corrected. “And bought her dress. Shed no money of her own.”
“I worked,” Charlotte said quietly. “The wages just werent much.”
“Exactly. Steven earned well. The factory thought highly of himpromotions every year.”
Charlotte recalled their dream of buying a house. Scrimping and saving, then all their funds swallowed by treatments.
“He wanted children badly,” she said suddenly. “Always said, Once Im well, well start a family.”
Evelyn went still. Then she shut the album and tucked it away.
“Best set the table,” she said. “The vicar will be here soon.”
When the others scattered, only Charlotte and William remained. He smoked on the balcony while she washed dishes.
“Dont take it to heart,” he said, coming inside. “She loved him fiercely. Too much, maybe.”
“I know,” Charlotte replied, back turned. “But hearing Im a strangerit cuts deep.”
“Youre not. You were his wife.”
“Were,” she echoed. “And now? A widow? It sounds so hollow.”
“Youre family now. Always will be.”
But Charlotte knew better. After the funeral, shed return to the cramped flat theyd rented. Evelyn wouldnt ring on holidays. No more birthday invites, no Christmases together.
That evening, when the guests had gone and the vicar finished prayers, Evelyn approached. Charlotte sat by the coffin, clutching Stevens picture.
“We bury him tomorrow,” Evelyn said quietly. “Theres a plot at St. Marys, beside his father.”
Charlotte nodded. Theyd settled it that morning.
“And his things. Will you take them, or leave them here?”
“Im not sure yet. May I decide later?”
“If you like. Theyll keep.”
The women stood close, yet divided by invisible walls. Each grieving alone, each certain her pain was greater.
“Youre just a stranger to him. Im his mother,” Evelyn whisperedso faintly Charlotte wondered if shed imagined it.
Perhaps it was just exhaustion, grief, this endless day refusing to end.
Charlotte looked at the photo in her hands. Steven smiled back, young and carefree. As hed been when they married, when life stretched ahead, bright with promise.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, unsure whom she meanther husband, or his mother.
Outside, dusk settled. Somewhere beyond, a life without Steven began. No more laughter, no steady hands, no shared tomorrows. Just Charlotte, learning to be herself againnot Stevens wife, but simply a woman alone.
