“Youre nothing to himIm his mother,” hissed the mother-in-law.
“You shouldnt have called that private doctor,” muttered Evelyn Thompson, adjusting the black scarf on her head. “Our GP is perfectly goodhes looked after us for years.”
Emily silently placed another plate of fruitcake on the table. The guests had begun to drift away, leaving only the closest family. The kitchen felt cramped with so many people, but no one dared eat in the front room where the coffin stood.
“Cat got your tongue?” Evelyn pressed, relentless. “Regretting the money you wasted on that posh treatment? Twenty grand for that operation, and what did it get us?”
“Evelyn, not now,” murmured Auntie Claire, the neighbour, but she might as well have been talking to the wall.
“And when *should* I say it?” The womans eyes were rednot from tears, but anger. “He was *my* son. I carried him, fed him, raised him. And *you*you just married him.”
Emily twisted the tea towel in her hands. She wanted to scream, to run, to hidebut she couldnt. Theyd buried George today. She had to hold it together.
“Mum, enough,” sighed Vincent, Georges younger brother. “Today isnt the day.”
“Oh, when *is* the day, then? After weve buried my boy, is that when well talk? Im meant to stay quiet while *she* calls the shots? This is *my* house! George was born herehe should rest here!”
Emily flinched. Theyd argued all week about the wakeEvelyn insisting on her cramped semi-detached, Emily suggesting a quiet pub. But as usual, Evelyn won.
“Ill just… air out the front room,” Emily whispered, slipping away.
The front room was stifling, thick with the scent of lilies and candle wax mingling with cold cuts. George lay in the coffin, stiff and unfamiliar in a black suit. Hed *never* worn suitsalways grumbled they were uncomfortable. Jeans and jumpers were more his style.
“Whyd you leave me?” Emily whispered, stepping closer. “How am I meant to do this alone?”
Footsteps shuffled behind her.
“Love, dont torture yourself,” said Auntie Claire, resting a hand on her shoulder. “It wasnt his fault. Bloody awful illness.”
“She thinks I didnt fight hard enough. That I skimmed on his care.”
“Dont mind her. Grief makes people cruel. He was her only sonher pride and joy.”
“And what, Im not grieving?” Emily turned, her tear-streaked face raw. “Twent years together. *Twenty.* I nursed him through itquit my job to take him to appointments!”
“I know, pet. You were a good wife.”
“And she says I was *nothing* to him. *Nothing?* We married in church! We wanted children”
Emily choked. That hurt too much. Theyd tried, but it never happened. Then George got sick, and dreams like that slipped away.
From the kitchen, Evelyns voice carriedrecounting how eight-year-old George had fallen off his bike and broken his wrist.
“I took him to A&E myself,” she boasted. “Middle of the night, in a cab. Doctor said another hour, and itd have set wrong.”
Emily remembered Georges versionhow hed laughed telling it, how *his* mum had been the one in hysterics, the doctor calming *her* down, not him.
“He was always brave,” Evelyn droned on. “Stood up for the little lads at school. Knew how to throw a punch. Then he joined the armycouldve been an officer, easy.”
Emily thought of his letters from basic traininghow he missed Sunday roasts, how hed met a girl named Emily right before enlisting and swore hed wait for her.
“Emily, come back in,” called Cousin Lucy from the kitchen. “Evelyns got the photo albums.”
Inside, a battered album lay open. Evelyn flipped pages, annotating every snapshot.
“LookYear Three. Dead serious, this one. Straight-A student.”
Emily sat beside her, tracing Georges childhood grinbuilding sandcastles, hugging a teddy bear.
“And here he is grown,” Evelyn turned the page. “College. Studied mechanicscould fix anything with an engine.”
“Yeah,” Emily murmured. “He never minded when I busted the car. Always just laughed.”
Evelyn shot her a look.
“Well, he was kind to *everyone.* Not just you.”
Silence. Lucy coughed, asking for more photos.
“After the army,” Evelyn jabbed a picture of George in leathers by his motorbike. “Handsome devil. Girls went mad for him.”
Emily remembered their first meetinghim giving her mate a lift home, her tagging along. Hed cracked jokes the whole way. Charmed the socks off her.
“Loads of girlfriends,” Evelyn sighed. “Never serious, though. Always said, Plenty of time to settle down.”
“Mum, why bring that up?” Vincent groaned.
“Its true! He was a bachelor forever. Then*bam*married out of nowhere. Surprised us all.”
Emilys cheeks burned. George had delayed introducing themwarned his mum was “old-school.”
“Lovely wedding, though,” Auntie Claire cut in. “That three-tier cake!”
“*I* ordered that cake,” Evelyn snapped. “*I* paid for her dress. She had no savings.”
“I worked,” Emily said quietly. “Just… not glamorous wages.”
“Exactly. George earned *proper* money. Promotions every year at the factory.”
Emily remembered saving for a housescrimping, budgeting. Then the diagnosis ate their deposit.
“He wanted kids,” she blurted. “Always said, Once Im well, well start trying.”
Evelyn went still. Then she shut the album with a thud.
“Table needs setting. Vicarll be here soon.”
Later, only Emily and Vincent remainedhim smoking on the patio, her scrubbing plates.
“Dont take it personal,” he said, stepping inside. “She loved him too much, maybe.”
“I know,” Emily said, back turned. “But nothing to him? That stings.”
“You werent. You were his wife. *Are* his wife.”
“*Were.* Now Im… what? A widow? Sounds like someone else.”
“Youre family. Always will be.”
But Emily knew better. After today, shed return to the tiny flat theyd rented. Evelyn wouldnt call at Christmas. No more invites for birthdays.
That night, when the vicar had gone and the house was quiet, Evelyn approached. Emily sat by the coffin, clutching a photo of George.
“Burials tomorrow,” Evelyn said softly. “Plot near his dads, in Highgate.”
Emily nodded. Theyd settled it that morning.
“And… his things. Dyou want them, or shall I keep them?”
“I… I dont know yet. Can I decide later?”
“Suppose. Theyre not going anywhere.”
They stood there, two women separated by griefeach convinced hers was the heavier burden.
“Youre nothing to him. Im his mother,” Evelyn whisperedso faintly Emily wondered if shed imagined it.
Or maybe it was just the exhaustion, the grief, this endless day refusing to end.
Emily looked at the photo. George smiled backyoung, carefree. The way hed looked when theyd just married, when the future seemed bright and boundless.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, unsure who she meantGeorge, or the woman whod made him first.
Outside, dusk settled. Somewhere beyond the window, life moved onwithout Georges laugh, his steady hands, their shared tomorrows. A life where shed have to learn to be just Emily again. Not Georges wife. Just… Emily.
