Margaret Whitmores seventieth birthday had arrived, and she had spent the morning bustling about her kitchen, determined to make everything perfect. It was no small taskpreparing a feast for the whole family, ensuring every dish was impeccable. She had planned the menu weeks in advance, sourcing the finest ingredients from farm shops and specialty grocers. Supermarket fare simply wouldnt do. She wanted her children and granddaughter gathered around the table, savoring the kind of meal that lingered in memory. And the cakeit had to be her signature honey cake, the very same she had baked for Charlotte and Oliver when they were children.
A wistful ache settled in Margarets chest as she recalled the past, when the house had been alive with laughter. Her husband, Professor Henry Whitmore of Cambridge, their sweet Charlotte and bright Oliver, and herselfa piano teacher who had once filled these rooms with music. Henrys academic prestige had secured them this grand four-bedroom townhouse in Chelsea, which she had furnished with impeccable taste: a crystal chandelier in the sitting room, mahogany bookshelves, a fine Wedgwood dinner service, and heirloom silverware polished to a gleam. Her friends often remarked that her home resembled a stately drawing room from a bygone era, and the compliment never failed to please her. She had been a gracious hostess, a woman who knew how to set a table, play Chopin for guests, and engage in lively conversation. This house had been her sanctuary, her kingdom. And oh, how she had spoiled Henry and the children with her cooking.
“Mum,” little Oliver had once asked, “will my wife cook as well as you?”
“I hope so, darling. But its a rare talent,” she had replied with a smile.
“Then Ill just live with you forever!”
“Oh, no,” she had laughed. “Children must grow up and leave the nest, my love. It wouldnt do to cling to your parents forever. A man must make his own way.”
She had always believed in independence. She had no desire to become some matriarch presiding over a crowded household. A Sunday grandmother, yesbut never a live-in babysitter.
Then, abruptly, the life she had known ended.
Henry had died suddenly one morning, before the ambulance could even arrive. His heartthough he had taken his pills faithfully, seen the best specialists. Mortality was cruel that way.
Margaret had grieved, then carried on as best she could. The children had flown the nest, just as shed always said they should. Charlotte had studied economics, married Simon, and moved into a grim little flat in Croydonall they could afford on their salaries. Their daughter, Emily, had been born in the local hospital. Oliver, meanwhile, had taken up with a girl named Sophie, renting a dismal room in a shared house before moving out entirely.
Once, early in her marriage, Charlotte had tentatively asked, “Mum could we stay with you for a bit? Just until Simon finds a better job?”
“No, darling. Youre married nowstart your own life. Do you think your father and I had help? We scraped by in tiny flats, shared bathrooms, went without heating. But we managed. And look what we built. You must do the same.”
She had told Oliver much the same: “Youre a man now. Provide for your family. If youve taken responsibility for Sophie, you must honor it.”
They hadnt argued. What was the use?
Margaret believed in closeness at a distance. She called often, sent gifts, invited them for tea, accompanied by her famous scones. She arranged concert tickets, hosted dinnersalways striving for that elusive familial harmony.
Today was no different. The table was impeccably set, the aromas of rosemary and roasting meat filling the house. She had even taken care with her appearanceslipping into a sequined dress, fastening the diamond earrings Henry had given her.
The family arrived in shifts. First Oliver and Sophie, bearing roses and a delicate bone china tea set.
“How exquisite! You know my tastes so well,” Margaret exclaimed, embracing them.
“We wanted to find something special,” Sophie said softly.
“And that dress, my dearso elegant. And your cheeks! Positively glowing.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “Mum, we actually wanted to tell you”
“Later, darling. Charlotte and Simon are nearly here. Their wretched car broke down againtheyre taking the Tube.”
Half an hour later, Charlotte arrived with Simon and Emily. They presented tulips and a velvet box containing a gold pendant.
“How it sparkles! Not diamonds, of course, but lovely all the same. I shant wear it with these earrings, but perhaps with my ring.”
“We couldnt stretch to diamonds, Mum,” Charlotte said wearily. “That cars a money pit, rents gone up again, Emilys ballet lessonssome months, we dont know which bill to pay first.”
“Darling, must we dwell on such dreary matters? Everyone has struggles. They pass.” Margaret waved a hand. “Now, lets eat!”
They settled around the table, praising the food, making stilted conversation about work and the unseasonable rain.
“How wonderful this is,” Margaret sighed. “Though I do miss your father. He always brought me the most magnificent flowers and jewels. And Id cook his favorites. Such happy times. Gone too soon.” She shook off the melancholy. “But no matter. After dinner, Ill play for you all.”
Oliver raised his glass. “Mum, weve another gift for you. A surprisefor us as well.”
“Oh?” Margarets eyes gleamed. Perhaps diamonds after all.
“Sophie and I are expecting.”
A pause. Then”Goodness! What wonderful news!” Margaret forced a smile, hugging them. Charlotte embraced her brother; Simon clapped Oliver on the back. Little Emily giggled at the excitement.
“Now, now, enough fussing,” Margaret chided, though her smile tightened. The spotlight had shifted, and she didnt care for it. “Whod like more roast?”
Oliver slid a brochure across the table. “Mum, what do you think of this cottage?”
“Charming. Are you buying?”
“Its for you.”
Her fork stilled. “Pardon?”
“Not a gift. Wewe need to talk. Weve been in that awful shared house for years. One bathroom, a kitchen that stinks of stale grease. Youve seen it.”
“Dreadful. But what has that to do with me?”
“We cant raise a child there. Were asking you to sell this househelp us buy our own.”
Charlotte and Simon stared. Margarets voice turned icy. “You want me to sell my home? The one your father and I built? So you can have a cottage inwhere is this, Essex? The audacity!”
“You live alone in four bedrooms! A study, a guest rooma balcony bigger than our kitchen! And were in that hovel. Have you no shame?”
“Shame? Ive welcomed you with open armsgifts, concerts, dinners! My pension isnt limitless. How dare you tally my rooms?”
“Youve never asked what its like for us. When Emily was ill last winterdid you think it might be the damp? No, you were too busy with your piano students and your antiques. You hoard this house like a miser while we struggle!”
“I help where I can. But ruin myself because you cant manage? No. You chose to have a childsupport it. Charlotte, have you nothing to say?”
Charlottes voice was quiet. “What about us? Eight years in that moldy flat. We couldve had a mortgage by nowif wed had the deposit. But you refused to even let us stay after the wedding!”
“You needed to stand on your own feet. Visiting is one thingleeching is another.”
“Is it a crime to want a decent life?” Oliver snapped.
Margaret set down her knife. “Then work for it. This is my home. I wont abandon it.”
Silence fell. The clock ticked. Margaret took a deliberate bite of steak, savoring the weight of her silver fork.
The children exchanged glances. Emily fidgeted. “Grandmama, is there cake?”
“Honey cake, darling. Your mothers favorite.”
Charlotte stood abruptly. “Emily, well have cake at a café. Simon, were leaving. Thank you, Mum. Everything was lovely.”
“As you wish, darling. Oliver?”
“I think well go too.”
She heard them whispering in the hall: “Why bring this up today? The house will be ours eventually.”
“When, Charlotte? In twenty years? We need to live now. That cottage is perfectshe could grow roses, play piano, wed finally have space”
Margaret smiled into her wine. So they were waiting for her to die.
They left in a huff. She finished her meal, cleared the table, brewed coffee from the beans she imported from that little Ethiopian shop. The honey cake was sublime.
As she sipped her coffee, watching some drama on the telly, she wondered: When had living for oneself become a sin?
