“You’re a stranger to him, and I’m his mother,” whispered the mother-in-law.
“You shouldnt have called that doctor from the private clinic,” said Eleanor Whitmore, adjusting the black shawl over her hair. “Our local physician has always been good enoughhes treated us all our lives.”
Margaret said nothing, setting another plate of tea cake on the table. The guests had slowly begun to leave, only the closest remaining. The kitchen felt too cramped for so many, but no one dared eat in the parlour where the coffin stood.
“Why wont you speak?” the older woman pressed. “Was it the money you begrudged for proper treatment? Twenty thousand pounds for the surgery, and what good did it do?”
“Eleanor, not now,” murmured Aunt Clara from next door, but the woman wouldnt be silenced.
“When then?” Her eyes were red, not from tears but from anger. “He was my son. I bore him, raised him, put him on his feet. And she… she only married him.”
Margaret clenched the tea towel in her hands. She wanted to scream, to run, to hidebut she couldnt. Today was Stephens funeral, and she had to hold herself together.
“Mum, thats enough,” sighed William, Stephens younger brother. “This isnt the time.”
“When is, then?” Eleanor shot back. “After we bury my son, shall we talk then? Must I stay silent while she gives orders? This is my house! Stephen was born here, and here he should lie!”
Margaret flinched. They had argued for a week over where to hold the wake. Eleanor insisted on her own small flat, while Margaret suggested a quiet inn. But the mother-in-law had her way, as always.
“Ill go air the parlour,” Margaret whispered before slipping out.
The room was still and stifling. The scent of flowers and incense mingled with the smell of food. Stephen lay in the coffin, unfamiliar in his black suit. He had always hated them, saying they were stiff. Jeans and jumpers were more his way.
“Why did you leave me?” she murmured, stepping closer. “How am I to go on alone?”
Footsteps sounded behind her.
“Margaret, love, dont torment yourself,” said Aunt Clara, resting a hand on her shoulder. “He didnt choose this. That wretched illness…”
“She says I didnt care for him properly. That I spared the money.”
“Pay her no mind. Its grief talking. He was her only son, her pride and joy.”
“And what of my grief?” Margaret turned, and Aunt Clara saw the tears in her eyes. “We were together twelve years. Twelve years! I nursed him when he was ill. I left my job to take him to hospitals.”
“I know, dear. You were a good wife.”
“And she calls me a stranger. How? We were wed in church. We were meant to have children…”
She fell silent. Children were too painful to speak of. They had dreamed of them, but it never happened. Then Stephen fell ill, and there was no room left for dreams.
Muffled voices drifted from the kitchen. Eleanor was telling someone how Stephen had fallen from his bicycle as a boy and broken his arm.
“I took him to hospital myself,” came her voice. “In the middle of the night, by cab. The doctor said if wed been any later, it wouldnt have set right.”
Margaret listened, remembering it differentlyhow Stephen had laughed telling her the story, how hed said his mother had been more frightened than he was. The doctor had spent more time calming her than the boy.
“He was always so brave,” Eleanor went on. “Stood up for the younger lads at school. Knew how to fight. Then he served in the armywouldve made a fine officer.”
Margaret thought of his letters from service. Hed written of missing home, of craving roast beef and potatoes with thyme. And hed written of a girl named Margaret, whom hed met before enlisting and swore to wait for.
“Margaret, come here,” called cousin Helen from the kitchen. “Eleanors showing photographs.”
An old album lay open on the table. Eleanor turned the pages, commenting on each picture.
“Here he is in primary school,” she said. “So serious. Always top of his class.”
Margaret sat beside her, studying the images of her husband as a boy. Young Stephen grinned back from the photos, hugging a teddy bear, building sandcastles.
“And here hes grown,” Eleanor turned the page. “At technical college, training as a mechanic. Skilled with his handscould fix any motor.”
“Yes, he often helped me with the car,” Margaret said softly. “Never complained when I broke something.”
Eleanor gave her a sharp look.
“Well, of course. He was kind to everyone, not just you.”
An awkward silence fell. Helen coughed and asked to see more pictures.
“After the army,” Eleanor pointed to a photo of Stephen in denim and a leather jacket beside his motorcycle. “Handsome lad, had girls swooning over him.”
Margaret remembered their first meeting. Hed been giving her friend a lift home, and she happened to be there. Hed offered to take her too, telling jokes all the way. Shed thought him the most charming man alive.
“So many sweethearts he had,” Eleanor sighed. “But none ever serious. Said he wasnt ready to settle down.”
“Mum, why bring this up?” William chided.
“Whats wrong with the truth? He was a bachelor for years. Then suddenly married. I was surprised at the time.”
Margarets cheeks burned. Stephen had hesitated before introducing her to his mother. Hed said she was set in her ways and might not approve.
“It was a lovely wedding,” Aunt Clara said peaceably. “I remember the cakeso grand.”
“I ordered the cake,” Eleanor corrected. “And bought her dress. She had no money of her own.”
“I worked,” Margaret said quietly. “Only my wages were modest.”
“Exactly. Stephen earned well. The factory thought highly of himpromotions every year.”
Margaret remembered their dream of buying a house. Theyd saved every penny. Then Stephen fell ill, and the money vanished into doctors bills.
“He wanted children so much,” she said suddenly. “Always said, Once Im well, well start a family.”
Eleanor went quiet. Then she closed the album and placed it in the drawer.
“We should lay the table,” she said. “The vicar will be here soon.”
When the others had dispersed, Margaret was left alone with William. He smoked on the balcony while she washed dishes.
“Dont hold it against Mum,” he said, stepping inside. “She loved him dearly. Perhaps too much.”
“I know,” Margaret replied, not turning. “Its just hard to hear Im a stranger.”
“Youre not. You were his wife.”
“Were,” she echoed sadly. “And now what am I? A widow? It sounds so hollow.”
“Youre family. Always will be.”
But Margaret knew better. After the funeral, she would return to the tiny flat theyd rented. Eleanor wouldnt call at Christmas or invite her for birthdays.
That evening, when the guests had gone and the vicar had said his prayers, Eleanor approached her. Margaret sat by the coffin, holding Stephens photograph.
“The burials tomorrow,” Eleanor said quietly. “Theres a plot at Highgate, near his father.”
Margaret nodded. Theyd settled it that morning.
“And… his things. Will you take them, or shall I keep them?”
“I dont know yet. May I decide later?”
“If you wish. Theyll keep.”
The two women stood close, yet a wall lay between them. Each grieved alone, each certain her sorrow ran deepest.
“Youre a stranger to him, and Im his mother,” Eleanor whisperedso faintly Margaret wasnt sure shed heard it at all.
Or perhaps it was only the exhaustion, the grief, this endless day refusing to end.
Margaret looked at the photo in her hands. Stephen smiled back, young and carefree. Just as hed been when theyd married, when life had stretched ahead, full of promise.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, unsure whom she meanther husband or his mother.
Outside, evening settled slowly, and somewhere beyond it, a new life was beginningone without Stephen, without his laughter, his warmth, their shared dreams. A life where she must learn to be simply Margaret, and no longer Stephens wife.
