The door didnt open right away. Margaret Dawson had just caught her breath, though sweat still trickled in thin, unpleasant streams down her forehead and onto her brows and nose. From behind the door came first a surprised exclamation, then the click of the lock, and only then did her daughter appear in the doorway.
“Mum?! Good heavens How on earth did you carry all these bags? And why? And why didnt you tell me you were coming?”
Tall, tanned, with an expression of faintly irritated surprisethis was how her own daughter, Emily, greeted her, the daughter Margaret hadnt seen in over a year. When was Emily ever going to visit them, her ageing parents? Never had the time! So Margaret, driven by restless worry, had mustered the courage for the long journey herself.
“Just took one step at a time, love. Couldnt come empty-handed, could I?” she replied to one of the questions, heaving both bags over the threshold with effort. Emily made no move to helpperhaps she hadnt had time to register the situation. Finally, she bent down to drag one of the bags aside so they could pass.
“Good Lord, did you pack an entire ham in here?”
Her voice was smooth, polished stone, devoid of warmth, only flustered annoyance. She didnt hug her mother, just stared helplessly at the other luggagean old-fashioned, bulging suitcase on wheels standing in the middle of the polished hardwood floor like an artefact from another time.
Margaret took a small step forward. Her fingers, still trembling from exertion, fiddled nervously with the buckle of her coat.
“Sorry, love Brought a few things from home. Jam for little Ben, some chutneythe kind you like. All from our garden, your dad and I grew it ourselves” Her voice faltered, breathless from the effort, sounding almost guilty.
Emily sigheda deep, weary sound, full of foreboding. She looked 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 footstool. She sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap, posture rigid with old-fashioned propriety. The journey had exhausted her. The train had taken nearly six hours, then the Tube with that awkward suitcase that kept jamming in the ticket barriers.
But how could she have come without it? She never visited empty-handed. Never. And especially not now, after over a year without seeing her daughter.
“Did you change your number?” Margaret finally asked, glancing around. “I called for four days straightnothing. Your dad was beside himself by the second day, and by the third, my nerves were shot. Couldnt stop imagining the worst” She waved a hand, as if brushing away the memory. “Anyway! When I still couldnt reach you on the fourth day, I thoughtright, time to get a ticket. Booked one for three days later, still no word from you. We were sick with worry. Then that awful trip into London What happened to your phone? You cant do that to your parents. Were in our seventieshave you forgotten? And here Ive dragged myself all this way with these bags.”
Emily looked away. A faint flush coloured her usually composed face. She touched her sleek ponytail, adjusting a nonexistent strand.
“Its fine, Mum. Just switched providers, forgot to tell you” The words tumbled out too quickly.
“And Bens dads number didnt work either.”
“Changed his too. We all switched.”
Sitting on the stiff, uncomfortable footstool, Margaret couldnt help but gaze at her daughter. Emily Their youngest, the long-awaited one, prayed for after two boisterous boys. Theyd poured their whole hearts into her.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to her sons. The eldest, James, was somewhere across the Atlantic, in America. Moved there years ago for work. Rarely called, only on holidays. He had children nowgrandchildren Margaret knew only from phone screens. Sometimes she caught herself imagining their voices, their laughter, but the images in her mind stayed blurry. Too far away.
“Mum? Youve gone quiet. Feeling all right?” Emilys voice, sharper now, pulled her back.
“Oh, no, love, just thinking. Still catching my breath from the trip.” She smiled faintly. “Hows Ben? Everything peaceful here?”
“Hes at football, should be back any minute. Why dont you come through?”
“Just give me a moment. Fetch me some water, will you?”
With measured steps, Emily headed to the kitchen, leaving Margaret another minute to drift into memory. Her middle son, William, lived in Manchester, not far from their little village, but they saw him rarely. His wife, Sophie, had never warmed to Margaret. Sharp-tongued, always finding fault. Margaret triedknitted jumpers for the grandchildren, baked their favourite pies, brought jars of homemade preserves. But it was never right. The stitching was off, the pastry too plain, too ‘country’. She never argued, never made a fuss. Swallowed the slights, smiled, and prayed William was happy.
But EmilyEmily was the one who weighed heaviest on her heart. Nine years ago, theyd been so proud when she married Daniel, a hardworking lad from the next town. But after Ben was born, something shifted. Emily returned to their home with the baby, then, leaving one-year-old Ben with them, bolted for Londonwork, studying, a new life. Said she couldnt breathe in the village.
“And how is Ben? Must be so tall now,” Margaret asked softly, sipping the water, her heart pinching with familiar ache.
Emilys face softened.
“Shot up, Mum. Proper little man now. His coach says hes brilliant. Only”
She trailed off, turning away to adjust a vase on the console table.
“Only he still asks sometimes when well visit you and Dad in the village. Especially when hes upset or poorly. Says your house smells of apples and pies, and here it just stinks of car fumes.”
Margaret closed her eyes. She remembered every night when Ben, back in the city with his mother, had cried down the phone, begging to come home. He didnt do that anymore. She remembered her husband, George, smoking silently on the porch, swiping at rare, stubborn tears. Theyd poured all their simple tenderness into that boy, and then hed been taken away like a borrowed thing. No way to explain it to him.
“He should be with his mother,” Margaret had insisted back then, more to convince herself than George. “Its only right.”
On the train, watching the countryside blur past, Margaret had tried to picture Ben. What did he look like now? If he took after Danieltall, sturdyhed be shooting up. George had begged her: “Take plenty of photos, love. Ill be lost here without you.” Hed wanted to come too, but a fever had laid him low a week before her trip. Hed only just dragged himself out of bed, pale but stubborn.
“Youll manage alone, wont you? I cant sit here not knowing, its eating me alive,” shed fretted, packing jars of jam into her bag.
“Ill manage,” George had croaked, tugging the blanket higher. “Just go. But keep an eye on Emily. Somethings not rightI can feel it.”
“Come on, Mum, lets get you fed!” Emilys voice was warmer now as she led her mother further inside. “Ive got some soup and pies from the deli. Ohheres Ben!” she added as a key turned in the lock.
The door swung open, and there stood a tousle-haired ten-year-old, a sports bag slung over his shoulder. Spotting his grandmother, he froze, eyes wide, then kicked off his trainers and barrelled into her, arms tight around her waist.
“Gran! You came!”
Margaret hugged him fiercely, his small body warm against hers, smelling of autumn wind and boyhood. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
“Oi, Gran, youll squeeze me to bits!” He laughed but didnt let go, beaming up at her with an unguarded, delighted grin.
“Look at youso tall!” she sniffled, holding him at arms length to take him in. She smoothed his messy hair, her rough palm brushing his sun-kissed face. “A proper young man. I knitted you a jumper, green with reindeer” Her voice wavered slightly. “Probably too small now. Got it wrong again.”
“Sall right, Gran, you can add to it!” he said cheerfully, hugging her again. “Missed you.”
Now, Margaret sat at the glossy dining table, forcing down a single pie. The soupthin, barely therehad vanished without filling her. She eyed the dish where five more pies sat, small but perfect, bought from the supermarket deli. No time for cooking here.
“Mum, want another?” Emily asked politely, already stacking plates.
“No, love,
