The door didnt open right away. Margaret Williams had just caught her breath, but the sweat on her forehead still trickled down in unpleasant little streams onto her brows and nose. From behind the door came a surprised gasp, then the click of the lock, and finally, there she washer daughter.
“Mum?! Good heavens How on earth did you carry all these bags? And why? Why didnt you call ahead?”
Tall, tanned, with an expression of irritated disbeliefthat was how her own daughter, Emily, greeted her after more than a year apart. When was the last time Emily had visited them, the old folks? Too busy, always too busy. So Margaret, driven by creeping worry, had mustered the courage for the long journey.
“Just carried them, love. Not so hard when youre used to it,” Margaret answered one of the questions, shifting the weight of the bulging suitcases. “Wouldnt come empty-handed, would I?”
Emily didnt offer to helpmaybe she was too stunnedbut she did drag one of the bags aside to clear the doorway.
“Blimey, whatve you got in here? Bricks?”
Her voice was smooth as polished stone, not a hint of joy, just annoyance and flustered surprise. She didnt hug her mother, just stared helplessly at the second suitcasean old, swollen thing on wheels, sitting awkwardly on the parquet floor like an artifact from another time.
Margaret took a small step forward, her fingers fumbling with the buckle of her coat belt.
“Sorry, love. Brought a few bits. Jam for our Ben, your favourite chutney. All from our garden, your dad and I grew it” Her voice faltered, tired from the effort, tinged with guilt.
Emily sighed, a deep, weary sound full of foreboding. Her gaze flicked from the suitcase to her motherto her creased dress, the scarf askew, the tiny beads of sweat on her lip.
Without waiting for an invitation, Margaret perched on the nearest leather pouf, sitting primly, hands folded on her lap. The journey had drained her. The train had taken twelve hours, then the Tube with that blasted suitcase, which kept jamming in the ticket barriers.
But how could she have come empty-handed? Never. Especially not now, after more than a year without seeing her.
“Changed your number, did you?” Margaret exhaled, glancing around. “Called for four days straightno answer. Your dads blood pressure shot up by the second day, by the third I was beside myself. Thought something dreadful had happened. Then, on the fourth daystill nothing. So I said, right, time for a ticket. Got one three days later, but still no word from you. We were out of our minds! And then this slog to London Whats with the phone? You cant do that to your parents, love. Were in our seventies. And here I am now with all this.”
Emily looked away. Her usually confident face flushed faintly. She adjusted her perfect ponytail, though no strand was out of place.
“Its fine, Mum. Just changed providers, got a new numbermustve slipped my mind to tell you,” she said quickly, swallowing the last words.
“And Bens dads number wasnt working either.”
“Changed his too. We switched together.”
Sitting on the stiff pouf, Margaret couldnt help but admire her daughter. Emilytheir youngest, their little miracle after two rowdy boys. Theyd poured everything into her.
Her thoughts drifted to the boys. The eldest, James, was overseas now, in America. Left years ago for work. Rarely called, only on holidays. He had children theregrandchildren Margaret only knew through phone screens. Sometimes she imagined their voices, their laughter, but her mind refused to paint them clearly. Too far away.
“Mum? Youve gone quiet. Feeling alright?” Emilys voice pulled her back.
“Just thinking, love. Still catching my breath.” Margaret forced a smile. “Hows Ben? Everything peaceful?”
“Hes at football, should be back any minute. You want to freshen up?”
“In a bit. Fetch me some water, would you?”
Emily strode off to the kitchen, leaving Margaret with her thoughts. The middle son, Thomas, lived up north in Manchester, but they hardly saw him. His wife, Claire, had never warmed to Margaret. Sharp-tongued, that one. Margaret triedknitted jumpers for the grandkids, baked their favourite sausage rolls, brought homemade preserves. But it was never enough. The jumpers were “too old-fashioned,” the sausage rolls “too plain.” She swallowed it all, smiled, prayed Thomas was happy.
But Emilythat was the real heartache. Nine years ago, theyd married her off to Daniel, a good, hardworking lad from Liverpool. But after Ben was born, something soured. She came home with the baby, then left him with Margaret and George, bolted to Londonwork, study, “breathing room.” Said she was suffocating in the countryside.
“How is Ben, really? He mustve grown,” Margaret asked softly, sipping the water. Her heart ached.
Emilys face softened. “Shot up, Mum. Proper little man now. His coach says hes brilliant. But” She trailed off, adjusting a vase on the console. “He still asks when were going back to Nana and Grandads. Especially when hes poorly. Says your place smells like apples and fresh bread, and here well, it stinks of traffic.”
Margaret closed her eyes. She remembered the nights Ben, now back with his mum in the city, had sobbed down the phone, begging to come home. Not anymore. She remembered George, smoking on the porch, wiping away silent tears. Theyd poured all their love into that boy, then hed been taken away like a borrowed book.
“He ought to be with his mother,” shed told George back then, more to convince herself. “Thats how it should be.”
On the train, watching the blur of fields, shed tried to picture Ben. Taller now, surely. George had begged, “Take loads of photos, love. Ill be rattling round here on my own.” Hed wanted to come, but the flu had knocked him flat the week before she left.
“Up you get, Mum, lets get some food in you!” Emilys voice was warmer now, leading her deeper into the flat. “Got some soup and pies from M&S. Ohheres Ben!”
The door swung open, and a tousle-haired ten-year-old with a sports bag froze in the doorway. His eyes widened, then he kicked off his trainers and launched himself at her.
“Nana! You came!”
Margaret crushed him to her, his hair smelling of autumn wind and boyhood. Tears spilled freely.
“Oi, Nana, youll squeeze me to bits!” He laughed but didnt let go, beaming up at her.
“Look at you! So big now!” She held him at arms length, smoothing his hair, cupping his sun-kissed face. “Brought you a jumper, green with reindeer” Her voice wavered. “Probably too small now. Missed the mark again.”
“Salright, Nana, just add more yarn!” He hugged her again. “Missed you.”
Now, sitting at the sleek dining table, Margaret picked at a single pie. The soupthin, barely therehad vanished without filling her. She eyed the remaining pies, shop-bought, the kind Emily never had time to make.
“Mum, want another?” Emily asked politely, already stacking plates.
“No, love, Im fine.” She lied, her stomach hollow.
She studied the kitchengleaming appliances, stylish fittings, fresh paint. Bens room had a computer, a guitar, a fancy pull-up bar. Emily wore designer loungewear, gold studs in her ears. No hardship here. Just a different life.
*Full to the brim and starving,* she thought bitterly. *Back home, the table groaned even when money was tight. Here, they live on air.*
Ben, wolfing down his food, suddenly frowned at her. “Nana, whyd you only eat one? Theyre proper good! Mum, give her anothershes been travelling!”
Emily stiffened. “Ben, dont tell adults what to do. Nana said shes full.”
Margaret patted his head. “Its alright, sweetheart. Thank you.”
But the boys honesty had cracked something open. Everything here was measured, controlledeven affection.
“Mum, you must be knackered. Ill make up the sofa bed,” Emily said, hefting the suitcase of gifts. “Well sort your things tomorrow.”
Margaret nodded, already planning to sneak a slab of her homemade shortbread from the case later. Emily had banned “all that heavy baking” the moment she arrived.
Silence pressed in over the next two days. Emily rushed off each morning”Foods in the fridge, just microwave it.” Ben was always at school, football, or out with mates.
The tension hung thick,
