**Diary Entry**
The air was thick with tension. “You’re nothing to him, and I’m his mother,” my mother-in-law whispered bitterly.
“We shouldn’t have called that private doctor,” Margaret muttered, adjusting the black shawl on her head. “Our local GP has always been good enough. Hes treated this family for years.”
I set another plate of fruitcake on the table without a word. Most of the guests had left, save for the closest relatives. The kitchen felt too cramped for so many people, but no one dared eat in the sitting roomwhere the coffin stood.
“Why wont you speak?” Margaret pressed, her voice sharp. “Was saving money more important than proper treatment? Fifty thousand pounds for that surgery, and what good did it do?”
“Margaret, not now,” Aunt Clara pleaded softly, but she wasnt listening.
“When, then?” Margarets eyes were rednot from tears, but anger. “He was my son. I carried him, raised him, put him on his feet. And you You only married him.”
I clenched the tea towel in my hands. I wanted to scream, to run, to hidebut I couldnt. Today was Stevens funeral, and I had to hold myself together.
“Mum, enough,” David, Stevens younger brother, said wearily. “Today isnt the day.”
“Then when is?” Margaret snapped. “After we bury him? Should I stay silent while she takes charge? This is *my* house. Steven was born herehe should rest here!”
I flinched. Wed argued for a week about where to hold the wake. Margaret insisted on her small flat, while I suggested a café. As always, she had her way.
“Ill go air out the sitting room,” I murmured, slipping away.
The room was silent and stifling, the scent of lilies and incense mingling with the smell of food. Steven lay in the coffin, unfamiliar in his black suithed always hated them, preferring jumpers and jeans.
“Why did you leave me?” I whispered, stepping closer. “How do I do this alone?”
Footsteps sounded behind me.
“Emily, dont torment yourself,” Aunt Clara said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “He didnt choose this. That wretched illness…”
“She says I didnt care enough. That I skimped on his treatment.”
“Dont listen to her. Grief makes people cruel. He was her only sonher pride and joy.”
“And what about my grief?” I turned, and she saw my tear-streaked face. “Twelve years together. *Twelve years.* I nursed him when he was ill. I quit my job to take him to hospitals.”
“I know, love. You were a good wife.”
“And she calls me a *stranger*. How? We married in church. We wanted children…”
I trailed off. That pain was too raw. Wed tried for so long. Then Steven fell ill, and it no longer mattered.
From the kitchen, muffled voices roseMargaret recounting how Steven had fallen off his bike as a boy and broken his arm.
“*I* took him to hospital,” she said. “In the middle of the night, in a taxi. The doctor said another hour, and it wouldve healed wrong.”
I remembered Steven laughing as he told me the same storyhow his mother had panicked more than he had. The doctor had calmed *her*, not him.
“He was always brave,” Margaret went on. “Stood up for the little ones at school. Knew how to fight. Then he served in the armywouldve made a fine officer.”
I thought of his letters from basic traininghow he missed roast dinners and potatoes with parsley. How he wrote about *me*, the girl hed met just before enlisting, the one he swore hed come back to.
“Emily, come here,” cousin Lily called from the kitchen. “Margarets showing photos.”
An old album lay open on the table. Margaret turned the pages, narrating each snapshot.
“First day of school,” she said. “So serious. Top of his class, always.”
I sat beside her, studying pictures of a boy Id never knowngrinning with a teddy bear, building sandcastles.
“Here he is grown,” Margaret turned the page. “Collegetrained as a mechanic. Had a gift for fixing anything.”
“He always helped me with my car,” I said quietly. “Never minded when I mucked something up.”
Margaret shot me a look.
“Well, he was kind to everyone. Not just you.”
An awkward silence fell. Lily coughed and asked for more photos.
“After the army,” Margaret pointed to a shot of Steven in jeans and a leather jacket beside his motorbike. “Handsome devil. Girls swooned over him.”
I remembered meeting himhed given my friend a lift home, and Id tagged along. Hed told jokes the whole way. I thought him the most charming man alive.
“Had more girlfriends than I could count,” Margaret sighed. “Never took any seriously. Said marriage could waithe wanted to live a little.”
“Mum, why bring this up?” David said sharply.
“Its the truth. He was a bachelor for years. Then suddenlymarried. Surprised me, that did.”
My cheeks burned. Steven had hesitated before introducing me. Said his mother was set in her waysmight not approve.
“Lovely wedding, though,” Aunt Clara offered. “That cake was beautiful.”
“*I* ordered the cake,” Margaret corrected. “*I* bought her dress. She couldnt afford it.”
“I worked,” I said softly. “Just didnt earn much.”
“Exactly. Steven did well at the factory. Promotions every year.”
I remembered saving for a house, counting every penny. Then the diagnosisevery pound went to treatments.
“He wanted children,” I said suddenly. “Always said, Once Im better, well start a family.”
Margaret fell silent. Then she shut the album and slid it into the drawer.
“Time to set the table,” she said. “The vicar will be here soon.”
Later, only David and I remained. He smoked on the balcony while I washed dishes.
“Dont take it to heart,” he said, coming inside. “She loved him too much, maybe.”
“I know,” I said, not turning. “But hearing Im a *stranger*it hurts.”
“Youre not. You were his wife.”
“*Were*,” I repeated. “Now what am I? A widow? Sounds so final.”
“Youre family. Always will be.”
But I knew better. After the funeral, Id return to the tiny flat wed rented. Margaret wouldnt call at Christmas. I wouldnt be invited for birthdays.
That evening, after the vicars prayers, Margaret approached me. I sat by the coffin, clutching Stevens photo.
“Tomorrows the burial,” she said quietly. “Theres a plot at Highgate, near his father.”
I nodded. Wed settled it that morning.
“And his things. Do you want them, or shall I keep them?”
“I dont know yet. Can I decide later?”
“Fine. Theyre not going anywhere.”
We stood side by side, a wall between us. Each grievingeach certain her pain ran deeper.
“Youre nothing to him, and Im his mother,” Margaret whisperedso faintly, I wondered if Id imagined it.
Or maybe it was just the exhaustion, the grief, this endless day refusing to end.
I looked at the photo in my hands. Steven smiledyoung, happy. The way he was when wed just married, when life stretched ahead, bright and boundless.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, unsure who I meanthim, or her.
Outside, dusk settled. Somewhere beyond, a life without Steven beganone where Id have to learn to be just Emily again. Not his wife. Just me.
