The mother pretended to be ill to find out which of her children truly loved her. The outcome was unexpected.
When the phone rang early in the morning, Emily barely remembered where she was—half-asleep, half-awake. The screen flashed *Mum*. The drowsiness vanished. Her mother’s voice was bright, almost cheerful.
“Still in bed, lazy bones? I’ve already got scones in the oven. Expect an invite tomorrow—you and Oliver. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About the will! Don’t want you two squabbling at my funeral over the house and pennies. Both of you, no excuses!”
Emily froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty it felt pointless to argue.
Meanwhile, Margaret, mother of Emily and Oliver, sat at the table, adjusting her woollen shawl. Beside her, neighbour Sharon looked anxious.
“Margaret, are you ill? What’s with the dark talk? You’re frightening me…”
“Don’t fret, Sharon. Just wanted to see my children. A year’s gone by without a word. Each off in their own world, like strangers. And if something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll set things straight? Besides, I want to test them. See who truly cares.”
With that, Margaret saw Sharon out and settled in for the night. Tomorrow would be a big day.
The morning was grey, matching her mood. She tidied the house, slipped into an old dressing gown, washed up, and sat quietly, waiting. An hour later, a knock came at the door.
Emily rushed in first—flushed, breathless.
“Mum! What’s wrong? Are you ill? What’s this about a will?” she cried, rushing to her mother.
Oliver followed, more reserved.
“Really put the wind up us, Mum. Planning an early exit, are we?”
“Sit down, both of you,” Margaret said calmly. “And call your partners in. Sarah, James, don’t linger outside.”
Once seated, she began.
“Listen, and don’t interrupt. Old age creeps up, and I’m alone. Illness doesn’t announce itself. So, I’ve made my decisions. First—help around the house. If not family, then who? Firewood needs chopping, meals need making…”
Emily and Sarah nodded and got to work. Margaret watched closely—dough sticking to fingers, potatoes unevenly sliced, pans clattering. *City folk, all thumbs*, she thought sadly but said nothing. That wasn’t the point.
After the meal, she asked James and Sarah to step out—leaving only the children.
“Now listen carefully. I’ve decided to leave the house to Sharon. She’s close, she’ll help if needed. Oliver, the shed, tools, and land are yours. Do what you like with them. Emily, my savings—what’s left after pension cuts and frugal living.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
“The house—to the neighbour?” Oliver finally said. “You’re serious?”
“Why not? A year without a visit. Sharon checks in daily. Oliver, you didn’t invite me to your wedding—ashamed of your country mum? And Emily, I chose not to speak at your second wedding to James. You were upset, remember? When I said Sean wasn’t right for you. Turns out I was right…”
“Mum, don’t…” Emily whispered.
“I’m not well. I’ll rest,” Margaret sighed, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, tempers flared.
“This is your fault!” Oliver hissed. “Could’ve visited more. Now the house goes to Sharon!”
“Oh, sure! While I’m working day and night! What about you and Sarah? She stays home—could’ve dropped in!”
They argued, voices rising. Margaret sat by the window, tears welling. Where were the children who once ran barefoot through the yard? Where was their kindness, their care for one another?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—just waiting, composed, though her eyes betrayed her.
“Mum, what? You’re ill…” Oliver started.
“Better now,” she said flatly. “It’s clear. I’m not needed. The will? It’ll wait. Until you decide—why you want this house. To cherish or to divide?”
Breakfast the next morning was quiet—just the scrape of chairs, the clink of spoons. Finally, Emily spoke.
“We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit more, I promise. We’re family.”
Margaret nodded. A warm silence settled over the table.
From then on, some things changed—and others didn’t. Oliver rarely came but sent money. Emily visited more—soup from the shop, help in the garden. No one mentioned the will again.
No one knew it already lay in the bottom dresser drawer, signed and stamped. Everything was split down the middle. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
