**A Mother’s Burden**
No one in the village thought highly of Margaret. How could they? She lived in a fine cottage while her daughter, Emily, scraped by in a tiny, crumbling house with her two little ones. Emily only made matters worse by badmouthing her mother to anyone who cared to listen. “I haul water from the well, while she’s got proper plumbing. I buy firewood with what little I have, and she’s got gas!” she’d moan. Margaret held her head high, ignoring the gossip. Why should she explain herself?
Years ago, life had been good. A loving husband, a sweet daughter, a comfortable three-bedroom house—everything in its place. Margaret stayed home, raising Emily, sending her to the best schools and clubs. Then, when Emily turned fifteen, her father fell ill. Margaret fought hard, selling nearly everything they owned—except the house—to pay for his treatment. Still, it wasn’t enough. Three years later, he was gone.
Left with nothing, Margaret took a job at a corner shop, working the till and scrubbing floors when needed. The pay was meagre. Emily, used to better things, refused to study further. “We can’t afford university, and I won’t settle for trade school—don’t even ask,” she snapped. Instead, she preferred going out, playing her mother like a fiddle—sweet-talking when she needed money, sharp-tongued when she didn’t. It was endless.
Then came Robert. At first, Margaret was relieved—finally, her daughter had found sense. He was well-dressed, authoritative, generous with food and money, and even called Margaret “Mum” from the start. A proper gentleman.
For six months, life was peaceful. The house stayed clean, supper was always ready. The young couple stayed out late, but Margaret didn’t pry. Until the fights started. Emily came home tearful; Robert grew cold. Margaret should’ve intervened, but she didn’t.
One evening, they called her in. “Mum, we want to live on our own,” Emily began. “We need the house sold, the money split fairly.” Margaret balked—she had nowhere else to go. But Emily pushed, alternating between pleading and threats. In the end, Margaret gave in. The buyers handed the cash to the young couple—and they vanished with it.
Homeless, Margaret took the only job she could find—a live-in carer for an elderly widow, Edith. The woman was stern, demanding starched curtains and freshly baked bread in the old brick oven. It took time, but Margaret learned. When Edith passed—suddenly, between breakfast and lunch—her son offered Margaret a kindness. “I know your story,” he said. “The house is yours, for a fair price, in instalments.”
Margaret finally had a home again. Then Emily reappeared—not alone, but with two young children in tow. “This is nice,” she said briskly. “Where’s my room?”
Sharp as ever, Margaret replied, “Your room was sold with the house. Where’s my share? And what, exactly, brings you back? Let me guess—Robert was a gambler, left you penniless?”
Emily sniffed. “I tried twice more, but no luck. When the last one threw me out, I thought—my mother wouldn’t turn me away.”
Margaret’s voice hardened. “You thought wrong. You made your choices. Stay the night. Tomorrow, you go.”
Two weeks later, Emily left—scraping together enough for a shabby little place. She kept the children from Margaret, and so they lived, close yet distant.
Reconciliation came only when fire took Emily’s home—her latest man had been careless. Thankfully, she and the children had been away. When they turned up at Margaret’s door, she let them in. After all, who else did she have? Perhaps it was time to let old wounds heal. What came next—well, only God knew.
