**The Day of Forgiveness**
I returned to the village from the city on the last bus, exhausted. The whole day had been a blur—running between the hospital for paperwork, the funeral home, then back to the hospital to deliver the bundle of clothes Mum had prepared for the morgue. I’d even managed to stop by my flat to change into a black jumper.
Collapsing onto a chair, I stared at the muddy footprints on the floor—left by the paramedics, the men who’d carried Mum out, the neighbours. The door had been left open all day, October’s chill seeping in. I didn’t know if I was allowed to clean yet, so I left it.
Footsteps outside. For a second, I thought it was Rachel, but it was Auntie Margaret, Mum’s old friend. “Saw you’d got back. Need anything?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s freezing in here. I’ll get the fire going.” She returned with an armful of logs, bustling about the kitchen. For a fleeting moment, I imagined it was Mum—that her death had been a bad dream.
“There, that’ll warm up soon,” Auntie Margaret said. “Don’t fret about the wake. You handle the funeral tomorrow; Annie and I will sort things here. Has Rachel been told?”
“Left messages. No answer.”
“Ah, well. Your mum and I were like sisters.” Her tone held a hint of accusation. I looked up sharply. “Right, I’ll be off,” she muttered, hesitating at the door. “Leave the door unlocked tomorrow?”
I nodded, biting my lip. The fire crackled, breathing life back into the house. They say the dead linger close in the first days. I glanced around but felt nothing.
Mum had been fading ever since Dad died. After I left for college, I visited every weekend, bringing groceries, helping out. Last year, the doctor’s diagnosis barely seemed to upset her—if anything, she seemed relieved. When she could no longer get up, I took leave to care for her. Two days before she died, she stopped speaking. I talked anyway, begging her not to leave me.
Dad had been a good man—rare for a village where drink ruined so many. He’d always brought sweets home, and we’d adored him. His death shattered Mum. Rachel, who’d just finished school, fled and never returned.
Before she lost her voice, Mum begged me to call Rachel. No answer. I lied, saying Rachel’s daughter was ill but would come soon. Did Mum believe me?
A year ago, I’d pleaded with Rachel to visit when we got the diagnosis. “She threw me out,” Rachel had snapped. “I was a child. She never cared how her words cut.”
“She regretted it every day.”
“I won’t go back.”
The kettle whistled. I wiped the table, half-expecting Mum to scold me for the mess. What would we do with the house? Would Rachel even come to the funeral?
Then the front door slammed.
I froze—until Rachel stepped inside. “You came!” I threw my arms around her, but she stood stiffly.
“Surprised?” Her voice was brittle.
I babbled about tea, jam, potatoes—anything to fill the silence.
“Did she die here?” Rachel eyed the bed.
“Yes. She waited for you.”
Rachel studied our parents’ photo on the wall. “Funeral’s tomorrow?”
I nodded, listing arrangements through tears. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been so alone.”
She picked up her old cup—forget-me-nots still painted on it. “This survived.”
Over tea, the past unspooled. “You blame me for Dad’s death too?” Rachel asked.
“No.” Too quick.
“Liar.” She sighed. “I was drowning. I didn’t even see him. Mum said he saved me, but I always thought it was Colin. She wasn’t even there.”
“I was,” I whispered. “I called Dad.”
Rachel paled.
“He came home early—no parts delivered at the workshop. Mum sent me to fetch you from the river. I saw you struggling. Colin panicked. I ran for Dad.” My voice was flat from years of replaying it. “He got you out. By the time I realised he hadn’t surfaced…”
“You never told her?”
“Later. She blamed herself for not following him.”
Rachel’s laugh was bitter. “And I carried that guilt all these years. She could’ve reached out.”
“She did. Brought food to your dorm. Left it with Colin when you were out.”
Rachel’s face crumpled. “He never said.”
We sat, drained.
“We were children,” I said. “No one’s to blame. Let it go.”
After the funeral, Rachel took their photo from the wall. A folded note fluttered out:
*My darling girls. I lived only for you. Now I can join your father. Forgive me. Rachel, don’t hate me.*
She sobbed into the pillow. I held her. “She never blamed you.”
At the graveside, Rachel whispered, “I’m sorry, Mum.”
On the bus home, we clung to each other, afraid to let go.
It’s easier to forgive a stranger than family. Anger leaves wounds that fester. But love? Love demands we try.
