Margaret laughed while I wept.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop blubbering like a child!” She turned sharply from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “Honestly, what’s all this drama about?”
Victor sat at the kitchen table, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, wet trails glistening between his fingers.
“Maggie, how can you not understand… It was Mum,” he croaked through the tears.
“Mum, Mum!” she mocked, slamming the saucepan onto the table. “She lived to eighty-four, for goodness’ sake! Some don’t even make it past sixty.”
Victor lifted his tear-reddened eyes to hers.
“How can you say that? She loved you like her own.”
“Loved me, did she?” Margaret snorted. “Especially when she was lecturing me on how to stir soup or raise the kids. Thirty years of her ‘wisdom’—what a joy.”
She sat opposite him and ladled herself some soup, appetite undimmed despite the fact they’d only buried his mother that morning.
“Enough moping,” she said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “No use crying over spilled milk. Better to think about what we’ll do with her flat. Must sell it before prices drop.”
Victor shot up, chair clattering behind him.
“Have you lost your mind? She’s barely cold in the ground, and you’re tallying up estate value?”
“And when should we think about it, then?” Margaret took another bite, unbothered. “In a year? Five? The flat’s sitting empty, bills piling up. Be practical, Vic.”
Victor gripped his head. These last weeks had felt like a nightmare—his mum wasting away in hospital, him at her side every day, holding her hand. Margaret? Not once. Always an excuse.
“Headache.”
“Bit of a cold—wouldn’t want to spread germs.”
“Work’s mad, can’t possibly get away.”
And now, before the funeral flowers had even wilted, she was counting pennies.
“I’m going upstairs,” Victor muttered, heading for the door.
“Where’s ‘upstairs’?” Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Eat your soup before it goes cold.”
“Not hungry.”
“Suit yourself. Grief burns calories, you know.”
He stepped onto the balcony, October wind biting his cheeks. Leaning on the railing, he watched the children playing below. Life rushed on, relentless—while inside, he was shattered.
His mother was gone, and with her, the last thread tying him to childhood, to home, to being truly *needed*. Margaret never understood that bond. To her, his mum had been a nuisance, an interruption to her well-ordered life.
The balcony door creaked.
“Vic, come inside—you’ll catch your death.” Margaret handed him a steaming mug. “Drink this.”
He took it, hands trembling.
“Tell me honestly, Maggie… Did you ever love her, even a little?”
She shrugged. “Love, don’t love—what difference does it make now? We got on well enough.”
“‘Well enough,'” he echoed. “Yeah. I suppose we did.”
Margaret studied him, a flicker of concern in her eyes.
“What’s gotten into you? Our life not up to your standards?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “Right now, I don’t know anything.”
They stood in silence. Margaret huddled in her dressing gown; Victor sipped scalding tea in tiny gulps.
“Remember when she taught you to make pancakes?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, *that*. Endless critiques—too runny, too thick, wrong pan. Harridan.”
“Remember when little Harry said ‘Grandma’ for the first time?”
“So? Grandparents always swoon over that.”
Victor set the empty mug down.
“Remember when she had pneumonia last year? You visited her every day with groceries.”
Margaret went quiet. She didn’t remember—because she hadn’t. *He’d* been the one running errands while she’d complained to her book club about his neglect.
“Let’s go in,” she said. “It’s freezing.”
That evening, their son Harry arrived with his wife, Emily. The young couple shifted awkwardly—death wasn’t something their generation faced often.
“Dad, how’re you holding up?” Harry squeezed his shoulder.
“Getting by, son.”
“Gran was… she was really special.”
“She was,” Victor agreed, throat tightening.
Emily fiddled with her sleeves. “Victor, I’m so sorry. She was a wonderful woman.”
“Thank you, love.”
Margaret swept in with a tray. “Tea’s ready! Bought a walnut cake—your favourite, Harry.”
“Mum, maybe cake isn’t… the thing right now?” Harry ventured.
“And when *is* the thing?” Margaret breezed. “Life goes on. Can’t mourn forever.”
She sliced the cake with brisk efficiency, as if this were any other Sunday visit.
“Actually,” she said to Emily, “we were thinking—why don’t you two take Gran’s flat? Save you renting that shoebox.”
Harry and Emily exchanged glances.
“Mum, it’s too soon,” Harry said.
“Nonsense! Top location, Tube round the corner. Perfect for you.”
Victor slammed his hands on the table.
“Margaret, *enough*!” he roared. “We buried her today, and you’re playing estate agent?”
“Vic, don’t shout in front of the kids,” she said coolly. “Just being practical.”
“*Practical!*” He laughed bitterly. “That’s all you ever are!”
Margaret pursed her lips.
“And what would you have us do? Sit and sob? What good would that do?”
“*Good?*” Victor’s voice cracked. “Respect her memory, for God’s sake!”
“We *did*. Funeral, flowers, sandwiches—tick, tick, tick. What more d’you want?”
Harry stood, steering his father aside.
“Dad, calm down. I know it’s hard.”
“You don’t know *anything*!” Victor wrenched free, storming out.
In the hall, he pressed his forehead to the wall. His pulse hammered in his ears.
From the kitchen, murmurs:
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Harry asked.
“Taking it hard,” Margaret sighed. “Mummy’s boy, always was.”
The mockery in her voice—even now, even today—made his stomach turn.
He collapsed onto the bed, still in his clothes. The ceiling spun. He thought of his mother’s last days, her frail fingers clutching his.
“*Vic, darling,*” she’d whispered, “*don’t be cross with Maggie. She’s a good sort—just a bit… brisk.*”
Till the end, she’d made excuses for her. And Margaret? Couldn’t even say goodbye.
The door creaked. Harry hovered.
“Dad… can I come in?”
“Course, son.”
Harry perched on the edge of the bed.
“Miss her too, y’know. Gran was… brilliant.”
“Yeah.” Victor swallowed. “Brilliant.”
“Remember her bedtime stories? That voice—like the BBC announcers.”
“Mm. Told me the same ones. *Treasure Island*. *Wind in the Willows*.”
“And her roast dinners. Mum’s never got the gravy right.”
Victor turned.
“Harry… why’s your mother like this? So… cold?”
His son hesitated.
“Dunno. Some people just… feel things differently, I guess.”
“But when someone dies—surely you’d *feel* it?”
“Should do. But Mum’s… well. You know Mum.”
A burst of laughter from the kitchen—Margaret and Emily, giggling over cake.
“Hear that?” Victor whispered. “Laughing. On the day we buried her.”
Harry stood.
“I should go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Go on, son. Live your life.”
After they left, the house hummed with normality. Margaret clattered dishes, humming *Rule, Britannia!*. Victor lay stiffly, absorbing it all—the clink of china, the splash of tap water, the *ordinariness*.
Funny. He’d buried his heart this morning, yet the world spun on. Dishes got washed. Neighbors bickered over bins. Dogs barked.
Margaret bustled in, smelling of bleach.
“Asleep?” she asked, sliding under the duvet.
“No.”
“Vic, don’t take my chatter to heart. Just trying to keep things ticking over.”
“Ticking over where?”
“Our future, of course! Grandkids soon—they’ll need help, won’t they?”
“Help from Mum’s flat, you mean?”
She sighed.
“Must you twist everything? Money’s money.”
Victor rolled toward the wall.
“G’night, Maggie.”
“Night, love.”
She was asleep in minutes, breaths even, conscience clear. Victor stared into the dark.
MaybeAs the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Victor realized some sorrows are meant to be carried alone.
