“Saturday with the Family”
“Oh, don’t start with the diet nonsense!” shouted Emma, waving her fork with a slice of cake on it. “I already know I’m chubby!”
“Emma, love, who even said that?” her sister Sophie tried to calm her down. “Lucy was just sharing a recipe…”
“Well, I didn’t ask!” Emma snapped. “I’m sick of it! Every weekend it’s the same—my figure’s wrong, my hair’s outdated, my husband’s useless!”
Margaret sighed heavily and set down her teacup. These Saturday family gatherings at her house were becoming unbearable. All three daughters and their families were there—grandchildren tearing through the flat while the adults bickered instead of catching up properly.
“Girls, enough,” Margaret said wearily. “The neighbors will hear.”
“Let them!” Emma shot back. “Maybe then they’ll see what a *lovely* family I’ve got!”
The eldest sister, Victoria, pursed her lips and pushed her plate away. “We’re only trying to help,” she said coolly. “But if you don’t want it…”
“I don’t want your advice! I live how I live, and I’m *fine* with it!”
Margaret glanced at her daughters—each so different. Victoria, forty-eight, was stern, polished, always put together even at home. An accountant at a big firm, married to an engineer, with a son at university. Picture-perfect, at least on the surface.
Sophie, thirty-nine, the middle one, was gentle and eager to please—forever playing peacemaker. A nursery teacher, married to a mechanic, two school-aged kids. A modest, happy life.
Then there was Emma, the youngest at thirty-five but acting like a moody teen. Always dissatisfied, always picking fights. Married late, at thirty-two, had a daughter, and now constantly moaned about everything.
“Mum, where’s Granddad’s photo album?” asked Oliver, Vicky’s son, peeking into the lounge. “Want to show Jack.”
“On the shelf in the big album,” Margaret said. “Be careful with it.”
Oliver nodded and dashed off to his cousins. Margaret watched him go, smiling. At least the grandkids were a joy—unlike her daughters.
“Listen, why don’t we stop arguing?” Sophie suggested. “Let’s talk about something nice.”
“Like what?” Emma scoffed. “How perfect Vicky’s life is? Three-bed house, new car, son at uni…”
“What’s my house got to do with it?” Victoria snapped. “I work my fingers to the bone for all of it!”
“Oh, *do* you,” Emma drawled. “*I* don’t have time to work—I’ve got a little kid.”
“Lily’s *five*,” Victoria retorted. “Hardly a baby!”
“Easy for you to say! Oliver was making his own breakfast at ten!”
Margaret felt a headache coming on. Every Saturday, the same thing. They came over for family time, and it always turned into a row.
“Girls,” she said quietly, “your dad wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.”
At the mention of their father, all three fell silent. Edward had passed three years ago, and since then, these gatherings had turned tense—like he’d been the glue holding them together.
“Mum, don’t,” Sophie whispered.
“I *have* to,” Margaret said firmly. “He wanted you girls to *support* each other. And what do you do?”
Emma stared at her plate, crumbling her cake. Vicky fiddled with her hair, looking out the window.
“Mum, we’re not trying to fight,” Sophie said. “It’s just… different personalities, I suppose.”
“Personalities!” Emma snorted. “*Hers* is lecturing everyone!”
“I don’t lecture! I just say what’s best!”
“And who *asked* you what’s best?”
Margaret stood and walked to the kitchen—chaos everywhere. Dirty dishes piled up, crumbs all over the floor. She turned on the tap and started scrubbing, trying to steady herself.
Footsteps behind her.
“Mum, let me help,” Sophie said, picking up a tea towel.
“I’ve got it.”
“Don’t be daft. Many hands make light work.”
Victoria appeared next. “Mum, sorry we…”
Margaret waved her off. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“Not used to it. *Putting up with it*,” Victoria said. “We know.”
Emma slunk in too, silent, just brushing crumbs off the table.
They worked quietly for a while. Margaret thought about how things had changed. When Edward was alive, Saturdays were *fun*—him telling the grandkids stories, playing chess, the girls helping out and sharing news. No rows, no sniping.
“Mum, remember how Dad used to take us to the park on Saturdays?” Sophie asked suddenly.
Margaret smiled. “I do. The swings, ice creams…”
“And photos by the fountain,” Victoria added. “He’d say, *’Smile, girls—this is for the memories!’*”
Emma looked up. “Remember when he used to lift me onto his shoulders? I was too tiny for the swings.”
“I remember,” Margaret said. “You’d squeal like anything.”
Her eyes stung. She missed him so much, especially now.
“Gran, what’re you all doing in here?” Lily, Emma’s daughter, peeked in. “Can I have a biscuit?”
“Course, love.” Margaret handed her the tin. “Where are the boys?”
“Oliver’s showing Granddad’s photos. Says he was *really* strong.”
Emma flinched. “Lily, d’you remember Granddad?”
“A bit,” Lily said thoughtfully. “He called me ‘Bear’ and gave me sweets.”
“*Bear*?” Emma blinked. “Why?”
“Dunno. Said I was fluffy like one.”
Margaret laughed. “That’s ’cause you were always scruffy. He’d say, *’Our little bear’s awake.’*”
Lily giggled and scampered off. The kitchen fell quiet again.
“Girls,” Margaret said softly, “your dad always said family shouldn’t fuss over little things. Life’s hard enough without upsetting each other.”
“We know, Mum,” Victoria said quietly. “It’s just… hard to bite our tongues sometimes.”
“Why *is* it hard?” Margaret pressed. “You’re grown women.”
Victoria shrugged. Emma stayed silent. Sophie twisted the tea towel.
“Maybe… we all think *our* problems matter most,” Emma muttered.
“Maybe,” Margaret agreed. “Or maybe you’ve forgotten how to *listen*.”
From the lounge, the kids’ laughter spilled in. They got along just fine—why couldn’t the adults?
“Mum, tell us something about Dad we don’t know,” Sophie asked.
Margaret thought. “He worried when you girls moved out. Didn’t want you drifting apart. These Saturdays—they were *his* idea. So you’d always stay close.”
“Really?” Emma looked stunned.
“Really. He’d say, *’Margaret, they mustn’t forget family.’*”
Victoria sniffed. “I thought it was just… tradition.”
“No, love. He wanted you to have what *we* had. Grandkids growing up together, knowing each other.”
“Mum, I’m sorry,” Emma blurted. “I know I’m awful. But I just… get so cross sometimes.”
“Cross at *who*, love?”
“*Myself*, mostly. Vicky’s got it all—looks, success. Sophie’s *nice*, everyone adores her. And me? I’m just… fat and miserable.”
“Emma,” Sophie hugged her. “Don’t say that. You’re a *brilliant* mum—Lily worships you!”
“But that’s not *enough*,” Emma whispered. “I want to be pretty, clever… for Tom to *want* me, not just stay for Lily.”
Margaret suddenly understood. Emma wasn’t *trying* to be difficult—she was *hurting*.
“Love, who says Tom’s only here for Lily?”
“I *see* it. Comes home, eats, telly on—barely looks at me.”
“Do *you* talk to *him*?”
“About *what*? His job? The house? Lily?”
“There you go,” Margaret said. “No wonder he’s quiet.”
“She’s right,” Victoria cut in. “Men don’t *guess* what we’re thinking. You’ve got to spell it out.”
“Easy for *you* to say,” Emma grumbled. “*Your* husband’s posh, educated.”
“Educated doesn’t mean *psychic*,” Victoria retorted. “Twenty years with James, and I *still* have to tell him what I need!”
Sophie nodded. “Same with Chris. He’s straightforward—won’t get hints.”
Emma chewed her lipThe next Saturday, when they all gathered again, the laughter in the house was louder than before, and for the first time in years, it truly felt like family.
