Early that morning, when the phone rang, Emily barely knew if she was awake or still dreaming. The screen flashed—*Mum*. The sleep vanished from her eyes. Her mother’s voice was bright, even cheerful:
*Still in bed, lazy bones? I’ve already got scones in the oven. Expect an invite tomorrow—you and Jamie. We need to talk. No, not about the garden. About the will! Don’t want you two squabbling over the house and pennies at my funeral. Both of you, no excuses!*
Emily froze. A will? A funeral? What was happening? But her mother spoke with such certainty that arguing seemed pointless.
Meanwhile, Margaret, Emily and Jamie’s mum, sat at the kitchen table, adjusting a knitted shawl. Her neighbor Agnes perched beside her, worry in her eyes.
*Maggie, love, are you ill? Why all this gloom? You’re scaring me…*
*Don’t fret, Aggie. Just wanted to see the kids. Been a year since they last visited. All wrapped up in their own lives, like strangers. And if something happens to me tomorrow, who’ll tell them what’s what? Plus, I’m testing them. Seeing who really cares.*
With that, Margaret ushered Agnes out, shut the door, and went to rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.
Morning dawned grey, as if matching her mood. She tidied the house, pulled on a worn dressing gown, washed up, then sat in her armchair, waiting. An hour later, knuckles rapped on the door.
Emily burst in first—flushed, frantic.
*Mum! What’s wrong? Are you sick? What’s this about a will?* she wailed, rushing to her mother.
Jamie followed, calmer but frowning.
*You really gave us a fright, Mum. Planning an early exit, are we? Bit soon, don’t you think?*
*Sit down, both of you,* Margaret said evenly. *And fetch your other halves. Sarah, Tom, come in, don’t hover.*
Once everyone was seated, she began.
*Listen, no interruptions. This needs saying. Old age isn’t a picnic, and I’m here alone. Illness doesn’t send warnings. So, I’m speaking while I can. But first—help around the house. Who else will look after an old woman? Firewood to chop, lunch to make…*
Emily and Sarah nodded and got to work. Margaret watched closely—dough stuck to their fingers, potatoes were unevenly sliced, pans clattered. *City girls, useless at this*, she thought sadly, but kept quiet. That wasn’t the point.
After the meal, she asked Tom and Sarah to step outside, leaving just the children.
*Right, listen close. The house you grew up in? I’m leaving it to Agnes. She’s here, she helps. Jamie, you’ll get the shed, the tools, the garden. Do what you like with them. And Emily, you’ll have the savings. My pension—barely touched it.*
A heavy silence filled the room.
*The house… to the neighbor?* Jamie finally said. *You’re joking.*
*Why not? Neither of you visit. Agnes pops in daily. Jamie, you didn’t even invite me to your wedding—ashamed of your country mum? And Emily, I’ve barely seen you since you married that second chap, Mark. Remember when I said he wasn’t right for you? I was right.*
*Mum, please…* Emily whispered.
*Not feeling well. Need to lie down,* Margaret sighed, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
Outside, voices rose.
*This is your fault!* Jamie hissed. *Could’ve checked on Mum. Now the house goes to Agnes!*
*Oh, right! I’m the one working all hours! What’s Sarah even doing? She could’ve come round!*
They shouted over each other. Margaret listened, sitting by the window, tears in her eyes. Where were the children who’d run barefoot through the garden? Where was their kindness?
When they returned, she wasn’t in bed—just sitting, composed, though her eyes glistened.
*Mum, you alright? You were ill…* Jamie started.
*Better now,* she said quietly. *I see clearly. I’m not needed. The will? It’ll happen. Later. Once you’ve decided—do you want this house to love, or to fight over?*
Breakfast the next morning was silent. Just the scrape of chairs, the clink of spoons. Emily spoke first.
*We’re sorry, Mum… We were wrong. I’ll visit more, promise. We’re family…*
Margaret nodded. Warm quiet settled over the table.
After that, some things changed—and some didn’t. Jamie barely visited but sent money. Emily started coming by—soup, jam, help in the garden. No one mentioned the will again.
And no one knew it was already signed, tucked in the bottom drawer. Everything split down the middle. Because Margaret still loved her children. Even if they sometimes forgot.
