Winifred and her mother-in-law sat huddled on an old bed, wrapped in thick shawls against the winter chill. The fireplace had only just been lit, and the cottage was still bitterly cold.
“Dont fret, Mother,” Winifred murmured, pressing a cup of tea into her trembling hands. “Well manage. We wont starve. Here, take your medicine.”
She spoke soothingly, though the woman beside her was no blood relationonly a mother-in-law, and nearly a former one at that.
It had happened like this: the three of them had lived togetherthe mother, her son Edmund, and his wife Winifred.
Winifred had married late, at thirty. She was Edmunds second wife, and there had been no scandaltheir courtship had begun only after his first marriage ended.
His mother, Margaret, had taken to her at once. Winifred, orphaned young, had found in her the warmth of family. They grew close, so close that Edmund often teased they were “thick as thieves.”
Five years passed in harmonythen Edmund changed. He grew sharp-tongued, quick to anger. He shouted at Winifred, at his mother, and the reason soon became clear: another woman. Late nights, the stench of whisky on his breath.
One evening, he announced he was leaving her. “Youve two days to pack,” he said. Before Winifred could even gather her things, his mistress arrived, dragging a suitcase behind her.
Perhaps she had come deliberately, eager to gloat. But she was only a lanky blonde with thick lashes and painted lips, blinking like a startled cow. Winifred couldnt help but laugh.
“You traded me for *this*? A walking doll with lashes like a heifers? Well, good luck to youI shant miss you a bit.”
“At least shes cheerful,” Edmund snapped. “You two are just a pair of old hens.”
“Insult me if you must, but why drag your mother into it?”
“Eddie, darling,” the girl piped up in a shrill voice, batting those absurd lashes, “why must *she* stay? Let her take the old woman. We dont need her.”
“Quite right,” Edmund agreed coldly. “Its time you went, Mother.”
“Where am I to go?” Margaret clutched her chest. “I gave you every penny from selling my flat to build this house!”
“Spare me the theatrics. Stay if you mustbut keep to your room. Albinas mistress here now.”
“Kitten, just throw them both out,” the girl whined.
Winifred had heard enough. “Come, Mother. Will you live with me in the village?”
“Gladlybetter there than with a son like this and *that* creature.”
“Wait here. Ill pack your things.”
“Dont forget my medicines. And my little box. And my handbag.”
Winifred snatched up a suitcase, stuffing it hastilymedicines, documents, linens, the little wooden box.
“Take it all,” Albina sneered. “Weve no need for your rubbish.”
Edmund stood silent, hollow-eyed. He knew his mother would never forgive him. Or perhaps she wouldmothers often did.
Half an hour later, Winifred stood by the car. Margaret sat stiffly in the back, dabbing her eyes. She did not look back at her son, only sighed.
Hardest of all was knowing she had given him everythingand been cast aside.
“How will we manage, child?”
“Well be all right. Ive savings enough to last until I find work. Youve your pension. Bread and butter wont be a worry.”
They drove to the village where Winifred had spent her childhood. Thankfully, it was still daylight. The cottage was icy, but Winifred soon had the fire roaring. She fetched water, set the kettle to boil.
“Youve a knack for this,” Margaret said weakly. “As if youd never left.”
“Grandfather taught me well. Thank heavens we brought suppliesno need to face village gossip yet.”
Gradually, warmth seeped into the cottage.
“Ill scrub the place tomorrow,” Winifred promised.
A knock came at the door.
“Back so soon, lass? Saw your motor out front. What brings you here in wintertrouble?”
“Nothing serious, Uncle Albert. Just sorting things out. Come in for tea.”
“I was about to ask you the same.” He peered past her. “Youre not alone?”
“This is Margaret. Margaret, this is Albert.”
“Give a shout if you need anything.”
“Nothing yet. Thank you.”
A week passed. The cottage grew tidy, homely.
“You know, Winifred,” Margaret said one evening, “I was village-born too. Married a city man. He died when Edmund was twenty-three. I sold my flat and my son swore Id always have a home with him. See how that turned out.”
“Dont weep. I know its hardI ache too. Perhaps therell be grandchildren yet.”
“From *that* girl? Heaven forbid. And Albertis he alone?”
“Aye. His wife drowned saving a neighbours child, long ago. Never remarried. No children. He and my grandfather were friends, though Alberts younger. Near your age, I think.”
A month slipped by. No word from Edmund. Then one day, an unknown number rang Winifreds phone.
“Winifred?”
“Yes.”
“Your husbands dead.”
“Youre mistaken.”
“No. Edmund He was drunk. Crashed his motor. The girl with him livednot a scratch. Youre needed to identify him.”
*Oh, poor Margaret.* How to tell her? *Uncle Albert. Hell help.*
“Winifred, youre white as a sheet!”
“Sit, Mother. Edmunds gone.”
Margaret wailed, “This is my fault! I left him!”
“He threw you out!”
“Yes. But Im his *mother*.” She sobbed. “This is my punishment.”
“I must go to the morgue. Uncle Albert will stay with you.”
“Im coming too.”
“And Ill drive,” Albert said firmly. “No arguments.”
The funeral passed. Winifred and Margaret returned to Edmunds housenow rightfully theirs. Hed never filed for divorce, too busy with revelry and his new love.
Albert accompanied them. “Best I come. You never know what youll face.”
The house was a wreckfilthy clothes strewn about, dishes crusted on the floor. The air reeked of stale ale and rot.
“*This* is what my son became?” Margaret whispered.
“What are you doing here?” Albina slunk out from the bedroom, followed by a half-dressed, tousled man.
“Show me the deed,” Albert demanded.
“What deed? This is *my* home now! We were to be wed!”
“He was still married!”
“We had the party earlyso its *mine*!”
“Enough of your drunken nonsense. Out, both of you!”
The man fled. Albert made sure the girl took nothing.
“Well check the papers. Might be a will. And change the locksthat long-legged fool might have keys.”
The documents were sound. The locks were replaced. Much was thrown out. Albert stayed close.
“Pity youll leave again,” he admitted. “Grown fond of you both.”
“Well visit. And you must come to us.”
“Youve made me feel young again. Margaret she reminds me of my late wife.”
“Ive seen how you look at her, Uncle Albert. And she at you. Sweet on her, arent you?”
“Now then,” he muttered, flushing.
“A year later, Albert and Margaret married. They were happywith each other, with Winifred, who was like a daughter. But their family grew.
Winifred became a mother after all, though she never remarried. She fostered two childrena brother and sister, unwilling to separate them.
Kin arent always those youre born to. Sometimes life brings them to you in ways youd never expect.
