“My wife laughed while I cried.”
“Pull yourself together, you’re carrying on like an old woman!” Margaret turned sharply from the stove, waving a wooden spoon. “What’s all this drama for?”
Edward sat at the kitchen table, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders shook, and wet streaks glistened between his fingers.
“Margaret, how can you not understand… It was Mum,” he rasped through tears.
“Oh, Mum, Mum!” she mocked, slamming a saucepan onto the table. “She lived to eighty-four—what more could she want? Some people don’t even make it to sixty.”
Edward lifted his red-rimmed eyes.
“How can you talk like that? She loved you like her own daughter.”
“Loved me, did she?” Margaret scoffed. “Especially when she was telling me how to make soup or raise the kids. Thirty years of her ‘advice’—I put up with it long enough.”
She sat opposite him and ladled herself some stew. Her appetite was hearty, despite them having just returned from his mother’s funeral hours earlier.
“Enough of this moping,” she said, tearing off a chunk of bread. “No use crying over spilt milk. Better to think about what we’ll do with her flat. We need to sell before the prices drop.”
Edward shot up so fast his chair clattered to the floor.
“Have you lost your mind? Talking about the flat when Mum’s barely cold in the ground!”
“When *should* we talk about it then?” Margaret continued eating, unbothered. “In a year? Five? The flat’s sitting empty, council tax piling up. Use your head, Ed.”
He clutched his temples. The past few days felt like a nightmare. His mother had suffered for months—slow, painful. He’d visited her every day in hospital, held her hand. Margaret? Not once. Always an excuse.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“Think I’m coming down with something—don’t want to risk it.”
“Work’s mad, can’t get away.”
And now, with her gone, all Margaret cared about was money.
“I’m going upstairs,” he muttered, turning toward the door.
“Where’s ‘upstairs’? Eat your food before it’s cold.”
“I can’t stomach it.”
“Your loss. Your body needs fuel.”
Edward stepped onto the balcony, shutting the door behind him. The crisp October wind bit his face. He gripped the railing, staring down at the kids playing below. Life went on—ordinary, relentless—while his insides tore apart.
Mum was gone. The last thread to his childhood, to being truly *needed*, snapped. Margaret never understood that bond. To her, her mother-in-law had been a nuisance. A problem to endure.
The balcony door creaked.
“Ed, come inside. You’ll catch your death.” Margaret stepped out with a mug of tea. “Drink this.”
His hands trembled as he took it.
“Margaret, tell me honestly… Did you love her even a little?”
She shrugged. “Love, don’t love—what does it matter now? We got on fine.”
*Fine*. The word curdled in his stomach.
Margaret studied him. A flicker of unease crossed her face.
“What’s got into you? Not happy with our life?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Right now, I don’t know anything.”
They stood in silence. Margaret tugged her dressing gown tighter; Edward sipped scalding tea.
“Remember when Mum taught you to bake scones?” he asked suddenly.
“Vaguely. Endless corrections—too dry, too sticky, wrong tray.”
“And when little Tommy first called her ‘Nana’?”
“So? Grandkids do that.”
He set the empty mug on the railing.
“Remember last winter, when she had pneumonia? You took her meals every day.”
Margaret went quiet. She *didn’t* remember—because it never happened. *He’d* done it, while she’d stayed home complaining to her sister on the phone about his neglect.
“Let’s go in,” she said. “It’s freezing.”
That evening, their son Tommy arrived with his wife, Rebecca. The young couple seemed awkward, unnerved. Death wasn’t something their generation faced often.
“Dad, how you holding up?” Tommy hugged him.
“Getting by, son.”
“I’ll miss Nana. She was brilliant.”
“She was,” Edward whispered, throat tightening.
Rebecca shifted uncomfortably.
“Mr. Thompson, I’m so sorry. She was a lovely woman.”
“Thank you, love.”
Margaret bustled in with a tray.
“Sit, tea’s ready. Got a walnut cake.”
“Mum, maybe not the time for cake?” Tommy ventured.
“When *is* the time?” Margaret blinked. “Life doesn’t stop. We can’t wallow forever.”
She sliced the cake with brisk efficiency, like it was any other Sunday.
“Actually,” she said to Rebecca, “we’ve been thinking—why don’t you two take Nana’s flat? Save you renting.”
Tommy and Rebecca exchanged glances.
“Mum, it’s too soon,” Tommy said.
“Why? It’s a nice place—central, near the Tube. Perfect for you.”
Edward slammed his hands on the table.
“Margaret, enough! We buried my mother *today*, and you’re divvying up her home?”
“Ed, don’t shout in front of the kids,” she said mildly. “Just being practical.”
“*Practical!* That’s all you ever are!”
Her lips thinned.
“What would *you* have us do? Sit and weep? What good does that do?”
“*Good?* Honour her memory, for God’s sake!”
“We *did*. At the service, at the graveside. What more do you want?”
Tommy stood, gripping his father’s arm.
“Dad, calm down. I know it’s hard.”
“You don’t!” Edward wrenched free. “*None* of you do!”
He stormed out, door slamming behind him. In the hallway, he pressed his forehead to the wall. His pulse roared.
Muffled voices drifted from the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with Dad?” Tommy asked.
“Taking it hard,” Margaret said. “Always was a mummy’s boy.”
The derision in her voice—even now, even today—cut deeper than any blade.
Edward lay on the bed, still clothed. The ceiling swam above him. He remembered Mum’s frail hand in his, her whisper: *”Don’t be cross with Margaret, love. She means well—just different to us.”*
Till the end, she’d made excuses for her daughter-in-law. Who hadn’t even come to say goodbye.
The door creaked.
“Dad?” Tommy hovered.
“Come in, son.”
Tommy perched on the bed.
“I miss her too. Remember her bedtime stories? Knights and dragons—she did the voices and everything.”
Edward smiled weakly.
“She told them to you, same as me.”
“And her roast dinners. Mum’s never got the gravy right.”
Edward turned to him.
“Tommy… why’s your mother so… cold?”
Tommy hesitated.
“Dunno. People are different, I suppose. Some feel things deeper.”
“But when someone you love dies—”
“Should hurt? Maybe. But Mum’s… well. You know Mum.”
Silence. Then laughter—bright, jarring—floated from the kitchen.
“Hear that?” Edward said softly.
“She’s just talking.”
“No. She’s *laughing*. On the day we buried her.”
That night, Margaret snored peacefully beside him—untroubled, content. While Edward stared into the dark, wondering: if tears changed nothing, what was left?
Love. Memory. Grief. All of it, swallowed by the relentless tide of *practicality*.
Morning came. Breakfast. Work. Tea telly. A life, ordinary as ever.
And the ache inside him, silent and unshared.
This was his marriage. This was love.
This was life.
