The Day of Forgiveness
Zoey came back to the village from the city on the last bus. She’d spent the whole day running around—first to the hospital to collect the necessary paperwork, then to the funeral home, then back to the hospital to drop off the bundle of clothes for the mortuary. Mum had prepared it all herself beforehand. Zoey even managed to stop by her flat and change into a black jumper before heading home.
She slumped onto a chair by the table, stretching out her aching legs, too exhausted to even take off her coat. The house was freezing—she should’ve lit the stove. She’d left early that morning, and now it was already evening. Her gaze fixed numbly on the muddy footprints left behind by the paramedic, the men who’d carried Mum out, the neighbours. It took her a moment to realise the door had been left wide open all this time, and it was already October. She wondered if she was allowed to mop the floors yet. Just in case, she decided to leave everything as it was.
Footsteps sounded outside. Zoey jumped up, thinking it was Rosie arriving, but it was only their neighbour who walked in.
“Saw you’d come back. Need any help?” asked Auntie Nina, Mum’s old friend.
Zoey shook her head and sank back onto the chair.
“It’s freezing in here. Let me get the stove going.” Auntie Nina disappeared and soon returned with an armful of firewood, bustling about in the kitchen to light it. For a fleeting second, Zoey thought it was Mum—that her death had just been a bad dream…
“There, it’ll warm up soon.” But it wasn’t Mum who walked in—just Auntie Nina again. “Don’t worry about the wake. Funeral’s tomorrow, yeah? You go into town, and we’ll take care of everything here with Annie. Does Rosie know? Is she coming?”
Zoey barely moved her lips. “No answer. Sent her a text. Don’t know. Thank you.”
“Ah, well. We’re family, aren’t we? Me and your mum were like sisters.” There was a hint of disapproval in her voice, and Zoey noticed, lifting her gaze sharply. Auntie Nina hesitated. “Right, I’ll be off then.” She turned to leave but paused at the door. “Leave the door unlocked tomorrow, will you?”
Zoey nodded, biting her lip. In the stove, the fire crackled, the flames humming up the chimney. The house felt alive again. That thick, suffocating loneliness that had settled after Mum’s death didn’t feel as heavy anymore. People say you can sense the dead nearby in those first few days. Zoey glanced around but felt nothing—saw nothing.
Mum had been poorly for a long time. After Dad died, she lost all purpose, just faded away. Sometimes Zoey thought she didn’t even want to live, that she was in a hurry to join him. She’d turned quiet and withdrawn. After sixth form, Zoey had moved to the city for college, studying accounting.
Every weekend, she came back to Mum—thankfully the village wasn’t far. She’d bring groceries, help around the house. But this last year, Mum had wasted away. Zoey took her to the hospital and got the awful news. Mum took it with indifference—if anything, she seemed relieved, not upset.
When Mum grew too weak to even get out of bed, Zoey took leave and moved in. At work, she warned them she might need more time unpaid. A month later, Mum was gone. Those last two days, she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t spoken, just drifted in and out of consciousness.
Zoey talked to her constantly—whether Mum could hear or not. The sound of her own voice kept the terror at bay. On that last day, she begged Mum for forgiveness, begged her not to leave her alone, stroking her thin, lifeless hand.
She promised Rosie would come. At the sound of her sister’s name, Mum’s eyelids twitched, but she didn’t open her eyes. Maybe she was already there—in the next world, with Dad, where she’d been longing to go all these years?
Dad had been a hard worker, never one to drink too much—rare for the village. Plenty of lonely women, even married ones with drunk husbands, had tried luring him in under the pretence of needing help. But he’d loved Mum, never strayed. In a village, secrets like that don’t stay hidden.
Every payday, he’d bring home a bag of sweets for Zoey and Rosie. They’d always been so thrilled by those little treats.
He died young—or rather, he was killed. And Mum never recovered. Zoey had only been seven, Rosie already in Year 11. She left for college—or rather, she fled home after the tragedy—and never came back.
Not long before she died, when Mum could still talk, she asked Zoey to call Rosie, to tell her to come. Zoey called, texted—no answer, the phone always off. The last time she wrote was after Mum died. Still, Rosie hadn’t replied. So Zoey lied to Mum, said Rosie’s little girl was poorly, that she’d come as soon as she got better. Did Mum believe her? Zoey had no idea.
She remembered calling Rosie a year ago when the doctors gave the terrible news, begging her to visit. Rosie had taken it all with cold indifference.
“She threw me out, don’t you remember? I’m not coming.”
“You’re both as bad as each other. She could die—come, talk, just forgive each other.”
“I didn’t kill Dad. I was a kid. Did she ever think how it’d wreck me, kicking me out?”
“She didn’t throw you out—just said things she didn’t mean. She was grieving. Please, just come.”
“I’m not coming.” The line went dead.
“So she won’t come,” Zoey thought, standing up.
She shrugged off her coat. The house was warming up, soon it’d be hot. But she couldn’t stop shivering. “Am I getting sick? Perfect timing.” She flicked on the electric kettle, waiting for the water to boil.
She wasn’t hungry, but tea would help warm her up. Sitting in the kitchen, she stared at the floor—Mum always scrubbed it spotless. Now there were stains, crumbs. Who cared about cleanliness anymore? Zoey wiped the table anyway, as if Mum might scold her for leaving it dirty.
She needed to decide what to do with the house, but she couldn’t without Rosie. In the city, you could buy anything year-round, but this place wasn’t worth the trips. Doubt Rosie even wanted it. “Would she really skip the funeral too?”
Just then, the front door banged. Zoey listened—no footsteps. It was dark outside, and she hadn’t locked up after Auntie Nina. Maybe she’d forgotten something?
Fear prickled under her skin. She stood, ready to bolt—but where? Out the window? Then someone stepped into the room. Her heart pounded so loud she could hear it. Peering around the stove, she saw Rosie.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Zoey threw herself at her sister, hugging her tight, pressing her warm cheek to Rosie’s cold one.
Rosie didn’t move, didn’t return the embrace.
“Didn’t expect me?” Her voice was dry, like autumn leaves.
“I hoped—of course I hoped. Take your coat off, I’ve got tea. Just sugar and biscuits, though. Wait—there’s jam. Are you hungry? I can boil some potatoes quick—” Zoey let go, darting to the kitchen, bending to open the larder—
“Just tea,” Rosie said flatly.
Zoey straightened, slowly walking back.
“Did she die in here?” Rosie glanced at the bed.
“Yes. I was with her. She waited for you.” The joy drained from Zoey’s voice.
Rosie tossed her coat on the bed, walked to the framed photo of their parents on the wall. Zoey quickly hung it up, then joined her.
“Funeral’s tomorrow?” Rosie asked, not taking her eyes off the picture.
“Yeah. The hearse is booked. The vicar’ll do the service at the mortuary, then we bring her back for the burial. Auntie Nina’s doing the wake…” Zoey spoke fast, like reciting lines. Tears rolled down her cheeks, soaking into her black jumper. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been so alone.”
“You mentioned tea.”
“Yeah—come on.” Zoey wiped her face, heading to the kitchen.
She set out the mugs, poured the leaves, reached for the kettle—but Rosie picked up her cup, the one with forget-me-nots painted on it.
“Can’t believe this survived.” A ghost of a smile.
“Want jam? Your favourite—strawberry. Last year’s batch, though.”
“I’ll take biscuits.” Rosie set her cup down.
They drank in silence. The house was warm now, smelling of the herbs Mum used to dry by the stove. Zoey’s eyes welled up again.
“YouThe sisters sat together, the weight of years dissolving in the quiet warmth of shared grief, finally understanding that forgiveness was the only bridge back to each other.
