Youre the odd one out, Mum.
The door creaked open slowly. Margaret Clarke had only managed a brief breath before a thin line of sweat trickled from her forehead, down her eyebrows and across the bridge of her nose. From beyond the doorway came a surprised gasp, then the click of a lock, and finally her daughter stepped in.
Mum? My goodness How did you manage to haul all those bags? And why didnt you call first?
Tall, tanned, with a bewildered expression, Blythe stood there the very daughter Margaret hadnt seen for over a year. When Blythe had first spoken of visiting her parents, theyd laughed it off as impossible. Yet now, propelled by a genuine worry, Margaret had embarked on a long journey.
Whatever I took, I brought it back, as always, Margaret replied, her voice flat, I didnt come emptyhanded
She hauled two suitcases over the threshold in jerky motions. Blythe, still stunned, didnt even think to help; perhaps she simply hadnt gathered herself. She reached for the handle of one bag and tugged it away to clear a path.
Lord, have you stuffed a wild boar into that bag?
Her tone was smooth as polished stone, lacking any joyonly confusion and irritation. She gave the other piece of luggage, an old, swollen suitcase on wheels, a quick glance; it sat on the parquet like an outoftime relic.
Margaret took a tentative step forward, her fingers trembling as they fidgeted with the clasp of her coat strap.
Sorry, Blythe I brought some things youll like. Jam for our Vincent, a jar of ajika, just as you love it. All from our garden, the lot we grew with your father Her voice stumbled from the recent exertion, sounding guilty.
Blythe sighed, the sound heavy with tired anticipation. She shifted her gaze from the suitcase to her motherher crumpled dress, the askew scarf, the tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip.
Without waiting for a suggestion, Margaret lowered herself onto the nearest white leather pouf. She sat upright, in that oldfashioned way, hands resting heavily on her knees. The journey had drained her completely. The train had taken twentyeight hours, and then the London Underground had forced her to shuffle with that clumsy suitcase that kept getting stuck at turnstiles.
But how could she arrive emptyhanded? She never did, especially not after a year apart.
Did you change your phone number? Margaret breathed out, looking around. I called for four days, but it was just dead air. Your fathers blood pressure spiked on the second day, on the third I was a wreck, heart pounding And on the fourth day I still couldnt get through, so I booked a ticket. Ive been waiting for you, and you were nowhere to be heard. How could you let us, at seventy, be left hanging with these bags?
Blythes eyes dropped. A faint flush coloured her usually confident face. She brushed a stray strand of hair back.
Its fine, Mum. I just switched numbers, got caught up, forgot to tell you She spoke quickly, swallowing the last words.
And Uncle Vinnie didnt answer either.
I changed his number too. Were with a new provider now.
Sitting on the stiff pouf, Margaret couldnt help but stare at her daughter. Blythe, the longawaited, cherished little girl, now grown into a woman shed poured her soul into after two wayward sons. Her thoughts drifted to them. The elder, Max, was abroad in the States, having left years ago for work. He called only on major holidays, and his children existed to Margaret only in photos on her phone. She often imagined their laughter, but the picture remained vaguefar away.
Are you feeling alright, Mum? Blythes voice trembled, pulling Margaret from her reverie.
No, love, just thinking. Im a bit tired. Margaret managed a weak smile. Hows little Vincent?
Hes on the pitch now, should be back any minute. Could you fetch me some water?
Blythe shuffled to the kitchen, leaving Margaret a moment to reminisce. Their middle son, Alex, lived in Leeds, but visits were rare. His wife, Nell, never quite clicked with Margaret. The younger woman was sharptongued and brisk. Margaret tried: knitting dresses for the grandchildren, baking cabbage pies, bringing pickles. Yet it never seemed rightwrong cut, too simple, too country. She kept quiet, swallowed her frustration, and prayed Alexs marriage would be happy.
The pain in Margarets heart was strongest when she thought of Blythe. Nine years earlier, Blythe had married Ian, a diligent lad from a nearby town. They had a son, Vincent, but after his birth things went awry. Blythe returned to her parents house with the baby, then, after a year, left the toddler with her father and Ian, and fled to London for work and study, claiming the countryside suffocated her.
Hows Vincent growing? Margaret asked, taking a sip of water. A familiar ache tightened her chest.
Hes tall now, coach praises him. Only Blythe trailed off, turning away as if adjusting a vase.
Only what? Margaret prompted.
Only sometimes he asks when well go to Aunt Anne and Uncle Colins farm. He says it smells of apples and pies there, while here it smells of traffic.
Margaret closed her eyes, recalling countless nights when Vincent, already in the city, would cry into the phone, begging to come home. She remembered her husband, John, silently smoking on the porch, wiping away a rare tear. Theyd given that boy all the love they could, only to have him taken away like a possession, unable to explain anything.
He should be with his mother, Margaret had once told herself more than anyone else. Thats right.
On the train, watching the forest flash by, she tried to picture her grandson. If his father, Ian, was tall and sturdy, Vincent must have inherited that frame. John would have begged her to snap more pictures, fearing loneliness. He would have rushed to the city, caught a fever, and only yesterday risen, pale but stubborn.
Can you manage on your own? John had whispered, adjusting the blanket. I cant sit here in uncertainty. My heart aches. He packed jars of jam into the suitcase.
Ill manage, he rasped, smoothing the covers. Just make sure Blythe is all right. I feel in my bones that shes drifting away for a reason.
Good, Mum, Ill get you fed, Blythe said, leading her deeper into the flat, her voice softening a little. I just bought some soup and meatballs. She paused as the front door clicked.
A lanky tenyearold burst through, a sports bag slung over his shoulder. Spotting his grandmother, his eyes widened, then he kicked off his shoes and lunged, wrapping his arms around her.
Granny! Youre here!
Margaret clutched his warm, autumnkissed body, tears streaming down her cheeks unbidden.
Youll choke me, love, he laughed, holding her tighter, his grin wide and unguarded.
And look how much youve grown! she exclaimed, smoothing his dishevelled hair, feeling his suntanned cheek. I knitted you a little green sweater with reindeer maybe its still small for you.
Itll be fine, Grandma, Ill finish it later, he assured, hugging her again. Ive been waiting for you.
Now Margaret sat at a glossy table, picking at a single meatball. The brothlight, almost transparentvanished without a trace of satiety. She stared wistfully at the plate where five more tiny meatballs lay, bought from the supermarkets deli. She had no time to cook.
Do you want another? Blythe asked politely, rising to clear the dishes.
No, love, thank you, Im full, Margaret replied, a hollow note in her voice. Ive had enough of the road.
She surveyed the kitchen: sleek appliances, stylish furniture, fresh décor. Vincents room boasted a gaming PC, a guitar, a modern sports corner. Blythe wore an expensive housecoat, gold earrings glinting. No poverty lingered herejust a different rhythm, different rules.
Stuffed to the brim yet still hungry, she thought bitterly. Back home the table always broke, even when money was tight. Here perhaps city folk live halfheartedly?
Vincent, polishing off his portion, looked up.
Grandma, why did you only eat one meatball? Theyre delicious! Can I get you another? Youve been travelling all day! His voice was earnest and a little pleading.
Blythe froze, a faint crease forming on her smooth forehead.
Vinny, dont teach grownups, she said softly. Grandma says shes full.
But she the boy trailed off under his mothers stern glance.
Margaret intervened gently, resting a hand on his head.
All right, my dear, Im really fine, thank you.
Inside, a quiet sting rose. The childs bluntness exposed a wall Margaret had felt since the first minute she entered this spotless apartment. Everything was beautiful, proper, but sterile. Not just the food, but the relationships too.
Maybe youre tired, Mum. Lets get you a sofa bed in the lounge, Blythe suggested, already hauling the suitcase. Tomorrow well sort through your things.
Margaret nodded, following her daughter, already planning to sneak a slice of homemade bacon and a crust of the bread shed baked back in the village, to eat later by the window while watching the unfamiliar city night. Blythe had already warned her that they didnt eat that greasy, homecooked stuff here.
Silence pressed in the empty flat. Over the next two days Margaret was left to herself, a forgotten object on a shelf. Blythe rushed off each morning, shouting, Lunch is in the fridge, heat it up. Vincent vanished to school, football, friends, chasing the last warm days of autumn.
The tension between mother and daughter hung thickly, unspoken. Margaret tried to keep busy: polishing the shiny stovetop, rearranging Vincents belongings, but she felt like an unnecessary intruder in this pristine space.
On the third day, Blythe returned from work and, without preamble, said, Mum, Ill book a ticket for you. Its peak season, you know.
Margaret stared, startled.
What season? Is it summer down there? I just arrived, Blythe Her voice quivered. Maybe youre right, love.
She handed over the documents, heart aching. She had promised John shed be back in a week and a half, planning to make stew and pies for her grandchildren, to lighten Blythes load. Instead, she was faced with supermarket meals that seemed to reflect the workers low wages and indifference.
Blythe, ticket in hand, brightened.
Oh, Mum, youll get a nice berth by the loono complaints! she said cheerfully. Youve had a decent stay, what more could you want? Two days and youre home!
Perhaps youre right Margaret whispered, almost to herself.
The thought of only two days left seemed to warm Blythe. One evening, passing the halfopen door to Vincents room, Margaret paused unintentionally. Blythe lay on her sons bed, murmuring softly.
Shes too loud, turned the music up, Im just asking politely if shes deaf
Vincents voice drifted in.
Mum, when will Uncle Victor come back? He promised to help with the robot.
Soon, son. As soon as Grandma leaves
The air left Margarets lungs in an instant. She leaned against the cool wall to steady herself. Hot, bitter tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, unbidden.
She stumbled into the room, the suitcase now empty. Vincent emerged, startled.
Mum? Where are you going?
But Margaret had no words left to explain. She felt superfluous, an obstacle to those she loved. She fled the city, heading for the station, the clamor of traffic and her daughters pleas echoing in her ears. She could not utter why she was leaving; the pain was too sharp to voice. She felt useless, as if a Uncle Victor was now more important than she.
How much love had Blythe poured into her? As a child shed been ill, and John had stayed by her bedside for nights. Ten years later, theyd raised a grandson and now the mother was cast aside. Perhaps Blythe had even changed her number on purpose, to stop the old folks from bothering her.
She spent the night at the station, wrapped in a shawl that smelled faintly of home. She swapped her ticket for a fivehour early morning train, accepting any berth. As the wheels clacked, she wept quietly, remembering youth, children, the generosity theyd given. In old age, it seemed shed become unwanted.
The train pulled into a tiny countryside station at dawn. Waiting on the platform, shivering, was John, his face breaking into a grin.
Annie, youve made it! Ive been missing you terribly. Look at you, all thin! he joked, taking her battered suitcase.
For the first time in days, Margaret managed a smile through tears, because someone was still waiting. And she learned that even when we feel invisible, the love weve sown never truly disappears; it returns in the smallest, unexpected embraces.
