**Monday, 12th June**
Margaret Thompson shouted at me today on her doorstep, voice trembling with anger. “I told you—don’t!” she snapped when I tried offering comfort. “Must you meddle?”
“Meg, calm yourself,” I urged, reaching for her hand, but she jerked away. “I only meant well—”
“Well?!” She spun round, eyes blazing. “Better you’d kept your nose out! Now the whole village gossips!”
I flushed scarlet as neighbours pretended to tend roses or hang washing—eavesdropping shamelessly. When I mumbled apologies about sharing her visit to that fortune-teller in Oakham, she cut me off. “Didn’t think Mary Brown would blab? Support? What I need is my son David home—not being mocked as a madwoman!”
The door slammed. I trudged home, gossipy whispers chasing me. Over tea, I watched Meg’s cottage—blue shutters she’d painted each spring, two apple trees where young Oliver once played.
I remembered August clearly: Meg sobbing at my kitchen table after David fought with his wife Emily over trifles and fled to Whitbury. “Should I go to him?” she’d begged. “Don’t interfere,” I’d advised—but she’d rung him daily, then visited. He’d sent her off coldly, sayin’ he’d sort it alone. Since then, she’d barely eaten or slept. When the fortune-teller rumour spread, folk crossed themselves seein’ her.
I covered my pancakes with a tea towel and marched back. Meg finally opened up, her parlour in disarray—unwashed dishes piled, curtains drawn. “What’s the difference?” she muttered, slumped on the sofa. “David wants divorce. Emily won’t speak to me. Haven’t seen Oliver in months…”
I coaxed her to brush her hair and change. On the bus to Emily’s flat, we sat tense and silent. Emily, pale but polite, let us in. “Why’s David so angry?” Meg pleaded.
Turns out he’d lost his job three months back—mortgage payments mounting—and Meg’s constant calls about returning home crushed him. “He feels worthless,” Emily explained. “No other woman exists—he’s just job-hunting, brooding. But yesterday he asked after you.”
Meg brightened when little Oliver ran to hug her. Emily rang David—”Please come. Your mum’s here. Just talk.”
An hour later, he arrived clutching tulips, shamefaced. “Mum… forgive me. I’ve been a fool.”
She wept into his shoulder, holdin’ him tight.
True healing begins when pride bows to love’s quiet persistence.