Margaret Edwards was just watering her geraniums on the windowsill when the doorbell rang. She set down the watering can, checked her watch—half ten in the morning, a bit early even for her neighbour Dorothy Wilkins, who usually popped round for tea around elevenses. Adjusting her dressing gown out of habit, she peeked through the peephole.
A middle-aged man stood there in a worn jacket, clutching a small suitcase. His face looked familiar, but Margaret couldn’t place where she’d seen him before.
“Who are you here for?” she called through the door.
“Margaret, it’s me. John. Your brother.” His voice was hoarse, tired.
Her breath caught. John? Her younger brother, who’d vanished over a decade ago without so much as a postcard? The same John who’d left her alone to care for their ailing mother while he vanished into the ether?
Her hands trembled as she undid the lock.
“Johnny?” She studied his weather-beaten face. “Good lord, it really is you…”
“Hiya, sis. Mind if I come in, or are we doing this on the landing?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Margaret stepped aside, letting him into her flat. He shuffled into the hallway, glanced around, and set his suitcase by the wall.
“Nothing’s changed. Mum’s slippers are still here…” He nodded at the shoe rack.
“And why would they be? She only passed six months ago,” Margaret said, the bitterness seeping through. “But you knew that, didn’t you? Or maybe you didn’t?”
John dropped his gaze.
“I knew. A neighbour wrote. Sorry I couldn’t make the funeral, things were—”
“Couldn’t?” Margaret marched into the kitchen, her brother trailing behind. “Fifteen years Mum waited for you. Every day, checking the post, hoping for a letter. Then when she couldn’t walk anymore, I went for her. Right up till the end, she thought you’d turn up.”
“Margaret, I get why you’re angry—”
“Angry?” She spun round. “I’m not angry, Johnny. I’m exhausted. Exhausted from doing it all alone, from explaining to Mum why her son couldn’t be bothered to call, or write, or visit.”
John sank into a chair at the table, dragging a hand down his face.
“Tea?” Margaret asked automatically, flicking the kettle on.
“Cheers.”
An awkward silence settled. Margaret busied herself with cups and bread while her brother stared out the window.
“Where’ve you been all these years?” she finally asked.
“Here and there. Started in Bristol, then Brighton. Odd jobs, mostly. Had a wife…”
“Had?” Her eyebrows shot up.
“Divorced. She was… well, it didn’t work out. No kids, thank God.”
“Thank God?” She slammed his cup down harder than intended. “Mum would’ve loved grandchildren. Especially from you. Always said, ‘Johnny’ll have sons, carry on the name.'”
“Margaret, enough. We can’t turn back time.” He winced as he sipped the scalding tea.
“No, we can’t. But we are going to talk.” She sat opposite him, folding her arms. “Why are you here? After all this silence?”
John hesitated, turning his cup in his hands.
“I’m in a bad way, Margaret. No job, nowhere to live. Thought maybe I could stay here a bit, get back on my feet.”
“Here?” She narrowed her eyes. “You mean this flat?”
“Yeah. It’s half mine, isn’t it? Inheritance and all.”
Margaret set her cup down slowly. So there it was. He hadn’t come out of love or guilt. He needed a roof.
“Johnny, you do know this flat’s been in my name alone for the last ten years?”
“What?” He stiffened.
“Mum transferred it to me when she got really poorly. Said, ‘Whoever looks after me, gets the home.’ Solicitor handled it.”
John leaned back, his expression hardening.
“That’s not right. Legally, I’ve got a claim.”
“Legally?” She scoffed. “And what about morally? Fifteen years, Mum didn’t see you. Fifteen years, I handled her meds, her doctors, her nights in pain. Where were you?”
“I didn’t know it was that bad—”
“Didn’t know?” Her voice cracked. “Dorothy gave your mate—what’s his name—Dave Cooper your address! She told him Mum was dying, begged him to tell you to come! Were you deaf?”
John fiddled with a teaspoon, silent.
“So you knew,” Margaret concluded. “Knew and didn’t come. Now you’re here for the flat.”
“Margaret, listen—I’ve got nothing. Nowhere to sleep. I’m not after the whole place, just a room for a bit—”
“A bit?” She stood, walking to the window. “Then what? Apply for tenancy? Take me to court?”
“Christ, is that what you think of me?”
“What should I think? A brother who disappears when his family needs him? Who can’t even show up for his own mother’s funeral?”
Outside, Dorothy Wilkins clattered up the path with her shopping bags. Margaret watched absently, gathering her thoughts.
“Fine,” she said at last. “One week. But you job-hunt, and when you find work, you’re out. No more inheritance talk.”
“Ta, sis! I’ll be quick, swear it—”
“Johnny.” She cut him off. “I mean it. One week. No booze, no mates round. Clear?”
“Clear. But I’m not some—”
“Not some what? Drunk? Dunno, maybe you are. Fifteen years is a long time—who knows what you’ve become?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but Margaret was already showing him the spare room.
“You’ll sleep here. Mum’s old room. Keep it tidy. Break anything, and you’re out.”
John nodded, hefting his suitcase.
“Margaret, can I ask… You ever marry?”
“Did. Husband died five years back. Heart.”
“Kids?”
“No. Didn’t happen.”
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Doesn’t matter. Come for lunch when you’re settled.”
She left him unpacking and returned to the kitchen to make soup, wondering if she’d made a mistake letting him in. Her heart said he was family—blood mattered. But her head whispered this wouldn’t end well.
John reappeared half an hour later, washed and changed into a clean shirt.
“Smells good,” he said, peering into the pot.
“Potato soup. Nothing fancy. Got used to posh nosh, have you?”
“Hardly,” he snorted. “Marge, remember when Mum made this? With the parsley…”
“I remember. She made it for you till you were eighteen. Then you vanished.”
“Margaret, enough. I get it—I messed up. But what’s done is—”
“What’s done?” She set the ladle down. “Explain why you think you’ve any right to this flat. You walked away.”
“I didn’t walk—”
“No? Just forgot you had a mother and sister, then? Memory lapse?”
John sighed heavily.
“Back then, I thought I was just in the way. No proper job, skint. Then this Bristol opportunity came…”
“So you ghosted us instead of helping?”
“Thought I’d earn, send money—”
“Did you?” She gave him a withering look. “Not a penny in fifteen years.”
“Things kept going wrong—lost jobs, bad luck…”
“A phone call? A letter? Just to say you were alive?”
He poked at a bread crust, silent.
“Mum believed till the end you’d come back,” Margaret said, dishing up the soup. “Every New Year, she set the table for four. For you. Said, ‘Maybe Johnny’ll turn up.'”
“Please, stop—”
“No. You’ll hear this. When she had her operation, she begged the surgeons to wait. Wanted to see you first.”
“I didn’t know about any operation!”
“Because you didn’t want to! You could’ve left an address, a number. Could’ve asked how we were!”
Next door, a hammer clanged against renovation noise. Margaret winced, opening the window.
“Want to hear about Mum’s last years?” she asked tersely.
John exhaled. “Go on.”
“Last three years, she barely moved. I carried her to the loo, fed her like a baby. Turned her every two hours so she wouldn’t get bedsores. Changed her nappies.”
He paled.
“Think that was easy?” she continued. “I quit my job, took early pension. Stuck here day and night. And still, she called for you. Till the end.”
“Please—”
They stood side by side at their mother’s grave the next Sunday, and for the first time in years, the weight between them felt a little lighter, as if forgiveness—though still distant—might someday be possible.